Content warning; Reader has a friend (ish) with the name Jane. If your name is Jane, I love you please forgive me
Summary; You and Jack have always had your thing, and suddenly you realize you're not too happy sharing
"You know that's theft."
You don't even bother looking up, your fingers continue flying across the keyboard as you finish documenting your patient's discharge instructions.
"It's not theft."
"It’s my coffee."
You reach for the paper cup beside you without taking your eyes off the screen, lifting it to your lips before taking an exaggerated, deliberately slow sip, shooting a quick glance at Jack over the rim of the cup.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
He gestures to the cup in your hand with the pen he plucked from behind his ear.
"That's my order."
You glance down at the cup. "Is it?”
"You watched me buy it.”
You finally save your notes, clicking the mouse with satisfaction before swivelling your chair to face him.
"Ownership transferred the second you hid my stethoscope."
"I wanted to see how long it'd take you to find it."
"It took me forty-five minutes."
Jack's grin grows wider, and he folds his arms looking very pleased with himself.
“You’re getting faster.”
"It actually only took me thirty five minutes to find it. I spent the other ten trying to steal your coffee without you noticing.” You offer him your best innocent smile and he laughs as you take another sip of the coffee as the two of you move towards another bay. A nurse slips past to hang a fresh bag of fluids while Jack quickly signs off a medication order resting on the counter. His eyes drift back to the cup in your hand.
"Can I at least have what's left?"
You look inside. A tiny mouthful swirls around the bottom.
"Hmm." His face brightens just enough to make you grin.
"You know what?"
"What?"
"I think you're right,” you lift the cup, "sharing is important."
"It is."
"And I should absolutely give this back."
"I knew you'd come around." Maintaining eye contact, you finish the last sip in one go.
Jack closes his eyes.
"You're evil"
"I know," you say as you crumple the empty cup with a satisfied smile, "I learnt from the best."
Before he can answer, an overhead voice cuts through the department.
Both of you instinctively turn towards the board. The first thing you notice is the name, the second is the sinking feeling in your stomach. The warmth drains from your face so quickly that Jack notices before he's even read the name.
"What?"
You don't answer. The ambulance doors slide open and the second you see her, every awful memory comes rushing back. She’s wheeled in, looking perfectly put together despite the blood running down her arm. She spots you straight away and her face lights up.
"Oh my God!" You force a fake smile.
“Jane."
"It's been forever!"
Not nearly long enough. She doesn't seem to notice your enthusiasm is hanging by a thread.
"I can't believe you work here!"
"I can."
Jack looks between the two of you.
"You know each other?"
Jane beams, "We went to school together."
"Unfortunately."
Jack looks at you and she laughs like you've made a joke.
"Oh, she's always so sarcastic, this one!" You bite the inside of your cheek.
"So," Jane continues, "are you my doctor?"
"No." The answer comes out a little too quickly. Jack raises an eyebrow.
"No?"
You look at him.
"I can't take her." You say, almost like a plea and Jane frowns.
"What?"
You quickly turn back to her.
“Conflict of interest. We can’t treat friends and family.”
Jack studies your face for a moment, noticing the tension in your shoulders. The way you've unconsciously taken half a step backwards. Jack nods once, in agreement.
“It’s the rules,” he shrugs, walking towards her and grabbing the handles of her wheelchair, “but don’t you worry I’ll take care of you.”
He flags down Princess and asks her to take Jane to an open room, telling her he’ll be with her shortly. He turns to look at you, already grinning.
“Want to tell me what that was about?”
“Not really.”
He reaches over to you, squishing your cheeks with one hand and giving you a quick wink.
“You’re cute when you pout.”
You can’t help but smile.
“I am not pouting.”
He nods his head with a laugh, unconvinced.
“Sure.”
You tell yourself you're only checking because you're worried about the patient, and definitely not because you're curious. You walk past bay four under the excuse of grabbing supplies. Jane is sitting up now with Jack asking her a few routine questions. She's smiling. Of course she's smiling. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
"You know," she says and Jack glances up from the chart.
“If this is the standard of treatment this place offers, maybe I should come back." She flashes that smile that you know too well. The smile that always got her out of trouble, got her anything she wanted. You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. Jack chuckles politely.
"I'd recommend avoiding repeat visits." She laughs, and mumbles something you don’t catch. He laughs too. Not the polite little chuckle he gives nervous patients. The real one. The one that usually makes you grin without thinking. Something ugly settles in your stomach and you keep walking before either of them notices you.
"You've walked past six times." Santos appears beside you with entirely too much amusement on her face. You don’t look up from the chart in your hands.
"I have not."
"You have."
"I needed supplies." You defend with a shrug.
"You got supplies two trips ago."
"I forgot something." She snorts, seemingly unconvinced.
"You forgot it four more times?"
You glare at her, "I don't appreciate your tone."
Before she can respond, Robby walks over, scanning the nurses' station.
"Santos." She looks over. "When you've got a second, can you go lend Mel a hand in two?"
"On it." She flashes you one last grin, “We will continue this later.”
She disappears down the corridor and Robby sets his chart onto the counter with a quiet thud. He scans the notes while absent-mindedly clicking a pen.
“Where’s Abbot?” He asks with a quick glance around the department. The question catches you off guard and you feel yourself tense up.
“Why would I know where Jack is?”
Robby gives you a mildly puzzled look, recoiling almost slightly.
"I don't know,” he shrugs, “you two are usually attached at the hip."
You let out a short, humourless laugh.
"I don’t know where he is, but my bet is he's somewhere in the hospital."
"Helpful." He pick up his chart and begins to walk away.
"I do what I can."
He pauses briefly, spinning on his heels to face you.
“Oh by the way, do you know where the arm laceration is that came in earlier?”
"bay four with Abbot,”
The words leave your mouth before your brain slams on the brakes. You stare straight ahead, before slowly turning to face him. He’s smiling ear to ear, and you offer him a sarcastic smile and a squint.
“And I thought it was Abbot who’s usually keeping tabs on you.”
“Very funny.”
“I’ll tell him you say hi.” He says with a smile before walking away.
—
By the time Jane is discharged, you're convinced you've imagined the whole thing. Maybe Jack wasn't flirting, maybe he was just being nice. He's nice to everyone. But still you don't like it. Not one bit. It had always been different with Jack and you. It was always easy. Since the first day you met, which you could remember like it was yesterday.
Your first day was supposed to start with introductions, badges and a tour of the department. But you figured that would all have to wait when you heard the shout from the corridor.
“WE NEED HANDS IN BAY TWO" It was chaos when you walked in.
"Full arrest, two minutes down, get me," he stopped mid-sentence when you appeared at the foot of the bed already snapping on gloves. "Who are you?"
"Nobody, yet. Badge is still with HR." You were already taking over compressions from the exhausted nurse. "Epi now or after the next rhythm check?"
"Now." He watched you for half a second too long with something unreadable crossing his face. The rhythm returned at the two-minute mark and the room exhaled the way hospital rooms do, all at once, shoulders dropping, someone exhaling a laugh that wasn't really a laugh. He straightened up, looked at you, trying to size you up.
“Dr Abbot.” You said glancing down at his badge, stripping your gloves off and tossing them in the bin.
"That's me.” He held out a hand, and you shook it, adrenaline still running through you.
“You did good.” He said and you looked at him properly then, an assessing look, the kind that catalogues a person based on first impressions.
"High praise, five minutes in." You laughed.
"I don't hand it out lightly."
"I'll take it then."
"So are you gonna tell me your name," he said, "or is that a second-meet kind of information?"
"Depends how the second meet goes."
He was already walking backward toward the doors, not quite ready to look away first. "Go find HR. Get a badge.” A small smile crept onto his face.“I've got a feeling I'm gonna want to know your name before the day's out." He disappeared through the doors before you could say another word.
And that had been it. Something about him had made you drop the careful, professional version of yourself you'd walked in with. With everyone else, you would measure your responses. You would be polite, appropriate. With Jack, somehow, the filter disappeared.
"Hey." Jack catches you as you're grabbing a drink in the staff room. You barely offer him a glance as he crosses the room to you.
"You've been avoiding me." You don’t deny it, because you would both know it was a lie. He leans against the counter, taking the can from your hand and taking a sip.
"What’s going on?"
"I'm fine, just busy.” Jack nudges you slightly. He knows you well enough by now to know that you’re not just busy. You’re annoyed. And you know Jack well enough to know he isn’t going to drop it until he gets an answer out of you.
"Your patient just got under my skin."
"Jane?"
"Yeah."
He waits and you fold your arms.
“We just never got on in school, she was a horrible girl. But it was years ago, it doesn’t matter. I’ve moved on, it doesn’t bother me.” He watches you for a moment before he moves to stand in front of you with his hands in his pockets.
"So what is bothering you then?"
You hesitate for a second.
"She was really flirty."
Jack lets out a small laugh.
"She was."
"And you were flirting back." He squats slightly trying to meet your eye level, his eyebrows shoot up.
"I was what?"
"You heard me."
"I wasn't flirting."
"You were."
"I absolutely wasn't."
“You were laughing.”
He shrugs, smiling at your accusation. “She made a joke.”
“Yeah, and you laughed.” You kick his boot with yours, and he stares at you for a second before shaking his head, a wide grin still plastered on his face. He folds his arms now too, mirroring your stance.
"Why does it matter?"
The room goes quiet, you open your mouth trying to think of something to say, because you don't actually have an answer you're willing to say out loud. Jack watches your expression carefully. He steps closer to you, and you finally shut your mouth.
“Why would it matter if I was flirting with someone?” He asks again, and your heart starts to pound.
"It doesn't." You shrug, looking away from him, pretending to straighten a mug that sits on the counter beside you. He laughs, snaking his head to catch your eye.
“Oh come on, you can do better than that.” You roll your eyes, finally looking at him and he’s watching you with that infuriating little smile that always seems to know exactly what you're thinking.
“It’s our thing.” You wave a hand between the two of you.
"Our thing?"
"The flirting." For a beat, he just stares at you.
"You think we flirt?" His grin quickly turns smug.
"Jack." You laugh once, slightly embarrassed.
"Yes, she was trying very hard to flirt with me, and I was trying very hard to redirect the conversation without embarrassing her."
Just like that, the knot that's been sitting in your chest all afternoon begins to unravel. Jack watches the realization cross your face and smiles.
"The only person I intentionally flirt with at work," he takes one more step closer, "is you."
Your breath catches, and you try to ignore the heat you feel in your cheeks. And just like that, it feels like your thing again.
“You think we flirt?” you ask and he laughs, throaty and real.
“I think we do, and it seems a shame to keep restricting it to a twelve-hour shift.”
You smile.
"What are you suggesting?"
"Dinner."
You pretend to think about it.
“Fine.” His grin is immediate.
"But."
He groans dramatically.
"There's a but."
"If another pretty patient flirts with you," he waits, "I'm transferring her to Whitaker."
A beloved part 2 to Barbie Doll, but can be read as a standalone.
Pairing: Jack Abbott × nurse!reader
Wc: 9.3k (i was litr aiming for 3k…)
Description: You and boyfriend haven't done much besides making out. Cut to a drunk you trying to get him to fuck you last night (and him fending you off with remarkable constraint). The morning comes with heartfelt conversations and pancakes nobody ends up eating because, well…Jack was craving something else.
Or, your respectable attending ends up between your legs, for the first of many times.
Tags/warnings: Massive age gap (r in 20s, abbot is 50), size diff, Idk what the insides of a man's bedroom must look like, r has enough hair to be tied back, r is referred to as a girl, r has limited experiences with sex, r is insecure, self-esteem issues, r mentioned to have a soft curvy belly, r has breasts, long makeout sesh, r is kinda bratty, v little blood mention, finger sucking, slightly voyeuristic in the sense that jack talks abt putting a picture of her tits in his house, r has a vagina, pussy pronouns, r has a bush (tongue sticking out emoji), this man is pussy drunk, oral (f recieving), mentions of male masturbation, dom!jack, (1) thigh slap, a lil hair tugging, very mild degradation (needy, messy), a lot of praise, a lot of pet names: baby, honey, princess, sweetheart, kid, etc
Note: Im ngl i almost put a daddy kink, but idk my audience that much yet. Also, this is my first time writing smut. Also I'm a virgin who can't drive (but im learning to!!!), so be kind bcos this was purely based on imagination and my studying of smutty fics. Happy gooning, if you do. Also tell me if you do.
You swing your arm over the top half of your face, instinctively smacking your lips together to find them chapped and dry, just like your throat.
What –
Where are you?
A groan escapes your lips when you retract your arm, moving your head to take in your surroundings. The white ceiling greets you, wooden fan spinning at a medium speed, and you avert your gaze before you throw up in —
Jack's bed, you realise. You're in his bed. His room. To your right, deep blue blinds cover the floor-to-ceiling windows you know are there. To your left wall, his laptop sitting closed on his neat oakwood study desk, next to his reading glasses, and…
A clear container, about the size of your hand, filled with 2-3 hair ties, a couple of tic tac hair clips, and a small lip balm.
You didn't put that here. You may spend a lot of your time at this house in the past 6 weeks, but you were always hesitant of taking up his space in ways that matter. A toothbrush next to his in his bathroom, and two of your t-shirts in his closet, that's it, you were content with that.
Seeing that small box, though…you felt a warmth bloom in your chest, making you smile while you lay alone in his bed.
Wait.
Alone.
Where is your boyfriend?
You rise up on your elbows, sucking in a sharp breath at the piercing pain in your back. You look around; The bathroom door is shut with no noises coming from the inside. You rub the empty space next to you on the bed, patting the soft bedsheets, only to find them cold.
You frown. Until you notice the bedside table. His rolex sprawled next to a tall glass of water, mouth covered with a strip pack of medicine. Your phone is plugged into the charger, flashing a “fully charged.”
You sit up sluggishly, popping an Advil out of the pack, and depositing it on your tongue. You wash it back with a sip of water, and then hungrily empty the whole glass.
Your bare feet touch the carpeted floors, determined to find your missing boyfriend. You walk towards the bedroom door — slightly cracked open — and pull it wide open, the well-oiled hinges making no disturbance.
Small memories from last night start flooding in, once your mind gets the memo to wake up. You internally wince. Jeez. You broke your heels you spent your savings on?
But you forget all about that when you see Jack in the open kitchen, spreading a batter evenly on a pan, a bottle of your favorite maple syrup sitting not too far away. A stack of golden, fluffy, pancakes sits pretty on a plate, making your heart swell in affection, and stomach stirring in excitement.
He's still shirtless, only sporting his soft, grey sweatpants. And he's making breakfast. The two best things a man can do: cooking, and giving you a show.
Okay, maybe that's a little objectifiable coming from such a progressive person as you. He's a man, so what, that doesn't mean he wants to be leered at.
That, obviously, doesn't make you feel any shame. Before he notices you, you make the best of it. You drag your eyes down to his hard stomach, and up his chest, moving rhythmically with soft breaths. His muscular arms are methodically working the pancakes, just as you like them.
Your gaze travels to his hips where the sweats hang loosely. You can see where his V-line begins, and goes on to disappear in his pants. Could you trace it with your finger? Would he shiver and throw his head back, or clutch your wrist again to stop you?
Oh, you could take his house tour.
Just when you start getting a little breathless, a voice rings in your brain. Your voice.
“Why haven't we fucked?”
You immediately cringe. Oh, god. You are never drinking again. One of the most serious conversations you've been meaning to have, and you dumbly blurt it all out inebriated.
“Thought I was the one with the staring problem,” you flinch out of your embarrassing spiral, your boyfriend's slow drawl dragging you back to present. You clear your throat, willing some semblance of grace back in you.
You don't speak till you've reached him, standing behind his back, not daring to look him in the eye right now. You wrap your arms around his torso, palms grazing the sculpted plane of his stomach, now tensing under your touch. You bury your nose in his warm skin, inhaling deeply. Your own muscles relax when his scent fills you, something clean and musky, and a hint of his cedarwood soap. The ache in your head dulls, and his heavy presence wraps throughout your mind in a pleasant mist.
You press a soft kiss exactly where your lips rest against his back — a few inches below his neck. A muscle there jumps and you suppress a smile, even though he can't see you.
“Morning. You like leaving your girlfriend alone in your bigass bed?” you ask, pressing another kiss to the same spot.
“Don't think you really mind the way you're all over me.” His large arms keep moving, though your view is obstructed with his back.
You scoff, “well, thanks for the Advil, doctor.”
His hand reaches around his back to pat your hip twice before withdrawing it. “How's the headache? Shouldn't be too bad, I only let you nurse on rookie stuff.”
“Didn't feel very rookie, or maybe I'm just a lightweight,” you mumble, hot breath falling over his freckled skin.
Jack chuckles, and you absorb it as much as you can, saving it for later replays. “You did good, honey. You were a fun drunk, really.”
You huff, “you'd say that, of course, I tried to seduce you.”
You hear the flop sound of a pancake hitting the pan after being flipped. “Didn't think you'd remember.”
“Thought or hoped?”
“Desperately wished you would.”
The morning has made him slower and softer, his usual charm and humor taking a backseat in face of domesticity. Look at you, taming a rugged silver fox. Before you know, you hear the swift flick of a dial, gas being turned off, and he spins in your arms.
You look up at him. The tip of his nose is a little rosy, and his eyes have lost the sharpness in them — the one you've seen in ED, or when you particularly provoke him for attention. His curls are tipping over to his forehead, creating jagged shadows against his face. You don't think he's shaved today, so you send a silent ‘thank you’ to angels who govern DILFs.
He drags his hands up your arms, until they're cupping your face with great care, pads of his thumbs stroking across your cheekbones, before digging into the apple of your cheeks, effectively squishing them. Your lips pucker out without your permission, and you watch a boyish smile take over his face.
“You look adorable when you're not runnin’ your mouth.”
“Would you like me to become quiet and reserved? Because, I assure you, you will miss this mouth,” your speech comes out slightly muffled, and then returning to normal when he softens the pressure of his thumbs.
The corner of his lip quirks, and you watch the playful glint take its familiar place in his eyes. “It's a great mouth, I'll admit. Solid 8 out of 10.”
Your said mouth falls open, eyes widening in disbelief. “Excuse you, sir, don't undersell me. Where am I losing the 2 points?”
Jack pretends to think, letting out an unnecessarily long hum. “The fact that you've been up and about for —” he checks the wall clock behind you, “— 6 minutes and haven't kissed me yet.” He tuts in disappointment, shaking his head disapprovingly at you.
“That's what you get for leaving me alone in bed.”
“Tough crowd. I'm sorry then, I should've been holding you, sending a body double to make breakfast for you. I'll do better next time.”
“It's okay, we all have our learning curves, you'll learn, Dr. Abbot,” you coo, patting his back a little too roughly.
“Now, where were we…8 out of 10…2 left…” he trails off, bumping his nose against yours, and lifting your chin. He tilts his head down, sliding one hand to the back of your neck to keep you steady. He always does this, the smooth motherfucker, being tender while still being in charge.
As soon as his lips caress yours, you dodge, and he ends up kissing your ear instead.
“I have morning breath,” you pull back to look up in his eyes again, fixing him with your best bambi eyes.
“When has that ever stopped us? We once made-out for 30 minutes straight right after waking up. I felt like a teenager.”
“Yeah, because I'd gotten up, like 30 minutes ago, to brush my teeth and apply lip gloss.”
His mouth hangs open in shock, “what?” he asks, eyebrows furrowing together.
“...yeah. Do you really think I look like a pretty princess in the morning, Jack?” You huff a laugh, stating the obvious. Men.
Instead of a joke about your hair, or another wave of mock surprise, his lips downturn in a frown. The palm on your check moves up a couple inches, fingers toying the hair on your temple.
“Baby…did I ever make you feel like you had to do that?” His question comes not defensively, but low, distressed, and so, so delicate. It's like he's genuinely seeking your answer, treading with caution, allowing you to be vulnerable should you choose to.
“What? Jack. No. I've been doing this since, like, when I first slept over at someone's place.” Your fingers tighten on his back, holding him to you.
“Did they make you feel like you had to?” Your chest tightens at his concern, his protectiveness, and over what? Something you just off-handedly joked about? Something you didn't even give a conscious thought to?
Maybe that's the issue, that it's so internalised, you haven't seen anything wrong with it until now. You don’t know whether you should relish in his sweetness, or be embarrassed that a man out-feministed you.
Your eyes soften, the warmth blooming inside your chest has reached the tips of your fingers, your legs, down to your toes.
Oh, he's taken over you.
“Jack…you're so sweet, but I swear it's not that big of a deal. It's never made me upset or anything.” You unwrap your arms from his midriff, skimming your hands up his forearms, to reassuringly squeeze his biceps.
“Kind of a big deal if you feel like getting up 30 minutes early to make yourself look ‘presentable’ or whatever other bullshit your mind is telling you.”
Well, if he puts it like that.
You pause, feeling such deep adoration for this man and not the momentary kind, no. The kind that settles beneath your ribs and slips between joints, places unreachable, even to you. It's such a loss of control, to have such…like for someone that they're rooted deeply enough inside you. So much so that you've lost all jurisdiction of your own heart.
You're in freefall.
He must've seen it in your eyes, because he gently tugs at your hair strand, before tucking it behind your ear. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
“What's going on in your brain? I thought it was mostly barren land up there.”
You smack his bicep. “Mister, I don't know who you are, but I'm a nurse at the PTMC. Treat me with respect, or else.”
“Just felt a shiver run down my spine,” he deadpans.
You smile thankfully and twist your head to kiss his palm.
“I'm serious, honey. I want you to share this stuff with me,” his voice turns sombre again, in a way that always strips you bare of your defenses.
“You don't have to fix something you didn't break.”
“If you have a tiring day because of a shift, am I not allowed to hold you to sleep?”
“Jack…” you softly whine.
“Isn't this exactly the kind of thing why we've been hesitant to take a step forward?”
Your mind recalls some bits of last night — the genuine need to touch him, to be touched, to lose control. Was it liquid courage, or was it because your mind was hazy enough to not conjure your insecurities?
“Can we have a proper talk about this? Right now?”
“Yes.”
“Can I go brush my teeth in case the conversation lasts 2 minutes, and then we straight up just start climbing each other?”
“No.”
“Pretty please?”
A long suffering sigh from him.
“Okay, princess.”
7 minutes and 1 aggressive teeth brushing session (wherein you literally made your gum bleed because of haste), you exit from the bathroom into his bedroom.
You accidentally shut the door too hard behind you, and nervously clap your hands together. “Okay! Let's talk about fucking.”
Jack, who was reading a news article on his phone, blinks at you. Slowly, he takes off his reading glasses — which, sad — and sets them on his bedside table. He has removed his prosthetic, always preferred it off while in bed, and the empty fabric of his pant leg is rolled up to above his knee.
You climb on his bed, crawling over to him.
“How about we first talk about not calling it ‘fucking'? I'm a 50 year-old man, not a 21 year-old boy who wants to get in your pants.”
“Spoilsport,” you mutter before finding your place. Not on the bed. On him. Your knees dig into the soft cushion behind him, thighs bracketing his hips. A soft, pleasing, hum escapes you.
You may not have tried many — or, any — positions with him, but this one is your favorite, and you suspect it always will be. This, straddling his lap, after bad days and good, having him close enough to sink in his presence, without losing your own.
It's like during your days, the scale tipped too much in either direction, and made your anxiety go broom. With him, the scale stabilised. The universe balanced itself as long as Jack was touching you.
His right hand rushed to your waist to anchor you, slipping past your t-shirt to find bare skin, thumb stroking against the side of your belly. His left finds your own hand, interlocking your fingers and resting them against his stomach.
“Okay, if you brought it up yesterday drunkenly, then you must've given it thought before,” he urges you softly.
You shift in his lap, and pretend not to notice the way he suddenly bites his lip. You take a deep breath, a familiar anxiety curdles in your stomach at the thought of talking about something that's so sensitive to you.
“I have, yes. Um…do you remember when we talked about this before as well? I, uh, don't have much experience with, well, fuc — sex. You know, shagging. Boinking. OH, horizontal tango.” Your mouth has a way of spitting out garbage nonsense whenever you’re experiencing nerves.
“Shut up,” your favourite doctor stops your verbal diarrhea, unimpressed.
“Rude. But…do you remember?”
“Of course, I remember.” Your heart leaps at his gentle tone, so good with giving space for your vulnerabilities.
“And you…” you laugh nervously, toying with the drawstring of his pajamas, eyes downcasted.
“Eyes on me, honey.”
You watch his dark irises, the lines of his forehead, stubble you know is prickly from having your fingers trace it many times. It’s him. You clear your throat before continuing and feel his hand squeezing yours.
“You're experienced. And I know that doesn't matter but…” you trail off before finding another thread, “do you know what it feels like to view yourself in third person?”
“Happens sometimes when I'm getting shot at, yeah. What about it?”
“It happens with me even outside the job. It's like I'm looking down at myself, observing the way my face looks, or my hands move, or my gait, or a bunch of other things. When I imagine having sex with you — and I have so much — all I can imagine is how I'd sound, what face I'll make, how my body would look…”
You shake your head, blinking away the tears that threaten to spill over. Your chest aches in the aftermath of your admission, never having admitted this loudly. “And none of it looks pretty in my head.”
You purse your lips, waiting for his response. What you feel first is the tightening of his fingers around yours. The hand under your shirt starts moving, up and down, in a slow rhythm, burning your skin with every stroke.
“Thank you for sharing that with me,” he murmurs, with this almost poignant look in his eyes. He brings your linked hands up to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss on the back of yours.
“Let's see it through. I'll start by telling you, I've imagined it multiple times as well, more than I should. Totally felt like a creep.”
Your cheeks burn.
“But it was never like the way you describe. In my imagination,” his hand tugging you closer, hot breath falling over your chin, “It's never about how you scream, it's about why. Is it because of my mouth, fingers, or what?”
You gulp.
Or, what?
You're pretty sure you feel the “or, what” stirring alive beneath you, hardening against your inner thigh. It's so hard not to move.
Jack tips his head forward, pressing his lips to the side of your jaw, “As for how your face would look; as long as your shiny eyes are on me, and your mouth is falling open, I think you're good.”
His next attack is to the corner of your lips, “and what about your body? How do you think it would look?”
He doesn't get a response, because all functions to your brain have been cut off. His right hand halts, settling an inch below your breasts, the side of your shirt hanging around his wrist.
“Tell me,” he softly commands.
“Awkward and lousy, not knowing what to do. And my skin would have folds and rolls. Also, do you know boobs are never really evenly sized? One is always bigger,” you blurt out.
Jack laughs, always more amused with your neurotic babble than repulsed. Your shoulders drop a fraction. “Yes, I know, that's the beauty of them. Otherwise, what's the difference between you, and say…a barbie doll?”
And so he makes you smile, the one you flash only to him, the one that lets him know you’re okay. Just like that. He looks proud about it too.
Speaking of sizes, his gaze flickers towards your chest, lingering there before dragging their way up your mouth, and then your eyes again.
“Same for the rest of it. Don't worry about giving me more skin to kiss, I'll take care of it. Of you,” he says with sincerity and calmness, a level of assurance that feels like he took a walk with your mind. And then pressing a peck — finally — against your lips.
You don't feel your self-doubts vanishing, or your walls crashing down. But the door cracks open, and the light searing out is enough to take a step forward.
“Okay. I believe you,” you whisper, stealing another quick kiss from him. “But what if I, you know, fail you?” It comes out awkward, reflecting every bit of uncertainty in you, even when you can feel the length of him growing insistent.
“This will be about you first, what'd we talk about worrying? I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself…as I have, many, many times.”
The distance between you feels less, despite no moment. Have the walls started narrowing in? Your throat runs dry.
“What?” you stagger, brain feeling like scrambled eggs.
“What ‘what’? Because I'm 50, I don't have a libido?” he muses, voice raspy. His hand leaves yours, trailing its way up your arm. When it tangles in the hair behind your neck, the hand holding feels childish in comparison. He should’ve been doing this all along.
“I didn't say that. I just didn't think you…”
“What? Touched myself thinking of you? Palmed myself right here, on this very bed?”
Your lips part, eyeballs practically protruding out of your face like a cartoon character. You finally shift your weight. When his bulge connects with your crotch, you feel you’ve gone third base already. Even with layers in between, you feel how hard he is, probably enough to be in pain right now. But his face barely reflects that.
“Don't worry, not the same bedsheets.”
“Not exactly what I'm thinking about, doctor,” you breathe.
“Really? Feels like you should be.”
You smack his stomach, and he doesn't even flinch. Instead, his eyes crinkle and a smile makes its way like the sun rising in the sky.
A pause.
“Enough talking. C'mere.” He pulls you by the back of your neck, capturing your lips in a kiss. He moves like he’s in no hurry. While you hustle your way through every moment, Jack acts like all clocks have personally stopped so he can pass through.
He claims your bottom lip, leisurely enjoying the softness, and gives it a playful nip. Swallowing the gasp right out of your mouth, his palm tightens in your hair, tugging in a pleasant pressure to angle your head exactly like he wants. He hums in satisfaction, the rumble vibrating all the way down your chest, pooling between your thighs. You try to chase the heat, instinctively rolling your hips, getting greeted with a delicious friction that coaxes a helpless whine out of you.
His thumb strokes the underside of your breast, and you shiver, losing control over your own mouth, getting sloppy in your technique.
When Jack pulls back, your entire body disapproves, your lips immediately desperate enough to chase his again, a string of spit connecting yours to his before breaking. He chuckles, and you don't even have enough mind to even feel self-consciousness. You might as well be on another planet right now.
“You look like you haven't been kissed since middle school.” He watches your swollen, ruined, lips with pride blossoming in his abilities, clearly well enough to make you act depraved.
“That's not true. I was just kissed by an old white guy,” you breathlessly retort.
“Why are you kissing guys so different from your boyfriend?”
“Trying new things.”
“Fuck that. Haven't you heard, kid, older is better?” he replies smugly, before diving right back in, on a mission to catch your top lip this time. Unlike his hands, yours keep wandering — grazing his abdomen, tracing lines up his chest, finding home low on his waist, thumb hooking in his sweatpants.
The desperation is making you feel reckless; you sink your hips into his again, seeking that perfect, agonizing friction. A deep groan rips from Jack’s throat. His palms slam flat against your hips, squeezing them and bringing your tortuous grinding to a dead halt. “Stop,” he rasps, “do you want this to last or not?”
“What are you saying?” you ask, a poster child for innocence, with batting eyelashes and glossy eyes. To really drive it home, you roll your hips forward again, enjoying the way his eyes darken. This is safe territory, making out with him like you're still teenagers, and hell, if you're not gonna tease him.
“God, you're such a brat,” he murmurs, the rough whisper lost against your mouth when he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of your upper lip, a fraction too deep. You moan at the sting, but the sound is cut short. Jack is already pulling back with a jolt, feeling the metallic taste of copper on his tongue.
“Fuck, baby, sorry, I —” the heat in his eyes instantly dissolve to swimming guilt. His hand rushes up to cradle your jaw with a sudden, trembling gentleness. His thumb sweeps across the hurt, wiping the small bead of red before it can run.
“Jack, it's okay, I promi —”
But he's already peppering apologies all over your face; lips meeting the tip of your nose, then the bridge; corner of your eyes; hollow of your cheeks; and a “feel better?” at your temple. Soft oh's leave your mouth, over and over and over.
You never want to hit the ground ever again. May he never run out of kisses.
“Never felt bad to begin with. I like a little mean.”
“Not when it’s our first time, honey.” The sharp edge of panic vanishes, leaving behind a quiet self-doubt, pulling his brows in a tight line. Your chest tightens when you peer into his eyes, and find them unmasked off any walls. You look straight into the deepest, darkest corners of him, the ones that come with tight security and deflecting jokes.
“Not our first time making out, Jack,” you softly reassure.
Jack presses a final, promising kiss into your hair. He exhales the last of his hesitance when he sees you — open, welcoming, entirely warm beneath him. “First time making out as foreplay,” his voice drops an octave, completely grounded now. “I need you to know we can stop anytime. Throw me off for all I care, if you get uncomfortable. Got it?”
You nod.
“Words. Big girl words.”
“Yes, Jack. I will kick you in case that happens.”
“My little footballer,” Jack coos. “Do you wanna get off my lap now?”
“Uh, no,” you dictate.
“Kinda have to, sweetheart, for what I'm planning next.”
You suck in a deep breath, your bravado actively flatlining at the thought of actually doing something more.
Jack reads the subtle tension in your shoulders instantly. “Hey,” he murmurs, hand soothing over your knee. “We can pause. No pressure.”
Your response is entirely physical. You swing your thigh over his lap, sliding off the comforting warmth, to sit beside him. His eyes follow the slow curve of your body, never breaking contact, until you’re settled on the mattress. A quiet approval settles on his features, “that's my good girl.” He tilts his head, studying your face, “still green?”
You nod.
Jack arches a brow.
“Still green. Now what?”
“Let's get you comfortable,” his hand trails over your neck, settling firmly on the back of your head, “like the ‘pretty princess’ you really are.” His other palm gently cups the dip of your waist, guiding you down until you're laying flat on your back on his navy blue sheets. He pauses, lifting your head just enough to slide a pillow beneath your head. His scent on the linen wraps around you, making you feel like you belong in his bed.
“So gorgeous, all pretty in my bed.” His dark gaze slowly drags over your body, “aren't you, honey?” He leans down, dwarfing your body with his large frame, pressing a lingering kiss just atop your nose, “eyes on me, yeah? Don't close them, no matter how good you feel.”
“You're pretty confident,” you murmur, squirming restlessly underneath him.
“You're about to know why.”
He steals your breath with another kiss, steady, deliberate, and unhurried — easing you in for what’s about to come. The tip of his warm tongue outlines your upper lip, tracing the edge until you eagerly part for him, begging for him to deepen the kiss. Instead, he pulls back, eyes snapping to the pulse in your throat.
“Hey, our tongues didn't battle for dominance,” you say excitedly, feeling pride at your hilarious reference.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He shoots you an amused look, shaking his head, before he's burying his nose into the slope of your neck. He breathes in deeply, drinking your scent in, like a man starved. He's teasingly slow in his moments, treating foreplay like it’s the real meal. You wonder how he's still patient — you, on the other hand, have started to helplessly writhe, fucking yourself on empty air, desperate for him to finally take over.
His hand slides up your side, burning your skin on its way to ruck up your shirt. The cool bedroom air hits your exposed midriff, coaxing a sharp, involuntary arch of your spine.
“Jack, please,” you beg, voice shaking, needy for him. Your fingers tangle in his curls, fisting in a painful grip.
His stubble scratches your sensitive skin as he drags the tip of his nose down the curve of your neck, but you couldn't care less even if it left marks. When the fabric of your shirt gets in his way, his thick finger snags the neckline, tugging roughly to uncover a path.
He freezes, staring at the bare slope of your left breast, his breath hitching at the sight.
His tongue darts out to taste you, dancing over the swell before his teeth close to nibble on it. “Mm, fuuuuuck, baby. So fuckin’ sweet for me,” he rasps against your chest, drawing a whimper from you. He soothes the sting with slow circles of his thumb, followed by a final sweet kiss to the ache.
His pupils are blown wide with hunger, swallowing the color of his eyes, looking down at you like you’re his last meal on earth. His fingers toy with the hem of your top, playfully tugging the frayed edges.
“Need to see your sweet tits, baby,” he commands, voice dropping low. “Do you trust me?” he asks, low and throaty, studying your face for any shadows of hesitation.
Excitement and nervousness collide in your chest, and words get caught in the throat. He must see it, because he's tipping down, pressing his forehead flat against yours. “Gonna play with my pretty girls, give them so much love. Have thought a lot about them — fucked my fist first time I saw you in your black tank, pulling taut across your chest. They looked so perfect, sitting there and waiting.”
You frantically tug at his hair, “Jack, fuck, I'm gonna pass out,” you whisper, voice strangling with want.
“I asked if you trust me, honey.”
The excitement wins.
“Yes, please, take it off.”
“My good fuckin’ girl. Get up for me.”
Not a second later as soon as you're sitting up, his fingers hooking deep into the hem, “arms up, pretty girl.” The shirt catches at your ear, but Jack gently guides it off, carelessly tossing it behind his shoulder.
Your breaths come in shallow and ragged, as you sit fully naked from the waist up, in front of the man who's watching you like a hawk, tongue darting out to wet his lips. You watch as he tears his gaze away — with considerable effort — to assess your comfort. He cups your cheek, heavier than necessary.
“Green?”
“Green.”
“Of course. Where's that sharp tongue? Mind goes dumb when I touch you? It's okay, sweet girl, I'll do the thinking. Hm?” You sink your teeth into your lower lip, nodding fervently at him. Your blinks are slow and heavy, eyes getting glassier with sheer need. Any remaining logic melts away, turning you into putty under his control.
Oh, this is what it feels like.
“Big girl words,” he pats your cheek affectionately, a soft pat-pat.
“Yes. Just a bit nervous,” you admit.
He hums, eyes darkening in hunger as an idea crosses his mind. The pad of his thumb sinks into your bottom lip, “open up, baby.”
Without thinking, you oblige.
“So obedient,” he remarks, a low purr of proud satisfaction in his chest. “Here, take 1. You'll feel better.” His thumb slides past your lips, into your hot, slick mouth. “Suck it nice and clean, okay?”
You swirl your wet tongue around the tip of his thumb, coating it wet, and he hums in approval, “let me know if my girl needs 1 more.” He fluffs the pillow with his free hand, “now lie back, just like before.”
With you flat on your back again, his rough hands slide down your legs to encircle your ankles. Your feet rustle the sheets as he guides them backward, bending your knees and opening them wide, clearing space for his larger body. He positions his heavy weight between your thighs, hot breath falling on your breasts.
He presses his face into the soft valley of your chest, nuzzling the tip of his nose back and forth against your skin. “Better than I imagined. Fuck, doll,” he murmurs, pressing a trail of hot, wet kisses down your belly. The moment his lips touch the curve of your stomach, the muscles there instinctively tighten.
“Sweetheart," he rasps. "Let go.”
You try. You really do. But every time you try to let your tummy loose, let it sit naturally, it's like your brain panics and sends out an emergency signal, forcing you to flatten the softness there. “I…I'm trying.”
Your boyfriend puts a firm hand on your belly, feeling the rigid tension from sucking in, letting it rise and fall underneath his palm. He slowly lowers his mouth and you shiver when you feel the feather-light kiss.
“This is what you're worried about?” He squeezes the side of your waist, fingers digging in a possessive hold, placing an open-mouthed kiss right below your navel.
He huffs a low, fond sound. “Silly girl.”
“Let go,” he commands again, and this time your body listens to him, loud and clear. His authority cuts right through your defences, and you let the anxiety go with a shuddering exhale. He feels his hand filling up, your stomach softening entirely, and the weight of your skin perfectly molds into the curve of his palm.
“You don't realise how sexy this is, right? How fuckin’ hard I am —” as if to emphasise, he rolls his hips, and you cry his name, feeling his hard length on your thigh, “— more skin to grab, more of you to hold. Fuck, my beautiful girl, drivin’ me crazy. Gonna take such good care of this perfect body.”
Your spine arches off the mattress the moment he closes his hot mouth around your nipple, drawing a slow, satisfied whine from you. Your fingers blindly rush to bury his head even deeper, your cheeks hollowing, suckling his thumb on with a mind of its own.
He swirls his tongue around the pebbled tip, relieving it from the cool air of the room. Your hips buck desperately for friction, but the flat plane of his torso doesn't do much more than leave you aching for more. He withdraws his mouth, and with an almost playful focus, smears his spit across your areola with his thumb. Before you can even catch your breath, his mouth migrates to the peak of your other breast, giving it the same heated, biting attention. He finally frees his hand from your mouth, kneading the soft flesh of your breast that he’s temporarily left lonely.
He pauses to take a deep breath, burying his face between your tits, licking the space with a single-minded feverish dedication. When he pulls back, he just stares, admiring his craft, “fuck, look at the girls, baby. Such a pretty mess, covered in my spit. Makes me wanna take a picture, frame it in the living room. Do you think it'd be a nice replacement to that matisse hanging right at the center?”
His words send an unexpected thrill through your thighs, and you cry out again, not above begging him, “whate– whatever yo– you want, Jack, fuck, please…” your sentence comes out broken enough for Jack to shoot you a look of entirely mocking sympathy.
“Use your words,” he taps your lip. “Form a proper sentence, and we can decide, okay?”
“Please touch me,” your voice cracks at the magic word.
“Where, baby? I don't understand."
“Between my legs, Jack.”
“I still don't think you're using proper vocabulary, honey. What do you want me to touch?”
The frustration leaves your mouth in a whimper, “You're such an asshole.”
Jack laughs in amusement, “c'mon, let me help you, tell the doctor where it hurts.”
“My pussy, Jack. Touch my pussy.”
The crude words leaving your sweet mouth, snaps the last thread of his restraint, ripping a low, gravelly groan from deep in his chest. His hand slides down to palm his raging, thick erection through his pants, giving it a hard, painful squeeze before tearing his hands away.
God, you want to do that for him.
“Yeah? Your sweet pussy, baby?” he rasps, hungry eyes drilling into yours. “Did you get it all wet and messy for me?”
You nod frantically, answering in a breathy, desperate tone you don’t even recognise as your own, “yes, fuck, oh god. Just get down there. Please.”
“Since you asked so pretty. Your hips. Up up up.” You comply, and the moment you shift, his long fingers lock into the waistband, hurriedly dragging your shorts down your legs in a single, inpatient motion. He hurls them recklessly to the floor without even looking — so opposite to his controlled and calculated behavior out at the Pitt.
He glides down your body, large hands greedily palming every inch of bare skin he passes, until he's face-to-face from your damp panties. He taps his shoulder in a silent order, and even with your pleasure-drunk mind, you quickly recognize his demand. You slowly lift your legs, hesitating for a second before you slide your ankles down his back, knees hooking securely over his broad shoulders.
He toys with the edge of the fabric — soft, light pink, and nothing lacy or fancy about it. “Oh, where'd you get this lovely pair, baby?” Jack asks in a light, conversational tone, entirely too humorous for a man with his face a lick away from your crotch. All while you're writhing like an animal in heat. It's an intoxicating feeling, suddenly having lost all your inhibitions, obsessed with only one goal in your mind.
“I don't fucking know!” you exclaim, hot tears of pure, unadulterated desperation pool in your eyes.
“Think, sweetheart. I'm trying to talk to you here, and you're being all uncooperative.”
“I don't know. At the mall, maybe! It was a pack of three.”
“Aw, see, good girl, thank you for letting me know,” he praises. “Let's see how it feels,” he nuzzles his nose into the cheap, stretchy, fabric, sharply inhaling the sweet, rich scent of your arousal. It is an action so completely depraved, so utterly filthy, you can't fathom it's your respected attending.
Well, you never expected to be naked in his bed either. Life, you guess, occasionally handing lemons you don’t deserve.
“You smell so good, my pretty girl,” he thumbs the damp spot, a growing, wet circle of sheer need. “Is it the panties or is it you?”
“You should find out.”
“Oh, the brat returns!” Jack exclaims delightedly, giving your thigh a playful pat.
You pause for a heartbeat to take it all in, to look at the man who stores your hair ties in his room, who carries your purse without a smidge of male-ego (bare minimum, but respect), always seconding his needs to yours. It’s this instant you realize how relaxed you are, how safe, how at ease he's put you — you who not too long ago, was drowning in a sea self-doubts.
“Jack…”
Catching the sudden change in your tone, his brows snap together in concern, heavy hands gentling at your thighs in case you call a red. But you only smile at him. Your sweet, thoughtful, wonderful man.
“I just wanted to say, I care about your comfort, too. In case you need to stop, you can pull yourself back, or tap my thigh.”
For a moment, he freezes in surprise, caught completely off-guard, as if not expecting to have such considerate words offered to him too. His heart swells, growing twice as big, and you see it in the fond way he looks at you, overwhelmed and soft.
You wonder if he's in freefall too.
“Thank you and yes ma'am,” he replies sincerely, voice thick with emotion, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to your thigh.
The command in his cadence slips back just as easily as it left. “Now, I want you to take the other pillow as well, and prop it below you. You know. For easy watching.”
“Watch what?”
“You fucking yourself on my face.”
Oh, he's good.
Without a word, you oblige, adjusting the cushion behind you until your back is elevated. From up here, the sight is fucking obscene — your legs splayed open, throned on your boyfriend's sculpted shoulders, his eyes darting between your underwear and you, like he can’t decide which one looks more appetizing.
You swallow a gasp when he kisses your clit, right through the flimsy material.
“Can I see you, baby? See her?” He looks up, heavy-lidded, eyes boring into yours with unhinged intensity, like the fate of his future lies in your hands — like, if you were to say no, he would be a man destroyed. You're not sure how it's possible for a person so lust-ridden to look at you with such stilling devotion.
For the first time, you don’t lock up.
“Yes, please.”
He carefully peels your panties aside, as if unmasking a priceless gift, wanting to savor the precious moment. His eyelids flutter shut when your sweet, warm scent fills his room and he draws a deep breath to drink it in. When he opens his eyes, a look of pure awe takes over his face, eyes glinting with a feral light. He looks like a kid at Disney World, dizzy and starry-eyed, not a man about to eat you out.
“I knew it. I knew she'd be exquisite like you.”
You feel color rush to your cheeks, never having felt so exposed to someone. Sure, you've been seen naked, but not like this. Not only your body, you feel everything bare — your heart, your soul, your mind.
“I didn't really think of shavin —”
“Shut up. It's exactly how I like my food. Besides, you're a big girl, aren't you, honey?”
It seems he doesn't care for your verbal responses anymore, seeming dull and dry in comparison to the meal in front of him. He is completely spellbounded by your pussy. He swipes a firm, deliberate, thumb across its puffy lip, and you very coherently whine something along the lines of “nnngghh.”
He kisses your swollen bud again, this time with no barrier of cotton. Entranced, he mutters, “so pretty,” under his breath, deaf to your breathless begging. He presses against your glistening slit, teasing your heated, tight, opening and painting your pussy lips with your own stickiness.
“Well, to me, you look perfectly healthy, madam. What brings you here for a checkup?” he asks, voice gravelly and mockingly professional, examining your cunt.
“Jaaaaack, please. Baby…”
“Shhh, honey, I'm not talking to you,” he scolds, resuming his clinical conversation with your pussy. “Did you only need a doctor to fuck yourself stupid?”
“Stop kidding around, oh my —”
Your head falls back helplessly when the flat of his tongue connects with your slit. He expertly licks a long, broad stripe from your opening, all the way up to your swollen peak, eager to taste every inch of the wet skin. Your thighs tightly squeeze around his face, the pressure doing nothing to deter him from the divine purpose he’s been given.
“— God…”
“No god. Just Dr. Abbot.”
His hand is quick to sting your thigh in a reprimanding slap for shaking violently enough to vibrate his shoulders. “Remember, eyes on me. And voice loud, I need to know what's feeling good.”
“Everything feels good. Just don't fucking stop.”
“Bossy,” he mutters, before using his meaty fingers to pry apart your folds, slowly revealing the pink flesh, shining like a diamond for him. Lost in his hunger, his mouth latches itself to your inner lips, sucking each gently, confident he has your time, attention, body for as long as he wants, with the way you’re greedily responding to him. He hums in contentment, doing it for his enjoyment just as much for yours.
Your hips buck, burying his face deep enough to cut off his air-supply. His name falls over your lips, again and again, like a prayer unanswered. Encouraged by your more than enthusiastic response, he doubles down on his efforts at the same slick spot. He is perfect at this dance, a quick study of every hitch of your breath, every gasp, every twitch of your hips — using these mental notes to his advantage.
Your speech has become a mess — “nnghhhhhfuuckkk” or “jackkkkfuckgod” or even “imgonnadie”
His tongue rushes to your entrance again, impatient but not sloppy, to taste you, to not let a single drop go to waste when he’s here, starving for more.
“Fuck, pretty. Such a messy girl, tsk.”
Your nails drag into his scalp in a hurtful scratch which neither one of you seems to care about. With every lap against your warm, inviting hole, the tip of his nose rubs against your clit in a strong friction, sending the bundle of nerves into instant overdrive.
“Fuuckkknngh…” you speak eloquently.
He intently focuses — more than you've ever noticed in the ED — switching masterly between the flat of his tongue to lick broad, wet, stripes and his lips for slow, torturing suctions. His mouth fucks you with precision, knowing where exactly where to ease off, and where to tease an “aaaahhghh” out of you.
Your entire world tilts, brain turning to liquid, when he finally closes in around your bud. You yank the soft strands of his hair, accompanying the mindless action with a guttural moan so unlike you, teared right out of your throat.
“God, yes, like that. Just like that,” you fervently gasp.
Unlike other people you've been with, he doesn't increase or alter the pressure at your enthusiasm. He keeps the same pace, devastating and rhythmic, listening and following your advice.
“That's it. That's my best girl, singing so pretty for me. Let me hear you, baby.”
Your back arches painfully off pillows when the tip of his tongue agonizingly circles your clit, outlining the hyper-sensitive point at a pace that feels like time has slowed down, minutes dragging into hours, world around you turning blurry and sluggish.
Your breath rips out in sharp, short, gasps. Your eyes squeeze tightly shut, toes curling at his back. The floodgates are barely holding themselves close, but you don't want this to end. You want to be stuck in this ride, in this high, for as long as you can, suspended mid-air.
You know that's impossible when you force your eyes open, and watch the light catch the wet sheen on his nose, all slick from your juices.
“Jack, I'm so —”
“Happy?”
“Close,” you sob at the increasing sensitivity.
“Do you wanna come on my face?”
You can only cry out in response.
“Count to 10 in your head and then you can.”
10…9…8…7…6…5…4…3…2…1
The tension coiled tight in your belly snaps. The floodgates spill open, and your eyes roll back into your head. Words catch in the back of your throat, coming out as unintelligible noises. Everything fades to black for a moment, before your boyfriend's voice anchors you to earth again.
“So good for me, used my mouth like the needy girl you are.” He's lapping away slowly at your slit again, hell if he lets any release you've gifted him not put to good use.
You weakly push at his shoulders, willing him to a halt, overwhelmed and oversensitive. He immediately obeys, long fingers pulling back the ruined panties over you — instead delicately sliding his palms over your thighs, peppering them with tender, grounding kisses. When he stops to study you for any hints of discomfort, he looks at you like his eyes have blurred out every subject but you.
His mouth moves. Stops. Moves again.
Wait, is he saying something?
You furrow your brows, not being able to hear anything through the thick layers of fog up there — glittery and rosy, finding every crevice, every hidden part, and dulling the chaos of your brain.
You snap out of it when he tilts your chin towards him. He's sitting next to you now, body tilted closely towards yours, “Jesus, did I break you?” His free hand is kneading your quads, chasing away any pain they feel from having spent a good amount of time being spread open.
You nod, “but in a good way.”
He smiles like somebody just offered to do his charting until retirement. You lean heavily into his parm, cherishing the soft stroke of his finger, even when his skin is always dry from the excessive use of sanitizer.
“Can I kiss you? Or are you overwhelmed?”
You nod too quickly. When he leans in and brushes his lips against yours, it's like this is the first time you're ever doing this. You quiver when you taste yourself on him.
He smells like you.
He presses a chaste kiss on your temple, murmuring, “I'll be right back. Okay, honey?” before moving to the edge of the bed, securing on his prosthetic limb.
He returns with a damp towel and water. He sets the plastic bottle on his nightstand with a soft click. He climbs the bed, slowly crawling towards you, approaching like you're fragile and breakable.
“I'm gonna clean you up, baby.” He settles between your legs again, clinically wiping the dry and sticky patches — a shameless mix of his own spit and your own wetness. “We've made quite a mess on you.”
He tosses the cloth haphazardly to the floor once he’s done — joining the rest of your garments — and drags the thick duvet over your body until you’re trapped in solid comfort, tucking it under your armpits like you're a child. You can't help but track his every move, eyes following him, but can't get a word out of your mouth.
“Jack, get under the covers with me.”
“Do you want me to get a hair tie for you first?”
Your hand flies to your head, smoothing the frazzled strands down, “why, do they look bad?”
“No, you walnut. You don't like laying down with your hair open.”
“Oh. I don't care, right now. Get in or I'll cry.”
“Scarier threat than the cyber attack one,” he sincerely remarks, and shifts under the covers, gently guiding you down with him till you’re both lying on your side, facing each other. Your bare chests kiss, and you slide your thigh between his legs, tucking it securely there. Any thought of empty space between you is intolerable to your body.
Oh.
Shit.
This man dedicatedly made you cum after dismantling your insecurities, and made your head go vroom. And you're just now realizing that he's not made of stone.
Which is ironic since his cock feels like one, angrily touching your thigh, straining against his pants. You feel guilt washing over you, at your selfishness for not paying heed to his needs, lost only in your own.
He rubs the side of your ribs, soft, calming, up & down motions, “hey, where'd you go? I wasn't that good. Like an 8 out of 10, maybe,” he repeats your earlier talk, a smirk playing on his face.
“I'm okay,” you feebly say. And then more confidently, “I promise. I just need a minute to process, and then we're taking care of you.”
“Hold your horses, sunshine. You're the patient and your job is to rest. You may climb the doctor any other time.”
“The doctor deserves a thank you for his treatment.”
“Not when the patient looks like a wild animal.”
You sigh, “I just don't want you doing it alone now.”
“I'll make you watch if it makes you feel better. When was the last time you watched a good show?” He draws you in closer by the waist, warping you in his scent, pressing you even more firmly against him. Even liquid wouldn't be able to seep through the space between you right now. It coaxes an involuntary sigh of relief out of you.
However, your cheeks heat at his cocky words, and you pinch his bicep. He breaks out in a hearty laugh, watching you with enough adoration that you just might pass out. But you don't, because nothing bad can happen when he's here.
“Okay, go. What worked and what didn't? What can we do differently next time?” he asks, ready to search your eyes in case you lie. His pinky traces the curve of your spine, the comforting gesture making you drowsy in his arms.
“Everything was perfect.”
“This isn't a fanfiction, darling. Think about it. Anything.”
“How the hell do you know what that is?”
He decidedly ignores your insulting question, continuing with his line of interrogation “slower next time? Faster?”
“More next time.”
He hums, eyes lighting up, “needy girl.” His hand delivers a playful smack to your ass, squeezing affectionately before letting go. By that time, you’ve already dramatically gasped, slapping his chest right back.
“Names? The praise work for you?”
“Mhm,” your voice drops low and hesitant, “so did the insults.”
Jack's brows raise in pleasant surprise, “you like being my messy and needy girl? You like asking me to use your big girl words?”
“Maybe…”
“Another talk for us to have. God, aren't you the dream?” It surprises you the way he says it, not jokingly, but like he means it. Like you could actually be something someone he fantasises about. Your chest tightens.
“Hey.”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Your initials are J.A.”
“Yeah, not sure, but I kind of think it's because my name is Jack Ab —”
“Jackass,” you mumble, nodding your head thoughtfully at your new discovery. “J.A – Jackass,” you repeat, just in case he didn’t make the connection. Forget the fact that he bosses an entire floor of medical staff.
“Think I heard you the first time.”
“You're a Jackass.”
“What a thing to say to someone who just had his tongue in your —”
“My Jackass.”
Once again, you say something completely out of pocket, and frankly enough, stupid, but he still melts. Because despite the choice of your words — again — it's the affection behind them. It's the you behind them that catches him in the ribs, as if somebody knocked the air out of him, making him soft, pliable, and yours to mold.
“Okay, well, I definitely broke your brain. Go to sleep, princess,” he playfully shoves your face into the pillow. “Off to bed, kid.” And his favorite sound fills his room.
Your giggle.
Okay i hope yall had fun! I took a longass time to write, and as always, glaze all over me (kidding) (no im not) if you liked it. Not to mention, ALWAYS MENTION when one of my works either makes u blush or laugh. And also when.
Description: You and your new boyfriend haven't had sex yet. Though, getting drunk for the first time — and seeing your gorgeous boyfriend take care of you — awakens that dormant part. Or, you being a drunk mess trying to get him to fuck you, and him fighting his self-control.
Tags/warnings: Established rlsp, Drinking, r is drunk, lots of flirting, highly suggesting themes, lots of mentions of sex, huge age-gap (reader in 20's, abbott is 50), size difference, horniness lol, slight allusions to dom!jack, use of pet names: sweetheart, baby, honey (would u guys like "kid" lol?) (sorry, i have issues. i think.)
Note: This is my first fic, and i wrote it in one go. While I tried to make the reader very neutral in terms of characteristics — the fic is highly self-indulgent (i, too, am horny for abbott), and you may see some mentions of reading having hair, reader being in heels.
“I kind of want to get shitfaced.”
Jack did not turn to look at you. He just huffed into his cup of black coffee, held closely to his lips. The kind of black coffee that made you wrinkle your nose. You proudly liked yours with a bit of milk in it. Okay, a lot of milk. To the point, Jack called it a milkshake.
His eyes remained fixated at the screen of his phone, straining even with his reading glasses, to read the daily news on a bulletin app you downloaded on his phone.
“What about your policy against having fun, and letting yourself go for more than two minutes in a row?” Jack asks in his low voice, scratchy from the coffee. His eyes finally find yours, as he takes a slow sip from his cup. His eyebrows raise at you questioningly, holding your gaze.
Damn him and his gaze. Even after 6 weeks of dating — and pining for a lot longer than that — he sure could still make you feel like a puddle.
You're only able to speak once he turns to his phone again. “Uh, excuse you, I'm a very fun person, thank you very much. Yesterday, I put a fake ‘your computer is down’ screen on Shen's laptop,” you tell proudly.
“Dear god. He did not go into a cardiac arrest from your…prank?” Jack's voice caught on the word “prank” as if it deeply amused him.
You narrowed your eyes at your boyfriend (still hard to say that), shifting close enough to him on his couch that your knee knocked against his thigh. Your entire body faced him, while his faced the front — a tiny whine left your lips.
Jack turned his attention back to you as you spoke again. “You know it's the loss of control I hate. Don't you think I also feel like getting all loose-lipped and dancing on top of tables and flirting with strangers?”
His eyes softened a fraction when he saw the small frown on your lips. He sets his phone face-down on the arm of the couch, before shifting so his upper half faced you too. “Okay, what brings this on? You know I just like teasing, I don't think there's anything wrong with being an alcohol virgin.”
You rolled your eyes at his choice of words. “I want to know what it's like. It makes everyone so…” your hands do a weird dance in front of your chest, trying to find a proper word. Your attending swiftly moves his cup a bit to the left, so your hands wouldn't knock it all over yourself.
“Joyful,” you finished.
“Okay, but let's not dance on table tops and flirt with strangers,” he takes off his reading glasses and perches them next to his phone. When his eyes find you again, they're equal parts amused, and that softness that only seems to show up when you're in the room.
“I would never, I'd feel bad for giving you stress at your age.”
He lightly smacks your hip that's not smushed against the couch, “Brat.”
You grin widely, “You'll be there, right?”
“With a camera and a mic. My beautiful, sensible, nurse, looking like an absolute fool,” he tugged at a loose strand of your hair, his eyes shining with endearment.
Your little baby blue sling looks absolutely ridiculous hung over his shoulder. “What did I tell you before leaving?” His voice strains with the effort of all the workout he got in today. He's struggling with unlocking the door, because your purse keeps slipping down his arms.
You were a disaster. While your favourite doctor made sure you only stuck to fruity drinks that gave you a pleasant buzz and not regrets — you still managed to outdo yourself in terms of being a mess.
You challenged a man twice your size in an arm wrestle. You advised 3 different women to break up with their boyfriends, “Mine's handsome and kind. You guys stay safe, though.” And, finally, broke the heel of your left boot making you even more unbalanced than you already were.
“That Dr. Robby is a little shit with no self-preservation inst-”
“The other one, honey.”
You went silent for a moment, searching your hazy brain as the door opened in front of you. Jack gently guided you in, before locking the door with a sharp click. His rough hands sneak up your arms, tugging the jacket at your shoulders, and shrug it off you to safely hang it on his coat rack.
“That I shouldn't carry my bag if I couldn't keep it safe?” you say, looking down at him, as he sets his knee on the floor. His hands that cut and heal skin with such precision, are deftly working the zipper of your boots. He gently helps your feet out of the pair, patting your calf, before rising to his full height again with a groan.
Without your size boosters, your head was once again leveled with his chest. Jack nodded, leaning his head down so you didn't have to crane your neck as much.
“But I had my ID and pepper spray in there,” you justified, your lower lip jutting out in a pout.
Jack's hand pats the right-side pocket of his hands, “ID,” his voice rumbling as if coming straight from his chest. “And you don't need pepper spray. You have me.”
But you're not registering a word he says, not when he looks like this. His salt and pepper curls are all ruffled from your bar visit. His simple black tee is pulled taut across his biceps, making them look just as delicious as they do in his SWAT uniform.
His fingers snap in front of you, “Eyes up here, sweetheart.” You look in his honeyed eyes again. God, why haven't you guys had sex already? You seriously can't remember why.
“Why haven't we fucked?” You blurt out. Oh, the alcohol doesn’t make you Joyful. It makes you blunt.
Your boyfriend freezes for a second, before letting out a deep, throaty laugh. His hands settle on your shoulders. With a slight bend of his knees, he manages to stare completely and directly into your eyes. “Wow, thought we went to the bar, not to a seminar for clear communication.”
You capture both his hands and slide them down, so they're firmly on your hips. After humming in satisfaction, you take a step closer to him, your chest brushing his. “Answer me.”
As if suddenly realizing you both are still standing in the entryway, Jack starts walking you backwards, swiftly maneuvering you so you don't hit the kitchen counter. “I'm your attending, honey, I don't answer to you,”
You furrow your brows, staring up at him with irritation. You press yourself even closer to him, your palms settling on his hard stomach. “Like hell you don't. I want to know why me and my gorgeous boyfriend haven't made good use of every room in this too-big-for-you house.”
Jack sighs deeply, his fingers unconsciously tightening around your hips. He takes a seat on one of the low kitchen counter stools, so he doesn't have to keep looking down at you. His arms completely wrap around your waist, pulling you in until you're standing between the hard muscle of his thighs.
“Because we work at a hospital, we're either busy or tired. And…it's hard to find a footing with sex. You tense up whenever my hand slips under your shirt, you've talked about how insecure you get. And me…well, I'm not what I used to be.”
Your eyes soften, “But do you want me?” Your lips graze his jaw, your hands palming the hard plane of his chest.
Jack shifts in his seat and takes a deep breath, “What do you think, baby?” his right hand moves an inch lower with exaggerated slowness, settling on the top curve of your ass, his thumb stroking the curve.
You let out an entirely pathetic whimper at his breathy voice, his lips brushing your temple. You move back your face, so you can watch him again. His eyes look darker than they actually are.
“I see this as a good opportunity that we should seize, doctor.” His throat catches at the ‘doctor’. Oh, you are not a fair player.
“Well, I don't like my medical staff being inhibited. Perhaps, sometimes when you're horny and sober, we can continue the procedure.” His breaths are coming in shallow, his hard thighs squeezing around you to completely lock you in. His hands have not stopped moving, the one on your waist has moved north to tangle in your hair at the nape of your neck.
A petulant whine leaves your lips as you bury your mouth in the crook of his neck. “But-”
“No buts. I have no intention of being between your legs in a state you won't even remember anything in.” The rasp in his voice so close to your ear directly travels to the your belly, already coiling tight with tension.
The imagery makes you groan: His mouth working between your legs, his jaw shining under the dim lights, stopping for a moment to say, “Louder, baby. Your doctor can't hear you.”
Your lips slip from his neck, replaced by your forehead. His lips brush against your hair, the gentleness so different from what his body is suggesting.
“Kids and their hormones,” he teasingly says. That makes you pull yourself back. Because that's rich coming from a man whose pants are getting visibly tighter.
“Is that so, grandpa?” Your eyes are entirely fixated on his lips. Your own bottom lip has caught between your teeth.
His thumb comes up to free your lip so you don't hurt it, “Careful, brat.” His hand stays on your face, and you lean heavily into his palm, blinking at him. The strap of your top has conveniently fallen off from its place, and Jack is staring like a man who's just discovered shoulders, tracking the soft curve of it, following the slope of your neck, where your pulse thrums rapidly.
Leave it to him to have a gaze that weights at least a 300 pounds.
Your palms drop from his chest to his waist, brushing your fingers against the waistband of his pants. A soft “uh-uh” leaves his mouth as he slowly shakes his head, though he makes no move with his hands to push you away.
“You're palming at me like you're a little girl, and I'm your favorite barbie doll.”
“You are my favorite barbie doll, Dr. Abbott,” it leaves your mouth in a soft, needy, whine.
His shoulder shake slightly from laughter, the comforting rumble filling the room, subsequently reaching every tensed part of your body, and taking its place there too, perfectly fitting every crook and corner.
“I am a 50-year old man with a military background, who spends his nights managing an entire floor of medical staff. My day hobbies include being a buddy to SWAT and getting shot at.”
You look at him, as if to say “so?” and hearing the adoration — despite the choice of words — in your voice completely decentres him. “Glad to be your favourite barbie doll, honey.”
He finally freezes when your wandering palm brushes against the hard ridge in his pants, practically begging to be freed. You let out a little gasp as you feel his size, even with a barrier of rough fabric.
A low groan leaves him, his hand sharply capturing your bold wrist against his own chest, heaving up and down. For someone just talking about being 50, the man's heart is sure beating with a fast thump-thump-thump, like a teenage boy catching his crush in a 2-feet vicinity. Your name leaves his mouth, dirty and like a prayer at the same time.
“Let me help you, doctor. Please” you say sweetly, voice coated in silk and need and whatever poison this man mixed in your drinks.
A pause.
He gets off the stool in a sudden motion, his hands grip your forearms, and starts walking you backwards in the general direction of the bathroom.
“You are a pain in my ass. And, frankly, a horny mess.”
“Speaking of horny and my ass-”
He doesn't let you complete the sentence before turning you around, his broad chest hovering over your form from the back. “Nope. You have lost the privilege of looking at me before you've taken a cold shower.”
You tilt your head back to look at him, excitement glinting in your eyes, “together?”
“No, you pervert.” Your boyfriend opens the door to the bathroom and lets you both in. Before you can even complain, his rough palms are gripping the back of your thighs, swiftly lifting you up on the counter. You let out a little squeal, squeezing your thighs at the display of his strength.
Show-off.
So fucking hot, though. It's like he was made by Lana Del Rey's mind.
Jack doesn’t stop, though. He finds his way behind the glass that separates the shower from the rest of the bathroom. His practiced hands mess with the settings until he's satisfied, and comes back.
He stands in front of you again, crossing his arms over his chest. His muscles strain at the motion, trying to escape their way from the tight shirt. You pout at his slut-ishness. A walking, talking, thirst trap. If he was an actor, he would surely have his fare share of editors.
“How am I supposed to not get wet when you manhandle me?”
“Jesus,” he mumbles, pressing the heel of his palms into his eyes to lull some of his composure back into him. He silently thanks his military discipline, or you would currently be spread on the soft sheets of his bed, waking up his neighbours.
He takes a deep breath, eyes scanning you again. His fingers come up to pinch your chin in a soft embrace, “Shower. Clean. Mind and body both. And then, we will sleep. Got it?”
Heat pools low in your belly at his authoritative voice. God, how did you land this man?
“Sir, yes, sir.” You watch his gaze get heavy at the word. He leaves his hold on your chin, pats your hip, and exits the bathroom.
Guess you know what you'll be calling him, when he finally lets you do what your body is begging you to do.
You find him on his bed, wearing only a pair of low hung worn-out sweatpants. His back is slumped against the pillows, fingers locked behind his head as he stares at the ceiling.
He finally looks at you, crawling on his king-sized bed, trying to make your way over to him. It seems the shower un-possessed you. You look soft, sleepy, tired, and utterly his.
He holds out his arm and you immediately curl up into him, your icy-cold nose finding the hollow of his neck. “Hold me,” you murmur.
“One second, honey.” Before he can properly embrace you, he pulls up the thick duvet and arranges it to cover both of you. His left arm is trapped under your body, fingers pressing against the small of your back to pull you closer. His other hand brushes the hair back from your face, watching your heavy eyelids.
“There you are,” he softly rumbles before pressing the softest, most lingering kiss on your temple. A low sigh of satisfaction leaves you. You're still inhibited, but the tiredness has caught up.
“You didn't like the freaky me?” You ask, your jaw cracking with a yawn right after.
“I like every-you, unfortunately. It's a weakness in the ED.” His fingers are still moving in your hair, scratching your scalp in a way that turns your brain to mush. You push your face even deeper in his neck. Hell, you would live inside his ribcage if he ever allowed it.
You let out a soft giggle, hiking your thigh over his hip so no part of you is separate from him. “Can we have a proper conversation about sex tomorrow?”
Your boyfriend murmurs a “yes, baby,” against your forehead.
“Okay, goodnight. Gonna have some good wet dreams.”
“Shut up, and go to sleep, sweetheart.”
If anybody even reads this, and ends up liking it - pls feel free to glaze me in comments, asks, or dms. likes and reblogs appreciated as well <3 also, do yall think im funny?
Description: Alexa, play ‘manchild’ by Sabrina. Or, 3 times Jack notices the incompetency of your new boyfriend and gets annoyed, and 1 time he does something about it.
Tags/warnings: big age gap (r is in 20's and abbot is 50), "ive got tattoos older than you" gets said, yes he has tats bcos i said so, size diff, mentions of concussion, medical inaccuracies (idk shit), (1) allusion to reader having a choking kink (💀), r has a used to have a massive crush on him, made ellis a lesbian bcos ofc, abbot life's goal is to make fun of r's bf, flirting (so much), bit of yearner!jack & dom!jack vibes, gets dialogue heavy at the end, angsty fights & confessions, suggestive themes, mentions of sex, sexual innuendos, i use loads of em dashes (dont even compare me to chatgpt bcos im better), pet names: kid, kiddo, sweetheart
Note: tysm for the love on my first ff, it means the world to me. Writing something longer made me lose all objectivity, and I genuinely cannot tell if it's good or great or whatever. Please give me feedback (PERSONALLY). Again, I tried to keep r neutral but you might see mentions of r having hair.
Enjoy. This is for the ones with a competency kink. And for the ones who def wanted him to call you “kid.” and the ones who love silver foxes (get checked) (ur girl incl)
1
“I told him not to take me here,” you mutter to Jack, who's checking for tenderness in your neck, his thick fingers pressing against the side, while you try not to think of his hands on your neck in a very different context.
“Let him. Something the boy can do right, hm?”
After checking for initial symptoms — making you walk in a straight line, and balancing yourself on a single foot, you're subjugated to the very hands-on physical examination. You're suddenly wondering how other patients remain composed when Dr. Abbot touches them like this.
Well, usually, attending physicians don't do a history check or a physical exam, but this one does. For you. Probably because you're his staff.
Focus.
You clock into the reality, realizing the dig he made at your “boy.”
“Yeah, she didn't wanna come, I kinda dragged her here. I was like, ‘babe, it may just be a light concussion but you're a nurse, not a doctor’ so, like, thanks, doc. We needed the big guns,” proudly speaks Noah standing against the wall, checking time on his phone for the 5th time since you've been in this room.
Jack's jaw tightens and he shoots him a look so dirty, Noah actually takes a step back.
“Watch it, kid, if it wasn't for nurses, American healthcare would be even fuckin’ worse.”
Abbot looks back at you, and raises an eyebrow as if to say “really? him?”
You should speak up in your boyfriend's defense, something — anything — to wipe that perceptive look on Jack's face, the smugness he isn't trying hard enough to hide. You might as well be in your birthday suit right now, for how bare you feel. How bare you always feel in his presence.
God knows how much you'd actually like to be — no, you have a boyfriend. A perfectly handsome, competent, and a caring one.
Handsome. Not rugged.
Competent. Doubtful.
Caring. Well, caring enough.
“Doctor Abbot…” you begin, voice stripped raw, breath coming uneasy, when his index brushes right over your thrumming pulse.
“Focus on the examination. Tsk, thought we taught you better here. Well, I at least did. Don't you agree, nurse?”
The air leaves your mouth in a little puff, leaving your throat dry, your lips soon following. You need a glass of —
“Need some water? You've been here a while,” Jack asks, tone becoming gravelly and intimate, eyebrows drawing closer seeing how pale you look.
He immediately turns to Noah — hands leaving your neck — without waiting for a response from you. His voice takes on its normal cadence. “Hey, son, grab her a bottle, would you? Vending machine is at the end of the corridor. Thanks.”
His ‘Thanks’ comes out in a slow drawl that makes you squirm in your seat.
Your attending has not even fully turned back to you yet, when your partner speaks up, “Uh, bottle of what?”
“A Pinot Noir, perhaps. Which one do you prefer?” His eyes find yours again, brows raising in deep amusement. Is he getting a kick out of humiliating your boyfriend — and by extension, you?
“Uh…” noah looks utterly confused. You feel almost bad for him. Almost.
“Water, son. Get your girl a bottle.” Noah makes a move to leave, complying immediately to the doctor. Has he ever even listened to you so quickly? God, men are such dicksuckers for each-other.
“A chapstick while you're at it, maybe,” Jack mutters, trying to keep the humour out of his voice. Noah stops in his tracks again, clearly deaf to the sarcasm.
Jack huffs. “Just go.”
You honestly don't understand why he dislikes Noah so much. You've only been dating him for 3 weeks.
Well.
Noah did try to make a “romantic” gesture by coming to pick you up from your shift. Except, he arrived an hour early as a “surprise” and cribbed because you couldn't leave early. And he did just undervalue your job as a nurse. And…of course, an hour ago, he accidentally hit you your head with a football while he was showing attempting a trick.
As Noah leaves, Jack lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Don't worry, I'll get you a chapstick,” he says, staring shamelessly at your trembling bottom-lip before making a slow way up again.
“Penlight. Incoming.”
You've barely had time to react when a sudden light shone in your eyes. Your face instinctively tries to move back, only to be stopped by a feather-light touch on your jaw. Jack's finger retracts as soon as it comes, leaving you starved for more. More than just the pad of his index.
You hold still for him, letting him sway the torch alternatively between your eyes. When the light is kept back with a soft clink, there are no more distractions as he stands up straight again.
The creases in his scrubs only increase when he folds his arms over his chest.
“So.” You mutter, your gaze trying to find something interesting on the floor.
“Nick seems like a good guy.”
“Noah.”
“Right. We should thank Nick for bringing you here right on time. Wouldn't wanna lose one of our best nurses.”
You scoff at his words. Your feet are moving in a slow back and forth rhythm, your eyes fixated on them.
“Let's not say things we don't mean for good staff satisfaction scores.”
“If you're trying to insult me by implying I care about that shit, good job. I'm slightly more offended than the time you implied I am too old for karaoke." He's slightly rocking himself back and forth on the balls of his feet.
“Didn't imply, actually. I think I was pretty direct.”
A huff of laughter leaves his lips. You don't want huffs or sarcastic laughs. You want his full belly-laugh. His happy laugh that you've only seen Robby drag out of him.
“I don't care about staff satisfaction scores,” he lightly shakes his head for a moment.
“Yes, you just sai —”
“Only care about yours.”
That makes you look up at him again with widened eyes and parted lips. Little shit, off-handedly throwing around words that gives you butterflies.
Dead butterflies, of course, just like your affections on him. Former crush. Yes.
You quickly regain your senses to retort.
“Satisfaction with your services? If so, thank you for checking me for a concussion.” The formality in your words completely betray the flush creeping up your cheeks.
“Of course, what else?” You hate the way he says your last name. The way it rolls off his tongue. The way it reeks of intent, and not casualty.
The sharp noise of metal rings dragging across a rod brings you out of your trance. Nic — Noah emerges from behind the privacy curtain, a bottle of water clutched in his right hand, and a simmering cup of black coffee in left. “Got you choices, babe.”
You smile thankfully at him, perhaps more grateful for the distraction. You extend your hand, your pointer gesturing at the water. You don't feel the same electricity when Noah's fingers brush against yours in the hand-off.
Jack takes a step back. He nods at you. “Rest. Hydrate. You know it.”
"Mhm, no big brain activity, limited screen time, don't avoid if symptoms worsen."
"Impressive. How does a civvie like you know the drill?" he asks, eyes widening in mock-surprise.
"Oh, I'm very smart. Could've easily been a nurse at your hospital," you can't help but smile.
"Shame. I'm sure you would've been terrific."
He nods at your boyfriend next, “Nick.”
“Uh, it's actually Noa —” but Jack's right hand has already caught the edge of the curtain, swiftly pulling it out of his way, and disappearing shortly after.
“She prefers lattes, by the way.”
2
Bzzzzzzz
“Doctor Ellis, I didn't know you allowed your staff to bring phones in a trauma bay. I would've brought mine to play some music while we inserted a chest tube inside this man.”
Ellis only grunts, too focused on work at hand.
Your cheeks heat at Doctor Garcia's comment, feeling the loud buzz against your thigh for the nth time today.
“I'm sorry — ” you had only just begun when Dr. Abbot's voice cut in, deadpan and dry.
“Yolanda, you listen to music?”
“Doesn't everyone?”
“Yeah, well, normal people do. Why?”
Garcia's sharp glare to the attending does nothing to his demeanor. His hands — controlled, precise, and so fucking practiced — don't stop for even a fraction of a second.
“Not everyone can have eccentric hobbies like nude yoga, Dr. Rabbit.”
Nude yoga? Nude? You force your mind to not conjure up an image of that. Especially not with your attending — who you have used to have a schoolgirl crush on — as the main character. Or, you'll be the one on the operation table instead of observing, breaking out in hives.
“I'm sorry, Dr. Garcia,” you complete.
“Apologise to the man on the table; It's not my life on line. No matter how much I wish whenever I work with you boy scouts.” You always cringe at the bluntness in her tone, but it's worse when directly aimed at you.
“Easy, Garcia,” Jack commanded, tone instantly gaining its authority, pausing a moment to shoot her a look. Yolanda doesn't deter, and two of your most-respected, highly-competent seniors seem to engage in a silent eye-conversation. It ends with a twitch of Garcia's lips as she glances at you, and your attending muttering, “shut it.”
Huh, Strange.
***
The biohazard bin shuts with a snap, and you rub your clammy hands, trying to get the feel of rubber gloves off them. Trauma bays are always stress-inducing, no matter —
Bzzzzzzzzz.
You're about to kill someone tonight. It's gonna be your boyfriend. And you're gonna enjoy it. And you're gonna go online, talk about it, and watch a number of supportive women tell you, “I support your rights, but also your wrongs. You go, bitch.”
The constant vibration against your thigh, the baby crying in pedes, and looking like a fool in a trauma bay…you heave a sigh. Has the ED always been so bright? It's like the lights are directly in your eyes.
You hate loud. So much.
You un-pocket your phone, letting it unlock before you start typing furiously, your mouth instinctively murmuring everything you're typing. Your feet carry you forward, muscle memory taking you to a quiet corner, where you can peacefully argue. And bang your head against the wall, if you're lucky. But you're not sure if there's a staff discount at The Pitt. And frankly, you're already struggling with rent and groceries.
Look at you being fiscally responsible.
“Fuck, sorry,” leaves your mouth as soon as you accidentally collide with someone. A single calloused palm settles on your hip, steadying you.
Your lips part to say something, but no words come out. It seems the entirety of blood in your body has rushed towards your hip to greet Dr. Abbot's hand, before it retracts.
“Been apologising a lot today. Forgot your training or have you rejoined pre-school?” His body moves to your front, effectively blocking the view of rapid-paced staff, and people in wheelchairs and gurneys.
“Just…one rookie mistake after another.” Your body sags sideways, taking support of the wall. As if on instinct, his posture mirrors yours, his entire side leaning against the wall as well. You deposit your phone back in your pocket.
“For what it's worth, you started out not too long ago. You are, technically, still a rookie,” he speaks.
In this slow corner, the lights seem dimmer and noise quieter. Your shoulders drop just a bit. You're not sure if it's the location or him. Your bet is on location.
You wonder how you must look to the others, a junior nurse and the person with the most seniority on this floor, tucked away in a hushed hallway. What would they think of you? Certainly not co-workers.
Your lips curl in a tired, soft smile. “Trying to make me feel better again, sir?”
“Trying to tell you trauma surgeons have a permanent stick up their ass. Shen and I have bets on whether she lives in an ice castle or a secluded cave.”
Your smile grows bigger, and his eyes crinkle. “It's not just her. In fact, I admire women with a mean mouth.”
“Only women?”
“Men already are. I can't think of any situations where they'd need to be more mean.”
“I can think of a few,” his voice dips even lower, rocks coated in honey. Your eyes find the fluttering pulse on his throat, and travel up his face, to find his gaze fixated on your lips. He looks up again. Slowly. Not in a rush.
In this low-lit corner and his head tilted down to adjust to your height, his curls — salt and pepper and presumably soft — brushed his forehead, creating shadows across his face.
You clear your throat, trying to erase some of the tension. “It's Noah. You met him the other day, if you haven't forgotten."
“Oh, I tried.”
You click your jaw, “He's a nice guy, sir.”
“Uh-huh. Is he blowing up your phone? What's wrong?” His brows furrow in concern, and you find his worry comforting. You're about to open your mouth to explain —
“Did he forget his Roblox password?”
You slightly shake your head, looking down at his shoes. “You…Dr. Abbot,” you trail off, looking up at him again to see the corner of his mouth twitching, eyes wide as if he's seriously expecting an answer.
“How do you even know what that is? And no, that's not it. He…sprained his ankle, hewasdoingaparkourjump,” you mumble the last part as quickly as you can, cheeks heating and eyes wandering.
Jack pauses, expression caught somewhere between humour and exasperation, “Wow, didn't know your boy was still in middle school. Tell me, were you trying to find a boyfriend or a son?”
You throw your head back, a light groan escaping your mouth. While you rub your eyes, you feel your attending move. After a second, he has a bottle of water in his hand.
You give him a look of gratitude and hold your fingers out. But before passing it to you, he twists off the cap with ease. For a moment, you let yourself enjoy the sight of his biceps straining against his scrub top.
You empty almost half the bottle, throat working the liquid down, flushed under the heavy gaze of the man standing in front of you who is currently shamelessly oggling your neck. He's quick to take the bottle off your hands once you're done.
You mutter a quiet “Thanks.” He holds out his free hand forward. You shoot him a confused look, your fingers come up, hovering centimeters away from his palm.
Does he want you to hold…?
“Your phone, nurse.”
Your eyes blink, realisation creeping with a smudge of cringe, “Oh, that makes more sense. Yeah.” But the embarrassment is quick to vanish when you think about what he said.
“What? No. I feel naked without my phone on me.”
His eyes drop to your chest the moment the word “naked” leaves your mouth. You're not sure you've stopped blushing in the last 2 minutes.
“You're not a teenager.”
“Well, I love my phone like one,” you defensively say, standing up straighter. Your right hand moves towards your pocket to protect your mobile.
Abbot rumbles your last name like a warning, his husky voice settling low in your belly, and your traitorous hand is fishing the phone out without a conscious thought.
Before you can even hand it to him, he slightly bends, prying it out of your fingers.
“Now, I feel like a teenager,” you pout.
He uses her corner of your phone to tap against your nose, “Then don't make me go all authoritative on you again, kid.”
With that, he pockets your phone and walks away. You watch him twist the cap off the bottle again and drink directly from the mouth of it. The mouth you just had your own lips wrapped around.
Kid.
You need a chair.
3
“Okay, instead of using this job as an excuse for a sad dating life, how about you guys just admit…y'all got no game,” Mateo knocks back the last sip of his drink, making this very, very bold claim.
“First of all, nobody was talking about dating life. We were talking about sex. Forget dates, when was the last time any of you got laid?” Ellis asks, using her glass to gesture vaguely around the table, a few droplets falling on the wood.
Your shift was hell. Well, everyone's was. Really, every shift is hell, so this one was no different. The only thing was that today, everyone decided to grab a drink. Not in the nearest park, no. Instead, they're all here, the nearest bar that's open at a time when a person should be doing a morning walk, not shots.
You're tucked between Mateo on your left and Jack on your right, in a worn-out brown leather booth, with Shen and Ellis across the table.
“I don't feel comfortable talking about the personal details of my married life with my colleagues,” replied Shen, sadly nodding his head.
Jack's voice, raspy from his whiskey, cuts in, “Oh, shut it, Shen.”
“I'd say 6 weeks since we slept together,” Shen gave up quickly. A series of sympathetic groans and nods went around the table.
Mateo juts his chin towards Ellis, raising his brows. “Hooked up with someone last week. Left before she woke up,” replied the woman.
“Didn't know you were a player, doc,” laughs your fellow nurse, before his head turns to you. “And you? Come on, we're the youngest and hottest, we gotta rub it in their faces. Besides, you have, uh, what's his name...”
You laugh nervously, tracing the rim of your glass with your index. While everyone’s lazy and heavy-lidded all around, you feel Abbot's fervent gaze burning a hole into the side of your head.
“Noah. And hate to disappoint, but it's been some while,” you admit. Not being able to hold back any longer, you finally turn your head to the right. Not taking his eyes off you, your attending takes a long sip of his whiskey.
“How much is a while?”
This is inappropriate. Your attending physician shouldn't be asking you this, you're sure of it. But nobody but you looks alarmed.
“I would say…none of your business, doc,” you softly murmur, the liquid courage making your tongue sharper.
“And what about you Dr. Abbot?” Mateo jumps in again.
It's your turn to look at Jack with the same intense gaze. He doesn't take his eyes off you, “been a while for me too,” he mutters so low, like he's only referring to you.
You lose. You lose the staring contest and let your eyes fall back to your glass. Thank god, you have some of your drink still left.
“Why, is it…old man stuff?” Mateo asks, and your eyes widen at his question. You bite the inside of your cheek to hold back your laugh. Ellis's rich chuckle fills the quiet bar. You finally bring your cup to your lips.
“I'm an attending, Mateo. We're always at the very top of our performance. Here to serve well. In or out of trauma bays.”
Your drink goes down the wrong pipe, and you break out into a violent cough. Why would he say it like that? You're pretty sure you look like a tomato.
You feel a strong hand on your back, beginning to rub small circles through the thin fabric of your shirt. “Easy,” Jack whispers into your right ear.
Is nobody watching this?
You look around to see Shen, Ellis, and Mateo have deeply engrossed themselves in a completely different conversation. You wonder for a second if it's intentional.
His heavy hand stops rubbing, instead patting the small of your back softly and rhythmically. Your coughs start dying down, and you wipe the underside of your watery eyes with your knuckle.
“Have trouble swallowing, kiddo?” His voice is right next to your ear, every breath rustling a tiny bit of your hair.
Oh. Oh. OH.
“Think I need some air, sir,” you mutter, voice dried. You feel floaty, and it has nothing to do with alcohol.
Jack rises from his seat with a low grunt, “Think we're gonna step outside for a moment,” he announces.
You quickly follow suit and walk out after him before you can see anyone's expressions. You're pretty sure you hear Shen's giggle.
***
You welcome the morning chill that greets your face as soon as you step out, double doors falling shut behind you. You close your eyes, tilting your head upwards, and take a deep breath, easing the night's tension out of your body.
“Hot date yesterday?” You're quickly brought back to reality, turning sideways. Abbot has his hands in pocket and hair ruffled from the wind.
“Oh, uh, yes. How'd you guess?”
“You clocked in yesterday wearing something…different.” His eyes drop to your chest, before lingering on your lips, and then meeting your eyes again.
Your cheeks burn. You didn't realise he saw you in your fancy clothes. It was bad enough that you were running late, and worse that you didn't get to change before clocking in with your date outfit still on.
“Yeah. Noah took me to dinner. I just signed a new lease. I'm moving out of my current dumphole to another dumphole, but it's nearer to work. So.”
“Congratulations, glad to have you close.”
“Thanks, sir.”
A comfortable silence falls over for a minute before he speaks again, “was the place nice and quiet?”
“Hm?”
“Where he took you. Nick.”
“Ah. No. It's kinda trendy right now, so, super loud…” you trail off with a sigh. Jack keeps looking at you, as if wanting you to say more, as if finally expecting you to spill the truth out: Noah doesn't know you.
“Hm. Didn't peg you for a gold person, either.”
“What?”
He gestures with his chin towards your neck, where a sliver of chain is peeking out from under your shirt. A new one, gold colored, gifted by your boyfriend yesterday.
“I'm an anything person, really.”
Jack doesn't say anything, only waits. And this time, it works.
“Well, silver, if I had to pick. I like silver,” you speak, your voice bordering on a whisper.
Jack finally stops looking at you, and with that, you finally breathe. He casts his gaze towards the sky.
“I know.”
He says your name.
Your first name that he rarely says. Your heart stutters. Every bit of fresh air you inhaled seems to leave your lungs all at once. Instead, a family of butterflies — so fucking alive — have swarmed in there, rendering you speechless.
Please say my name again.
“I know, kid.”
“I'm not a kid, Jack.” For a second, you watch his eyes get darker. He takes a step closer to you. Then another.
You crane your neck to look up at him. Suddenly, he turns his back to you. One of his hands peeks from his side, and tugs at the lower back of his shirt, pushing it down by an inch or two.
You stand confused, until you notice faint black ink — now visible — just below his neck. You suck in a sharp breath.
By the time Jack turns towards you again, you're barely holding yourself up. He leans forward, his nose only inches away from yours.
“I've got tattoos older than you,” he breathes, “kiddo.”
Your knees turn to jelly. A sharp heat travels straight into your belly, increasing the buzz between your legs. Your lips part, teeth sinking into your plush lower lip.
You can only numbly turn your body towards the door as he holds it open for you. There's not a hint of teasing or smugness in his expression. There is something else, though.
Desperation.
You walk in through the gate, mind already trying to think of a reason to break up with Noah. Unfortunately, or fortunately, it finds plenty.
+1
“Oh, honey, just take this right now. The doctor has told your mom the rest. You're gonna be just fine!” You give your brightest smile to the 6 year-old girl, looking all sad and tiny on the gurney.
You stand up straight again, your back protesting. For someone still “young”, you definitely have an old-person back.
The mom gives you a thankful smile that still doesn't hide her tiredness, “Thank you so much.”
“She's gonna be alright, mom.” You flash one last smile and turn to pull the privacy curtain. When you step out, you see Lena, your charge nurse, and Jack in a conversation at the charge nurse station.
Lena calls out to you, “All done in there, hun?” You nod and give a thumbs-up. You expect your attending to say something, a joke, or even glance at you, but he doesn't.
Your heart sinks. After the morning at the bar, you went home and planned how to break-up with your boyfriend. On the other hand, Jack apparently went home and came up with, “10 ways on how I will ignore my co-worker who I occasionally flirt with on purpose.”
For the past week, there have been no lingering looks, no cornering you to check in, and no making fun of you.
No point in dwelling. You start going on about your usual business, entering through another curtain, all while the back of your mind still calculates how to leave Noah.
You had prepared your speech and your reasons. But then, Noah lost his job the same day you were planning to have the talk. And 2 days later, he was leaving to visit his parents in California. Shouldn't you just wait until after the trip? It will be so much easier.
Yes, you're definitely delaying it because it makes sense, and not because you're scared that Noah will absolutely take it the wrong way. He's been miserable lately as is, and while you were trying to be sympathetic, you couldn't find it in yourself.
Noah had always been unobservant and insensitive to your needs, not doing anything till he's told. All while, he expected it all from you — emotional support, moral support, and now, financial support. You saw nothing wrong with being “needy” but didn't you deserve the same treatment from him?
As you leave another exam room, still conflicted, you see Lena waving you over, the telephone receiver pressed against her ear. You quickly walk over.
Lena brings down the handset, palming the mouthpiece so the other person can't hear. “Sweets, it's your boyfriend, he's all panicking over something. Do you wanna take this, or should I make an excuse?”
The color from your face drains. This is humiliating, Noah calling at your work because he can't take care of himself. You quickly un-pocket your phone, tapping the screen awake.
9 missed calls from Noah.
“Uh, I'll take it. Thank you, Lena. Sorry too.” She gives you a sympathetic smile and hands you the handset.
“Noah, you can't be calling me at work.” You whisper into the mouthpiece.
“Babe, did you think I wanted to? I called your phone like 3 times, but you didn't pick it up. It feels like you're ignoring me.”
“It's because I am ignoring you. I am at a fucking hospital, working the emergency department,” your voice is straining with the effort to keep it low.
“Oh, I knew you'd throw your job in my face because I'm unemployed. You're a nurse, not a doctor, babe. See, I remember things.”
You take a deep breath.
“What do you want?”
“I locked myself out of my house. The locksmith will come by in the morning. Can you swing by and drop your keys? You know, I lost my license recently, and my ankle is still not good enough to take the subway.”
“No.”
“Jesus, I'm stranded, just be a good girlfriend for once.”
That sends you over the edge. You put the telephone down with more than necessary force, cringing when a few people turn to look at you.
“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, tears of frustration welling up in your eyes.
“You okay, kid?” Lena asks sweetly, coming to stand closer to you. You're only able to nod at her. If you open your mouth, your voice will break. When your charge nurse finally steps away, you clear your throat, and blink back your tears.
When you look up with clear eyes, there's Dr. Abbot standing about 20 feet away from you, in a conversation with a nurse that he's not listening to. Because he's looking directly at you.
You quickly move your head, “Lena, mind if I take 5?”
“Take 10, hun.” You flash her a grateful smile and start walking towards the supply closet.
You twist the doorknob and walk into what must be a 6×6 feet room, and close the door behind you. Your phone is still in your hand, clutched tightly enough to be used as a weapon. You open Noah's chat.
This isn't working out. When the locksmith figures out your door, pack my things in a box and leave them outside my door. Have fun folding your own bedsheets. I'm changing my Netflix password!
Your thumb hovers over the send button. Is the message too unkind? Too cruel for you? You drop the phone in your pocket, with the text still sitting there.
You force yourself to take deep breaths, pressing the heel of your hands against your eyes, turning around to face the organized racks.
“Fuck, fuck, fuc —”
The door slams open, and then shuts behind you, making you jump around, your hands falling to your chest.
“Jesus, Jack.”
“Did you forget your manners?” His voice comes out stern, low enough to drop the temperature of the room.
Your hands fall to your side. You're not in the mood for this. You don't want him in here, no matter how quickly your body is gaining color in his presence.
“What do you want, sir?” your question comes out breathless.
“You know, we pay you to work, not to hide in supply closets when you have fights with your childish boyfriend.”
“I asked Lena first, and I should be out in 5.”
“A patient can need you in 1,” he deadpans.
“Good thing there's Mateo and a bunch of fucking nurses already out there! I'm not the only one, sir,” you frantically wave your hands around, voice rising in pitch.
“Yeah, you're the only one yelling at your attending,” he leans back against the door, looking like he's enjoying a goddamn show. His calm pisses you off even more.
In your frazzled state, the true words spill out before you can filter them.
“Yes, my attending who has spent the last couple of days icing me out, keeping his distance, like I broke into his house and stole his leg.”
He's eyeing your motioning hands cutting through the air. You must look like the crazy one, while he stands there all frickin’ composed, his lips twitching.
“That's dark. And I'm your attending, nurse, as you mentioned. I'm not your boyfriend,” he shakes his head slowly like he's talking to a dog.
“I know that. Do you?”
“Oh, I know I'm not Nick,” he snickers.
“FOR THE LAST —” your voice booms throughout the small room before you stop yourself. You pinch your nose, chest heaving up and down.
Deep breaths. In and out. You're not the only two people in the hospital, no matter how much it feels like that.
Nurse, there's people that are dying.
“For the last time, his name is Noah,” you calmly say, voice shaking with the effort of controlling your pitch.
“Right, sorry. I just forgot because he forgot to fill his name out on your discharge papers when he brought you in. It's okay, children make mistakes like that all the time. Even when the forms are very easy to navigate, and the font size is very large,” Jack mocks, laughing sardonically.
“Why do you care so much?”
“Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart. I care about all my staff.”
Sweetheart.
“You're killing me.”
“Trauma bay 1 is empty,” he deadpans, shrugging his shoulders.
A humorless laugh escapes you. Oh, he thinks he's so funny.
“Staff. Is that what I am? Then why do you look at me differently than you look at others? Why do you catch me in the hallways? Why are you always seeking me out? Why have you not walked out of this —”
You flinch at the sudden motion, hand moving towards your temple where something just knocked against it. You look down, where a box maybe twice the size of your hand, lies on the ground.
The rack behind you is still vibrating from when your right arm collided with it 2 seconds ago. You shouldn't have been waving your arms around so much.
“Ow,” you mutter, the heel of your impacted hand rubbing your temple, and eyes downcasted at the box, looking at it like it personally wronged you. Which it did.
Jack quickly moves towards you, his left hand shooting up to take hold of your fingers that are kneading your head — same fingers that smashed against the rack — and brings your conjoined hands down.
“Careful. Are you hurt?” With only inches between you, he bends his head down to examine where you took the hit. His free palm brushes your hair back gently, and you shiver at the touch of his warm skin.
Trapped between your torsos, your hands are still joined, his thumb stroking against your knuckles to soothe any pain you felt on the impact.
“I asked you something, kid.”
You've lost your voice. You look from your connected fingers to his eyes.
And, oh.
His eyes have softened, looking at you with concern. This man sees lacerations, head traumas, hematomas, and fractures every single day. You've never seen him look this worried, and all for a pathetic clash that didn't even leave a bruise behind.
He switches positions with you, and suddenly, his back faces the shaky rack, his form protectively towering over yours. All of your body protests when he moves back, his hands dropping to his own sides.
“You can continue yelling at me now.”
In and out. Deep breath.
“Why have you not walked out of this room yet? And why have you kept me at an arm's distance?” you say but your voice is anything but loud, it's small and quiet, breaking at the end.
“As I said —”
“Stop, stop, stop. Stop, Dr. Abbot, and don't lie to me.” You instinctively take a step forward, closing all the distance again.
A pause.
“I really thought you were gonna break up with him. That morning, I thought you finally regained your senses, and were gonna cut off the dead weight,” he admits, running a hand through his hair.
“Jac —”
“Shut up and let me speak. I thought you were gonna end it with him, and you would come to the next shift looking happy and bright again. Just like you used to before you let that boy date you. You.”
His eyes are boring into yours, and he looks breathless and affected, so opposite to how he was just a minute ago.
“Me? What about me?”
He laughs humourlessly, “let's not fish for compliments. You know what you are. And if you don't, it makes me wonder what kind of limpdicks you have been with.”
You suck in a sharp breath, at a loss of words. Your cheeks burn, and your heart does a backflip.
He thinks that?
Jack turns around, so his back is facing you. Both his hands brush his hair back, and you can see the expansion and contraction of his back as he takes deep breaths.
“What if I had broken up? Nothing would've changed. It's not like you would've done anything. You would've continued to eye-fuck me across gurneys, and flash a smile once a day,” you speak up, voice rising in pitch again.
He turns back sharply, walking even closer to you, his chest colliding with yours.
“Oh, you know it's more complicated than that,” he retorts, eyes narrowing.
“What? You're my senior, you're older —”
He says your name. Low. Authoritative. You feel a traitorous sensation between your thighs.
“I'm not just older, I am old. Period. And I know just how old I am, because I feel it everyday when I strap my leg, and wake up with a new pain every day."
You don't know how to respond. Your gaze falls to his lips, and before you know what you're doing, you're withdrawing your phone from your pocket.
You take a tiny step back to make space, and tap your screen awake. It directly opens to Noah's chat, your message still sitting there in the type box.
You turn your screen towards Jack. His eyes move back and forth, reading your draft. When his eyes meet you again, they're intense, frantic, and what do you know…excited.
“Why haven't you sent it?”
“Because he's already going through a lot. He doesn't have a job, or a car, or…okay, I get it.”
Jack's fingers come up to grab your chin, holding it up. He looks like he's just had a shot of espresso and topped it off with another 3.
“Do it. Do it right now, in front of me, or you'll chicken out. He lost his job, his car, the next thing he loses is you. The one that's worth the most.”
With his breathless voice, taking the edge of desperation as every second ticks, you know you've lost. You bite your bottom lip.
His thumb moves from your chin, to your lower lip, freeing it from your teeth, “don't worry yourself over him.”
Deep breath. In and out.
You slowly look down at your screen, your thumb hovering over the little arrow.
Send.
You put the mobile back in your pocket and look up at Jack with hope, like a kid waiting for approval. Jack flashes you the biggest smile you've ever seen on him.
You did that. You.
“You did so good, sweetheart,” his thumb strokes your cheekbone, and you can't help but lean into his palm. You're high watching him smile, a similar one takes form on your lips.
He's so beautiful. He's the most beautiful man you've ever seen. He should be on TV, winning Emmy's for his grin.
But then you falter, “My…my minutes are up.”
“You can take another 5,” his face leans closer, and the tip of your nose kisses his.
“Patient might need me in 1,” you helplessly whisper, your breaths mingling.
“Well, consider me a patient, then. Your patient.”
You gulp. Your knees are growing weaker by the second and you can't stop staring at his soft lips. You let out a little pathetic whimper before lifting your chin, brushing your lips against his softly.
Fuck.
Your heart tries to escape your ribcage, palm operating with a brain of its own and landing right over his heart. His fluttering, excited, nervous heartbeat greets you, and your lips curve upwards.
Just as you try to move your lips against his —
“Not like this,” he murmurs against your mouth.
You let out an entirely pathetic whine, forehead crashing against his neck with a soft thunk. Your affectionate graze on his sternum turns into a punch — also, pathetic — and it makes him chuckle.
“How, then?” your mutter into his neck.
His arm comes around your waist, holding you up for him so you can let your weight go. His arm tightens as soon as he feels you melt.
“When I'll get you all the silver jewelry in the world,” he breathily replies in your ear.
“That's a lot.”
“What can I say? I like paying for things.”
His free fingers travel to the back of your neck, deftly working the hook of your golden chain with a single hand. You catch as the necklace falls down your chest, reluctantly taking your face out from his neck.
Note to self: Ask him what perfume he uses later.
“One hand, wow.”
“A lot of things I can unhook with one hand.”
He captures your wrist that you've held against his chest — index hatefully scratching, trying to harm him for not kissing you — and brings it to his lips.
He doesn't break eye-contact when he kisses the inside of your wrist. Then the middle of your palms, and finally the tips of your fingers.
You're grateful for his arm around your middle, otherwise you'd be on the floor, shrieking and screaming.
“Don't want to see that on you again,” he points with his chin towards your fist with the necklace inside it.
“Yes, doctor.”
He nods, heat swimming in his gaze. He finally extracts his arm from around your midriff, using it to pull out your phone from your pants and swiftly slipping it in his.
“No more worrying, hm? In return…” He empties his other pocket, taking out a set of keys. He brings your palm down from his face and puts them in it.
“Sit in my car at the end of the shift. You know which one. Turn the heating on, and wait for me,” he raises his eyebrows, awaiting confirmation.
“Yes, okay,” you gulp, closing your other fist as well. One holds your past, another, your future. Or, so you hope.
“Yes, what?” he asks, already side-stepping you and moving towards the door.
“Yes, doctor”
“Good girl,” he shoots you a wink, the door falling shut behind him.
Look at that, your 10 minutes are up.
I enjoyed writing this sm, and i hope you lovely people do too. again, feel free to glaze me in asks, comments, and dms. likes and reblogs appreciated much <3 i also need to know if yall blushed reading this, if yes, WHEN
Happy late father’s day to the only father ever, Tony (Edward) Stark!
That’s the only man who raised me.
Thank you for making me go through the dead dad club experience twice; once with my real father and the second with you; i do NOT appreciate it, i cried like a baby.
robby rats you out for calling jack a "daddy figure" during a father's day joke
MASTERLIST | RULES | PINTEREST
PAIRING jack abbot x reader
WARNINGS implied age-gap, sexual innuendo / 'daddy' kink language, public teasing and humiliation, flirty jack, caffeine levels that qualify as a controlled substance, threatening elders with sub-par retirement homes
WC 0.8k
REQUEST here!
Jack manages to intercept you before you’ve even made it to your third iced coffee.
You’re standing at the desk with a chart half-open in your hands, whispering to yourself as you read, because sometimes the information only becomes real if you say it under your breath in a running little stream of nonsense commentary.
To be fair, this is not remotely out of the ordinary for you.
At hour thirteen of a double, very little about you resembles a person operating under regulated conditions. Your ponytail is in the late stages of collapse, your notes look like they were taken mid-exorcism, and your whole body has that bright, fried, over-caffeinated buzzing to it, like if someone touched your shoulder right now you might either diagnose a patient or burst into glitter.
What is out of the ordinary is the shit-eating grin Jack is wearing when he steps up beside you and drops his forearms into the space to your left.
“Y’know,” he says, entirely too pleased, eyes skimming your face while his spoon clinks a slow waltz through the mug, “I had a really interesting handoff this evening.”
Your pulse skips a beat, already bracing for impact. “Did you?”
“Mm.” He takes an appreciative sip. “Robby’s a great storyteller.”
You had known, in the aftermath, that what you had said in a moment of fun might come back to bite you. You just hadn’t expected it to boomerang back this quickly. Or with Jack looking downright delighted to wield it.
Slowly, like it’s made of nitro, you lower the chart to the counter. “It was a joke.”
It’s not a good excuse, but it’s all you have on such time constraints.
“Was it?”
You lift your gaze to find him already studying you, lip curved in that infuriating almost-smirk, just enough teeth to say jackpot. Luxuriating in your discomfort. Wallowing in it, even.
“It was funny in context,” you insist, defensive squeak slipping out.
“Then by all means,” he says, lifting one hand. “Give me context.”
You skewer him with a glare. He merely idles, waiting like he has all night.
And yes you technically have the entire shift to burn, but unlike him you’ll be spending it duck-and-covering through live psychological artillery if the story’s made it to any of your other co-workers.
It started near the end of your first twelve, right as the ER tends to slide into a carnival of cranky zombies.
Espresso counts climb, call lights chorus, and every resident sprints on whatever’s left in their IV of vending-machine sugar and unfiltered determination.
Robby was hunched at the nurses’ station, glasses slid halfway down his nose, peering over Santos’s shoulder with that chronically jet-lagged look he wears like a spare ID. You shambled past, juggling a granola bar and a dog-eared chart, when the date finally flicked.
So you paused, gave the counter a jaunty little tap, and chirped, “Happy Father’s Day, Robby!”
He glanced up, weariness sharpening to confusion. “I’m… not a father.”
“Right, but you still do the whole dad-energy thing, so… honorary title.”
Santos snorted from behind the monitors. “Wouldn’t Abbott make more sense as your father figure substitute? He enforces nights like a walking curfew.”
You flicked her away with a granola-crumbed hand.
“Jack is… a daddy figure. Totally different classification. No offense, Robby.” Robby only blinked, owlish and exhausted. So, naturally, you plunged the shovel deeper, aiming a finger right at him. “And before you tell him, remember I’m technically one of the few people in this hospital who’d be willing to choose your nursing home.”
“I’m not that old.”
“You are to me.”
And then you had floated away thinking, stupidly, naively, beautifully, that maybe the moment had passed.
It had not passed.
It had apparently been preserved in amber and delivered word-for-word at handoff to the one man on earth who would enjoy it most.
Now Jack parks his coffee, arms cinching across his freakishly broad chest.
“So,” he deadpans, “daddy figure?”
You make a mental note to reserve Robby a retirement home where ‘recreation’ is a single dusty puzzle and reach for anything coherent you can muster, ignoring the impeding lump in your throat.
“Strictly taxonomy, Jack. Think kingdom-phylum-class. Father figure is, like, sensible minivan and Roth IRA energy. Daddy figure is an entirely different genus — high-performance emotional support with optional leather interior. Totally complimentary, I swear.” His eyebrow arcs; your hands start semaphore-panicking. “Not, like, kink compliments — just, you know, admiration for your, uh, management style.”
He’s silent for a second, eyes making slow work from your mouth to your nose to your own eyes. He leans in closer.
You try to dampen the fiery feeling prodding at the tips of your ears until his intense gaze. It’s hard to do.
“For the record, kingdom-phylum-class is an incomplete taxonomic ranking. You skipped order, family, genus, species. If I’m your daddy genus, what does that make you? Under the same umbrella, or something considerably more… subordinate?”
You sputter. Suddenly it’s a hundred degrees and you’re a busted radiator.
“That’s, um, well… I think we’re, uh, past my flash-card set.” You laugh-hiccup, cheeks on fire.
You wonder if he can feel the heat emitting from them.
Jack’s smile unfurls into full smirk. One finger hooks under your chin, tilting until panic meets espresso-dark amusement.
“Thought so,” he murmurs, stepping back. “Now run along, kid — Daddy’s got rounds to patrol.”
MARIA NOTE happy father's day to any who celebrate and especially mr dr jack abbot... clock out and come home, babe; the kids miss u ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋🌼🧺˚˖𓍢ִ🌿˚.
