pairing: jack abbot x resident!reader
summary: After accidentally sending your attending Dr. Jack Abbot a nude, you delete it, panic-text an apology, and spend the rest of your shift waiting for a response that never comes. Jack doesn’t say a word until he gets you alone in his office—and by then, the apology texts are the least incriminating thing between you.
wc: 7.8k
a/n: shoutout to @in-ky and pinky (lol) for beta reading and confirming that yes, unfortunately, this is exactly what should happen when you send your attending a nude by accident. saw jack abbot on his phone and immediately made it everyone’s problem. enjoy the HR violation.
warnings: power imbalance, attending/resident relationship, inappropriate workplace behavior, explicit sexual content, dirty talk, accidental nude (then on purpose >:)), semi-public sex, fingering, handjob, orgasm denial-ish, praise kink, jealousy/possessiveness, hair pulling, biting/marking, cumplay/eating, clothed/semi-clothed smut, no piv, age gap dynamics, no use of y/n
MASTERLIST
You didn’t know a mistake could feel intentional until Jack Abbot stopped replying.
For almost a full minute after it happened, you couldn’t move. You just stood in the staff bathroom with your phone in your hand, the harsh white light buzzing overhead, your pulse slamming so hard behind your ears that the whole hospital seemed to muffle around it. The sink was still running because you’d forgotten to turn it off. Water rushed uselessly into the drain while you stared at the thread on your screen and tried to convince yourself that your eyes had rearranged the letters.
They hadn’t.
Jack Abbot sat at the top of the conversation in clean, merciless text.
Below it, the blank space where the photo had been.
You’d deleted it almost instantly, but instantly didn’t mean unseen. Instantly meant your thumb had moved faster than your brain, faster than your lungs, faster than the sick drop in your stomach when the picture appeared in the wrong thread. It meant you’d watched one of the most obscene photos in your camera roll land in your attending’s messages and then vanish under your panicked attempt to erase evidence.
Not erase memory.
Just evidence.
“Oh, no,” you whispered, and the words sounded too small for the scale of the disaster.
The photo had been from two nights ago. Your apartment, your bed, the lamp beside your mattress giving everything that warm, dirty glow. Not soft. Not tasteful. Not a picture you could call accidental in spirit even if the send itself had been. You’d taken it because you were alone and turned on and feeling reckless enough to admire yourself, body angled deliberately across twisted sheets, hair messy, eyes on the camera like you knew exactly what kind of thought you wanted to plant in someone’s head. There was nothing clinical about it. Nothing coy. It was the kind of photo that said look, want, imagine.
And Jack Abbot might have seen it.
Jack, who had corrected your charting that morning with a tired flick of his eyes.
Jack, who had stood behind you at the board, close enough for you to catch the smell of coffee and hospital soap, and said, “Try again,” when your answer hadn’t been specific enough.
Jack, who was older, gruffer, sharper around the edges than anyone had any right to be while still being that unfairly attractive.
Jack, who was your attending.
You turned off the sink with shaking fingers and immediately made the situation worse.
You:
oh my god
that was not meant for you
please ignore that
i deleted it
i’m so sorry
please delete it if it still shows up
i’m actually going to resign and move states
You stared at the messages, then at the empty space above them, then at the messages again. Your face burned. Your throat felt tight. Any other person might’ve replied by now. Any normal person might’ve hit you with a confused question mark, a reassurance, a threat, a joke. Something.
Jack gave you nothing.
No typing bubble. No acknowledgment. No read receipt. Just that awful, professional silence.
It was very Jack of him, which somehow made it worse.
A knock hit the bathroom door. “You dying in there?”
Mel’s voice. Thank God and also absolutely not.
You shoved your phone into your scrub pocket like you’d been caught with something you weren’t supposed to have. “No.”
“You sure? You sound weird.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re needed in three. Abbot’s looking for you.”
For one second, your entire body went cold.
Then hot.
Then somehow both.
“Great,” you said, and if Mel noticed that your voice came out like you’d just swallowed a battery, she was kind enough not to comment through the door.
You took one last look at yourself in the mirror before leaving. There you were: wrinkled scrubs, tired eyes, badge clipped slightly crooked, mouth pressed into a line that looked almost professional if no one knew you were internally preparing to fling yourself into traffic. You were a doctor. You were an adult. You could walk into a room with Jack Abbot and not immediately confess to everything like a criminal under interrogation.
Probably.
The hallway outside was too bright. Too loud. Too full of witnesses. The hospital had the particular cruelty of continuing to function during personal catastrophes, monitors chiming and carts rattling and nurses calling over their shoulders while your entire nervous system stood at attention. You passed Whitaker near the supply cart, who gave you a distracted little nod. You passed Santos at the board, half-listening to Robby. Nobody looked at you like they knew.
Then you reached trauma three, and Jack looked up.
He was standing at the foot of the bed with one hand braced on the rail, the other holding a chart, short sleeves leaving his forearms bare and his watch stark against his wrist. Stubble roughened his jaw, his hair was slightly mussed from the kind of shift that had been bad before noon and would only get worse, and his expression was exactly what it always was: tired, focused, unimpressed by the existence of chaos.
No guilt. No surprise. No flicker.
That was the first real blow. If he had reacted, you might’ve known how to feel. If he’d avoided your eyes, you could’ve built a theory around it. If he’d looked at you too long, you could’ve hated him or wanted him or both with more certainty.
Instead, he just watched you enter like you were late with labs.
“Nice of you to join us,” Jack said.
Dana, at the monitor, winced under her breath. “Damn.”
You forced your mouth to move. “Sorry.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on you a fraction too long. “Are you?”
There was no reason for it to hit the way it did. The words were ordinary. Dry. Annoyed, maybe. But you heard every unanswered text underneath them. You heard the deleted photo. You heard the question he wasn’t asking in front of Dana and a patient with a bleeding scalp.
Your stomach folded in on itself.
“What’s the situation?” you asked, because medicine was safer than silence.
Jack handed you the chart. “Fall from a ladder. Brief LOC. Walk me through what you’re ordering and why.”
You could do this. This was easy. This was normal. You’d done this a hundred times. You moved through the exam, named imaging, neuro checks, wound care, the things you needed to rule out. Your mouth worked. Your hands worked. Your brain mostly worked.
Your body, unfortunately, remembered that your phone remained unanswered in your pocket.
Every time Jack shifted near you, you became aware of him all over again. The low gravel of his voice. The way he stood close enough to take the chart back from your hands without asking. The blunt competence in his movements. The fact that he didn’t soothe, didn’t explain, didn’t give you even one quiet aside to release the pressure building under your skin.
He let you suffer.
Worse, he made you work.
For the next several hours, Jack Abbot became a masterclass in professional cruelty. Not actual cruelty. Nothing anyone could report. Nothing anyone would even notice unless they were living inside your body and could feel the way your pulse kicked every time he said your name.
He asked you questions in front of Robby.
He corrected your note beside the nurses’ station.
He handed you a printout without looking at you and said, “More specific,” in that gruff, flat tone that made you want to argue and obey at the same time.
He touched your elbow once, only to move you out of the path of a gurney, but the contact burned through your scrub sleeve because now there was a version of you in his possible memory that had nothing to do with the hospital. Not capable, not composed, not holding a chart or presenting a patient. You in bed. You in low light. You looking at the camera like you wanted someone to imagine being there.
And Jack still didn’t reply.
At some point, Santos appeared beside you at the counter while you were pretending to review labs and absolutely not refreshing your message thread.
“You look terrible,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“Like you’re waiting for a disciplinary hearing.”
“I’m busy.”
She leaned closer, lowering her voice as if delivering a diagnosis. “You and Abbot have been weird all day.”
Your grip tightened around the tablet. “We have not.”
“You have. He’s doing that thing where he gets quieter when he’s mad, and you look like you’re being hunted for sport.”
“I’m not being hunted.”
“Mm.”
“Santos.”
“What? I’m observant.”
“You’re nosy.”
“That too.”
Across the department, Jack stood with Robby near the board, arms crossed, head tilted as he listened. He looked exhausted. Unmoved. Utterly unreadable. Then, as if he felt you looking, his eyes lifted and found yours.
You looked away first.
Santos made an obnoxious little sound. “Loud.”
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought it loudly.”
She grinned, entirely too pleased with herself, and moved off before you could throw something at her.
The shift dragged on. Or maybe it flew. Time had gone strange, measured less by the clock and more by every non-reply from Jack, every glance that might have meant something and might have meant nothing, every brush of proximity that left you a little more humiliated by your own reaction. By the end of rounds, panic had curdled into something hotter and harder to name.
You still wanted to disappear.
You also wanted to know exactly what he’d thought.
That was the unforgivable part. The part you couldn’t blame on the photo or the send button or exhaustion. Under the mortification, there was want. Ugly, bright, undeniable want. The kind that made you wonder whether he had paused when he saw it. Whether his jaw had tightened. Whether he had deleted it right away or looked long enough to regret it.
You were finishing a note when his shadow fell over your workspace.
You didn’t look up immediately. You knew.
“My office,” Jack said. “Now.”
The words were quiet. No one else would’ve heard them as anything but an attending giving an instruction. Dana barely glanced over. Robby kept talking to Mel. The world did not stop.
Yours did.
You stood carefully. “Okay.”
Jack turned without waiting to see if you followed. The walk to his office felt like a march toward sentencing, except sentencing probably wouldn’t have made your thighs feel weak. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t slow down. Didn’t look back. That made it worse, because it meant he knew you would follow.
His office was dim, cramped, and cluttered in the way all hospital offices became cluttered no matter how hard anyone tried to keep them human. A desk lamp threw warm light over a stack of charts. Half-closed blinds cut the room into narrow bars. His mug sat beside the keyboard, coffee gone cold. The air held the stale sharpness of the hospital layered with something that was just him: clean sweat, soap, coffee, fatigue.
Jack closed the door.
He left it unlocked.
That detail lodged in you. The unlocked door meant this was still a conversation. Still professional, technically. Still something you could leave.
Or something he wanted you to know you could leave.
He leaned back against the edge of the desk, arms crossed loosely, and looked at you for long enough that you started talking just to make him stop.
“I’m sorry,” you said. “I know I already said that in the texts, probably too many times, but I really am. It was an accident. Obviously. I deleted it right away, and I know that doesn’t necessarily mean anything if you saw it before then, but I swear I didn’t mean to—”
“Stop.”
You stopped.
Jack’s gaze stayed steady. “Explain.”
You blinked. “I just did.”
“No. You apologized.” His voice was calm, which was somehow worse than anger. “Explain what happened.”
Your face burned. “I sent the wrong thing to the wrong person.”
“What thing?”
“Jack.”
His expression didn’t change. “Say it.”
The floor seemed suddenly fascinating. You looked at a scuff near the leg of his desk and wondered if it was possible to die from embarrassment after all.
“A nude,” you said.
The word changed the room.
Jack didn’t move, but something in his face tightened. A small thing. Controlled. There and gone.
“I saw it,” he said.
You closed your eyes for one second. “Okay.”
For a moment, that was all there was. The confirmation. The silence after. The awful, humiliating knowledge that the image had reached him before you could take it back.
“I didn’t keep it,” he said.
Your eyes opened. “You didn’t?”
“No.”
The relief was sharp enough to hurt. It should’ve ended there. It should’ve made everything clean again, or at least survivable. He had done the right thing. He had refused to keep what hadn’t been meant for him. You could apologize one more time, leave his office, and spend the rest of your life avoiding direct eye contact.
But Jack was still looking at you.
And his voice, when it came, was lower.
“That doesn’t mean I didn’t look.”
Something low in you pulled tight, panic and arousal twisting together until you couldn’t tell which one had hit first.
He pushed off the desk, not moving closer yet. Just standing straighter. “Who was it for?”
“No one.”
“No one.”
“I took it for myself.”
Jack’s mouth twitched, not amusement exactly. More like disbelief with nowhere innocent to go. “You take pictures like that for yourself?”
There were a dozen sensible answers. Defensive answers. Clean, professional answers that would’ve made this easier to survive. Instead, you heard yourself say, “Sometimes.”
The tiredness in his face thinned, and beneath it was something intent, almost indecently awake—a look that moved over you with such slow, controlled heat that your body reacted before your pride could stop it. Like the picture had burned itself into his retinas and left him standing there with nowhere innocent to put his hands.
For the first time all day, you saw the effect. Not much. Jack wasn’t a man who gave much away for free. But there it was in the pause, the shift of his jaw, the hand he dragged briefly over his mouth before dropping it again.
“You’re not helping yourself,” he said.
“I thought I was being honest.”
“That’s the problem.”
The words should’ve embarrassed you further. They did. But they also did something else, something low and hot, because he sounded less like your attending now and more like a man trying very hard to remember he still was one.
You took a careful breath. “Why didn’t you answer?”
Jack looked at you for a long moment, and the silence wasn’t empty anymore. It had weight. The shape of all the things he’d refused to put in writing.
“Because if I answered then,” he said, voice lower now, “I would’ve said something I shouldn’t.”
Your mouth went dry. “Like what?”
“Don’t.”
“You brought me in here.”
“To handle it.”
“Is that what you’re doing?”
His jaw worked once, and for the first time, his control looked less like indifference and more like effort. “I’m trying.”
“Trying to handle me?”
That did something. You saw it in the brief drop of his gaze, the pause before he pulled it back to your face.
“Trying not to,” he said.
There it was again—that small crack in the professionalism. Not a confession, not exactly, but close enough to make the room feel suddenly too small. Close enough that you felt it move through you before you had time to decide what to do with it.
Jack saw that too.
Of course he did.
He stepped closer, not quickly, not carelessly. Slow enough that you could move back if you wanted. Slow enough that the choice stayed yours.
You didn’t.
“You sent me that,” he said, voice low, “then walked around my department for the rest of the shift like I could just forget it.”
“I didn’t know if you’d seen it.”
“You knew.”
“I hoped you hadn’t.”
“No.” His gaze held yours, steady and merciless in a way that made your skin feel too tight under your scrubs. “You hoped I had, and you were scared I had. Not the same thing.”
You hated him a little for being right. You wanted him more because of it.
“That’s not fair,” you said.
“I didn’t say it was.”
He was close enough now that you could see the fatigue at the corners of his eyes, the rough shadow along his jaw, the controlled set of his mouth. Still Jack. Still gruff and older and dangerous mostly because he looked like he’d spent a lifetime refusing himself the stupid thing, the reckless thing, the filthy thing that would feel good for exactly long enough to ruin him.
“You wanted to know what I thought,” he said.
Your throat tightened. “Did I?”
His gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second before returning to your eyes. “You tell me.”
The worst part was that you couldn’t. Not honestly. Because you had wanted to know. Under the embarrassment, under the panic, under every frantic apology you’d typed too fast and regretted immediately, there had been that awful, helpless need to know what he’d seen when he looked at you afterward. If he’d been angry. If he’d been disgusted. If he’d imagined it again.
If he’d wanted to.
Jack watched the silence work through you, watched your breath catch, watched your face give away what your mouth refused to say.
Then he stepped back half a pace.
The loss of him was so immediate your body nearly followed before you could stop it.
“Tell me to forget it,” he said, “and I’ll forget it.”
“You just said you couldn’t.”
“I’ll act like I can.”
That was very Jack. Honest enough to hurt. Restrained enough to be decent. He had refused to keep the photo. He had left the door unlocked. Now he was putting distance between you, giving you a clean exit with the kind of brutal practicality that somehow made you want him worse.
You should’ve taken it.
Instead, you said, “I don’t want you to.”
The room went quiet in a new way.
Jack’s face barely changed, but your body took the look like contact, nerves flaring under your scrubs as if he’d reached across the room and found you bare. For one dizzy second, the clothes felt pointless—like he was already picturing what was underneath and remembering exactly where to look.
“Be clear,” he said.
Your throat felt tight. “I don’t want you to forget it.”
His hand moved to the door.
The lock clicked.
Small sound. Huge consequence.
Not loud. Just final. The kind of sound that doesn’t ask permission. Jack’s hand left the deadbolt, but he didn’t turn around right away. He stood there facing the door, shoulders rising once, falling once, like he was giving himself a countdown.
You were already backed up against his desk. Metal cold through your scrub pants. You watched his back. The way his scrub top pulled between his shoulder blades. The gray hair curling at his nape, damp from twelve hours of running a floor that wouldn’t stop coding.
He turned.
His eyes had changed. Not tired, not distant—fixed on you now with a hunger he’d spent the whole shift forcing down. It had been there through rounds, through the silence, through every clipped order and every time he’d looked at you and then looked away like one more second would give him away.
“Stand up.”
You did. Your thighs hit the desk edge behind you. He crossed the space in two strides and then he was there, close enough that the heat of him hit your skin before his body did, close enough that you could smell the antiseptic and coffee and something underneath—just him, just warm skin and a long shift.
His hand found your hip. Not gentle. Not rough. Just certain. His thumb pressed into the bone there and you felt it in your teeth.
“You sent me a picture,” he said.
His voice was low. Not the attending voice. Not the one that cut through chaos in the trauma bay. This one was quieter. Worse.
“I know.”
“You tried to take it back.”
“Yes.”
“I saw it anyway.” His thumb moved—just a fraction, just a small circle against your hip bone through the thin cotton. “You know I saw it.”
Your throat was dry. “I wasn’t sure.”
“Bullshit.” The word landed soft, almost kind. “You knew. You watched me not look at you for six hours and you knew exactly why.”
You couldn’t answer. He was too close. His other hand came up, slow, and his fingers found the edge of your jaw. Not gripping. Just resting there, his palm warm against the side of your throat, his thumb tracing the line of your chin like he was memorizing bone.
“Describe it,” he said.
“What?”
“The photo. Tell me what you sent me.”
Heat crawled up your neck. Your chest. Your face. He felt it—his thumb was right there on your pulse, and you watched his eyes flick down to your throat, watched him feel every beat of your heart slamming against his palm.
“I can’t.”
“You can.” His grip didn’t tighten. It didn’t have to. “You took it. You sent it. Say it.”
You swallowed. His thumb rode the movement. “It was—I was on my bed.”
“Go on.”
“On my stomach. The camera was—it was angled down. You could see my back. My shoulders.” You stopped. Breathed. He waited. “My ass. I was wearing—”
“Nothing,” he said. “You were wearing nothing.”
The word hit your stomach and clenched there. “Yes.”
“And your legs were spread.”
Not a question. He’d seen it. He’d looked at it long enough to know exactly how you were positioned, exactly what was visible, exactly what you’d offered up without saying a word.
“Yes.”
“And between them.” His thumb traced down your throat, just a whisper of pressure. “What could I see.”
“Everything.”
He exhaled. It was the first crack you’d seen—just a shiver of air through his nose, his jaw tightening, his eyes going darker. “Everything,” he repeated. “You sent your attending a photo of your pussy and you want me to believe it was an accident.”
“I panicked. I deleted it—”
“After it delivered. After I saw the notification. After I opened it in the middle of rounds and had to stand there with a patient’s chart in my hand and your pussy on my phone.”
Your knees nearly buckled. He said it so flat. So clinical. Like he was naming an anatomical structure, except his voice dropped on the word, roughened, and his grip on your hip tightened once before releasing.
“Jack—”
“Dr. Abbot.” His eyes snapped to yours. “In this hospital, I’m Dr. Abbot. You don’t get to call me Jack until I tell you to.”
Your breath stuttered. "Dr. Abbot."
"Better." He stepped closer. Your bodies touched—chest to chest, his scrub top against yours, the heat of him bleeding through the fabric. His thigh pressed between your legs and you made a sound before you could stop it, small and humiliating and honest.
"There it is," he murmured. His mouth was near your ear now, stubble scratching your temple. "That's the sound. That's what you wanted me to hear."
You grabbed his arm. You didn't mean to—your hand just found his bicep and held, fingers digging into muscle, and he let you. His arm was solid under your grip, hard from years of compressions and lifting and holding bodies together while they bled.
"I'm sorry," you said.
"Are you." He pulled back just enough to look at you. His face was close—you could see the exhaustion in the lines around his eyes, the gray threading his stubble, the way his mouth was set in something that wasn't quite a frown. "Or are you just scared I know what you look like when you want someone."
You didn't answer. Couldn't. He was right and you both knew it.
His hand left your jaw. Slid down. Found your wrist and lifted it between your bodies, his thumb pressing into your pulse point, feeling the blood hammer under your skin.
"You're shaking," he said.
"I know."
"Good."
He kissed you.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't careful. His mouth hit yours with the same certainty as his hands—hard, demanding, his stubble scraping your lip and his tongue pushing past your teeth before you'd even registered the impact. He tasted like black coffee and something sharp, something that burned going down, and you opened for him immediately, helplessly, your whole body sagging into his grip.
His hand left your wrist and grabbed your other hip. Both hands now, fingers digging into the meat of you, pulling you against him so hard the desk edge bit into your thighs. His cock was hard already, pressing against your stomach through his scrub pants, and the knowledge of it—the fact that he'd been hard, maybe this whole time, maybe since he saw the photo, maybe since he locked the door—made you moan into his mouth.
"Quiet," he said against your lips. "The walls are thin."
You bit his lower lip. Harder than you meant to. He inhaled sharp and something flashed in his eyes—surprise, and then heat, and then his hands were moving, one sliding up your back under your scrub top, palm rough and hot on your spine, the other fisting in your hair and yanking your head back until your throat was exposed.
"You bite me again," he said against your pulse, "and I'll make you regret it."
"Maybe I want that."
His teeth found your neck. Not a kiss—a bite, real pressure, his incisors denting the skin just above your collarbone. You gasped and your hips bucked against his thigh and he held you there, teeth still clamped, tongue pressing flat against the mark he was making.
When he pulled back, his mouth was wet. His eyes were wrecked. "You want it," he said. "You want a lot of things. That's the problem."
Your hands moved. You didn't decide to—they just went, desperate, grabbing the front of his scrub top and pulling until the V-neck stretched, your knuckles brushing the sweat-damp hair on his chest. His skin was hot. He was hot, all of him, furnace-hot and solid and real against you.
"Touch me," you said. It came out wrecked. "Please."
"Please what."
"Please—fuck." You couldn't think. His thumb was rubbing circles into your spine, his other hand still fisted in your hair, his thigh a solid line of pressure between your legs. "Please touch me. Dr. Abbot."
His eyes flared. "That's right. That's my name. You remember that."
"Yes."
"And you remember who you're with. Not some resident. Not your ex. Me."
The jealousy landed like a slap. Your mind flicked back—the photo, who it might've been meant for, who he thought it was meant for—and you opened your mouth to explain, to tell him there wasn't anyone, but then his hand was sliding around to your stomach, fingertips tracing the waistband of your scrub pants front to back, and words dissolved.
"I don't share," he said quietly. "Whatever this is. Whatever you thought you were doing. You don't send something like that to more than one person. You don't get to."
"I didn't. It was only—"
"Only me." His fingers dipped under the elastic. Not far. Just the first knuckle, the rough pad of his index finger dragging through the hair below your navel. "Good. That's good. That's how it stays."
You nodded. You would've agreed to anything. His finger moved lower, just a centimeter, and your hips lifted toward his hand like a reflex.
"You're soaked," he said. Not surprised. Not smug. Just observing. "I haven't even touched you yet and you're soaked through your pants."
"I know."
"Say it."
"I'm—" Your face burned. His eyes didn't leave yours. "I'm wet. Soaked. Is that what you—"
"That's what I wanted." His finger withdrew. You nearly cried. But then both his hands were at your waistband, thumbs hooked in, and he was pulling your scrub pants and underwear down together, one sharp motion, the fabric scraping your thighs and pooling around your ankles.
He didn't look down. Not yet. He kept his eyes on your face while his hand found your knee and pushed—firm, steady—until your legs fell open, his hips slotting between them, the rough fabric of his scrub pants brushing your bare cunt.
"There," he said. "Now you're exactly where you should be."
You grabbed his shoulders. Needed to. Your fingers dug into the muscle there, the solid bulk of him, and he let you hang on while his mouth came back to yours, still brutal, still messy, teeth and tongue and the scrape of stubble that would leave your chin raw.
His hand dropped between your bodies.
First touch: his middle finger sliding through your folds, just parting you, just feeling. The sound it made—wet, obscene—filled the tiny office. He groaned into your mouth, a low vibration you felt in your chest.
"Jesus," he breathed. "You're dripping. You've been dripping all shift."
"For you."
"I know." His finger circled your clit—once, light, barely there—and your whole body jerked. "I know you have. Every time I looked at you. Every time I didn't."
He did it again. Slow circle. Then again, harder. Then his finger slid lower, found your entrance, and pressed in.
Just one. Just to the first knuckle. You clenched around him instantly, a helpless spasm, and he laughed—low, dark, right against your ear.
"Tight," he said. "Tight little pussy. And you sent me a picture of it. What'd you think would happen."
"I didn't—I wasn't—"
"You were." His finger pushed deeper. All the way in, slow, until his knuckle pressed against your entrance and his palm cupped your clit. "You wanted me to see. You wanted me to know. You wanted this."
He curled his finger.
Your vision whited. Your head fell back, throat bared again, and he took the invitation—mouth on your neck, sucking hard, his stubble a bright burn while his finger found that spot inside you and pressed.
"There," he said. "Right there. That's what you wanted me to find."
"Yes. Yes. Fuck—"
"Quiet." His voice was steel. "I said quiet. You can be quiet or I can stop."
You bit your own lip so hard you tasted copper. His finger pumped—once, twice, slow and deep, the wet sound of it filling the room. Then his thumb found your clit, pressed down, and you nearly screamed into your own mouth.
"Good girl. That's good. You can listen."
He pulled out. Your cunt clenched on nothing, empty and aching, and you made a noise of protest that he ignored. His hand came up between your faces, his finger glistening, slick coating his knuckle all the way to his palm.
"Look at this," he said. "Look at what you did."
You watched him bring his finger to his mouth. Watched his lips close around it. Watched his eyes flutter shut for just a second while he tasted you, his tongue cleaning his own skin with an obscene thoroughness that made your stomach drop.
"Sweet," he said, pulling his finger free. "I knew you'd be sweet."
"Please. Please, I need—"
"I know what you need." His hand was back between your legs before you finished, two fingers this time, sliding through your slick and then pushing in, stretching you open, filling you so fast your breath caught and held.
"Breathe," he said. "Breathe through it. You can take it."
You could. You did. His fingers were thick—surgeon's fingers, strong and precise—and they knew exactly what to do. Pumping deep, curling, finding that spot again and again while his palm ground against your clit and his mouth covered yours to swallow every sound.
The kiss was sloppy now. Desperate. You were breathing into each other, sharing air, his tongue pushing past your teeth at the same rhythm as his fingers. You could taste yourself on him—salt and musk and something sweeter underneath—and it made you wild, made your hips buck against his hand, made you ride his fingers like you'd die if you stopped.
"That's it," he growled. "Fuck my hand. Show me how bad you want it."
Your fingers clawed at his shoulders. Found his neck. Dug into the short hair at his nape and pulled, and he hissed, and his fingers drove deeper, faster, the wet slap of his palm against your clit turning filthy and loud.
"You're close," he said. "I can feel it. You're clenching—yeah, like that. You're gonna come on my fingers. Right here on my desk. And you're gonna be quiet while you do it."
"I can't—"
"You can." His lips brushed your ear. His breath was ragged now, finally losing that iron control. "You can because I'm telling you to. Because you're a good girl. Because you want to be good for me."
The words hit somewhere deep. Somewhere you didn't know existed. Your cunt spasmed around his fingers and he laughed again, dark and pleased, and then his thumb pressed hard against your clit and circled and his fingers curled and—
You came.
Silent. Or close enough—a gasp that died in your throat, your whole body locking up, your cunt milking his fingers in rhythmic pulses you couldn't control. He held you through it, hand steady, murmuring something low against your temple that you couldn't hear over the roar in your ears.
When you came down, your forehead was pressed to his shoulder. His scrub top was wet—sweat, tears, spit, you didn't know. His fingers were still inside you, still, just resting there, letting you feel the fullness.
"Good girl," he said again. Quieter now. Almost gentle. "That's my good girl."
You lifted your head. His face was inches away, dark eyes searching yours, and for a moment the mask slipped—just a second of something raw, something that looked almost tender before he blinked and it was gone.
"Now you," you said. Your voice was wrecked. "I want to—let me."
He didn't stop you. His fingers slid out of you, slow, and you felt the loss like a physical ache. Your hand dropped to his waist, found the drawstring of his scrub pants, and pulled.
His hand caught your wrist.
You froze. Waiting. His grip was tight but not painful—just stopping you, holding you still while he looked at your face like he was making a decision.
"This has to be quick," he said. "Someone's going to notice we're both gone."
"Then quick."
He held your eyes for another beat. Then his grip loosened. "Go on."
You untied the drawstring. Your fingers were shaking—from the orgasm, from the adrenaline, from the sheer impossibility of this moment—but you managed. His scrub pants sagged, and when you pushed them down his hips together with his boxers, his cock sprang free, thick and flushed and already leaking at the tip.
He was bigger than you expected. Not just long—thick, the kind of thick that would hurt in the best way, the kind that made your cunt clench just looking at it. His shaft was veined, curving slightly toward his stomach, the head a deep angry red and slick with pre-cum.
"You're staring," he said.
"I'm admiring."
"Admire faster."
You wrapped your hand around him. His breath caught—loud, sharp—and his hips jerked into your grip before he controlled himself. His cock was hot in your palm, silk-soft skin over iron-hard flesh, and when you squeezed, a bead of pre-cum welled at the tip and dripped down over your knuckle.
"Fuck," he breathed.
You stroked him. Slow at first—learning the weight, the shape, the way he twitched when your thumb pressed against the underside just below the head. His hand came up and fisted in your hair again, not pulling, just holding, like he needed an anchor.
"Faster," he said. "Come on. Faster."
You sped up. Your wrist found a rhythm, twisting on the upstroke the way you knew felt good, and his head dropped forward, forehead pressing to yours, his breath hot and uneven on your lips.
"You've done this before."
"A few times."
"Not to me." His hips were moving now, fucking into your fist, uncontrolled in a way that made heat pool low in your belly all over again. "Not—like this—"
You squeezed harder. Twisted faster. His hand in your hair tightened, the other slamming down on the desk beside your hip, and the sound of his palm hitting wood was loud enough to echo.
"Look at me," you said.
His eyes opened. Glazed. Desperate. His mouth was wet, lips parted, and he looked nothing like the cold controlled attending who'd locked the door. He looked ruined.
"I want to watch you," you said. "I want to watch you come in my hand."
"Jesus—"
"Come on." Your voice dropped, mimicking his from earlier. "Come for me. I want to see it."
His hips stuttered. His cock pulsed in your grip. And then he was coming, silent, jaw clenched so tight you could see the tendon stand out in his neck, his cum spilling hot over your fingers and dripping down your wrist in thick white ropes.
You stroked him through it. Milked every pulse, every spasm, until he was shuddering and oversensitive and his hand shot down to grip your wrist and stop you.
"Enough," he rasped. "Enough."
You stopped. Your hand was a mess—his cum coating your palm, your fingers, dripping between your knuckles. You could smell it, salt and musk and him, and without thinking, without planning, you lifted your hand to your mouth.
He watched.
Your tongue touched your palm first. The taste was sharp—bitter and salty and undeniably male. You licked a stripe up to your wrist, gathering the slickness, and then you wrapped your lips around your own index finger and sucked.
His pupils swallowed what was left of the thin blue rings.
You pulled your finger free with a lewd pop and licked your lips. "Tastes like you."
He didn't say anything. Just stared, chest heaving, cock still wet and softening against his thigh.
Then he kissed you. Not fast this time. Not punishing. His mouth dragged over yours with a filthy kind of patience, tongue sliding in like he was tasting himself there and hated how much he wanted more of it. His hand stayed at your jaw, thumb pressed beneath your chin, holding you still while he licked into your mouth again, deeper, making the kiss feel less like an ending than a promise he had no business making in his office.
When Jack finally pulled back, it wasn’t because either of you had cooled off. It was because whatever sense he had left had finally clawed its way back to the surface.
You stayed on the edge of his desk, breath wrecked, fingers still curled in his scrub top. He looked almost composed, which would’ve been insulting if his mouth weren’t swollen from yours, if his chest weren’t moving with too much effort, if his gaze didn’t keep dropping to all the places he had just touched. For a second, he only stared at you, taking in the mess he’d made: your loosened scrubs, your bare thighs, the flush crawling up your throat, the way your body still hadn’t figured out how to stop wanting him.
Then he reached for his phone.
You went still.
He saw it immediately. Of course he did. Jack caught everything.
“No,” he said, voice rough but steady. “Not unless you say so.”
The phone stayed low in his hand. He didn’t lift it. Didn’t angle it. Didn’t take anything just because he could. That was the worst part, maybe—how badly he wanted and how clearly he still made it your choice. He stood there with his scrub pants retied badly, his hair mussed, your taste still on his mouth, and waited like permission mattered more than whatever filthy thought had put the phone in his hand.
“I got rid of the first one,” he said.
“I know.”
“It wasn’t mine.”
Your throat tightened.
His gaze moved over you again, not detached, not clean, not pretending. “This one would be.”
The words went through you with a fresh, obscene little twist. The first photo had been panic and accident, a naked image thrown into the wrong hands. This one would be different. You were still open on his desk, still marked by his mouth, still shaking from what he’d done to you and what you’d done to him. This wouldn’t be a mistake sitting in a thread. This would be proof. Permission. Something given on purpose.
Jack watched your face. “Say no, and I put it away.”
You looked at the phone, then at him. “Yes.”
His jaw tightened. “Full sentence.”
Your face burned, but you didn’t look away. Not after everything. Not with his cum still barely wiped from your skin and your body still aching from his fingers.
“You can take a picture of me.”
For a second, he didn’t move.
Then he lifted the phone.
He only took one.
That made it worse somehow. Hotter. No posing you over and over. No making a show of it. Just one photo in the dim office light: you perched on the edge of his desk, wrecked and unmistakably touched, your scrubs shoved out of place, his hand visible at your thigh like a signature he had no right to leave. The first photo had been you alone in your bed, naked and deliberate. This one had him in it without showing his face—the watch at his wrist, the edge of his sleeve, the possessive press of his fingers against your skin.
Jack looked at the screen.
Whatever he saw there hit him. You watched it happen in the clench of his jaw, the pause in his breathing, the way his thumb hovered before he locked the phone like he needed to put the image away before he did something stupider than taking it.
“That one stays?” you asked.
His eyes lifted to yours.
“That one stays.”
The words settled low and dirty, right where his voice had already ruined you.
After that, he fixed you with the same practical attention he gave everything else. Scrub top straightened. Badge adjusted. Hair smoothed back into place, though his fingers lingered for half a second longer than necessary. It should’ve felt clinical. It didn’t. It felt intimate in a way that made your chest ache a little.
“You okay?” he asked.
You nodded.
His brows drew together. “Words.”
A small, breathless laugh escaped you. “I’m okay.”
He studied you for another moment, then handed you the water bottle from his desk. “Drink.”
You did, because saying no felt pointless when your legs were still unreliable and he was looking at you like he would stand there all night if that was what it took to make sure you could walk out without falling apart. When he was satisfied, he took the bottle back and set it down.
Then the mask started returning.
You watched him pull himself together piece by piece. The rough edges tucked away. The heat banked. The attending sliding back over the man who had just ruined your ability to think clearly. By the time his hand reached the lock, he almost looked like himself again.
Almost.
Before opening the door, he turned back. “No more accidents.”
Your pulse jumped. “No?”
His gaze dropped once to your mouth. “You want my attention,” he said, low enough that only you could hear, “you ask for it properly.”
Then he opened the door, and the hospital rushed back in.
The fluorescent light felt obscene after the dimness of his office. Voices, alarms, wheels, footsteps, the relentless machinery of the department grinding on like nothing had happened. Jack stepped out first. You followed a few seconds later, trying to look normal with your pulse still everywhere it shouldn’t be.
At the nurses’ station, Mel glanced up. “You good?”
You picked up a chart mostly to have something to do with your hands. “Yeah. Fine.”
Across the department, Jack didn’t look at you once, but that almost made it worse. He didn’t have to. The proof was already in his pocket, locked behind his passcode, tucked against his body while he moved through the rest of the shift like nothing had happened. You watched him speak to Robby near the board, watched him take a chart from Dana, watched him disappear behind the curtain of trauma two with that same gruff composure he’d worn all day, and all you could think was that there was a photo of you on his phone now.
Not the accidental one. Not the one he had deleted because it hadn’t belonged to him.
The other one.
The one you had given him.
That thought followed you through sign-out and the locker room and the cold shock of night air when you finally stepped outside. It sat low and warm in your stomach on the ride home, getting worse every time you remembered the way his jaw had tightened when he looked at the screen. By the time you unlocked your apartment, the silence felt different from the one he’d given you earlier. Not cruel this time. Anticipatory.
Your apartment was dark except for the lamp by your bed. The same bed from the first photo waited at the end of the room, sheets still rumpled from the morning, low light spilling over the fabric in a way that made your heart skip. Last night, that room had been private. Tonight, it felt altered, like Jack had already been invited into the idea of it.
You dropped your keys into the bowl by the door and stood there for a second, still in your scrubs, looking at the bed.
Your phone buzzed.
You turned it over.
Jack Abbot:
Home?
Your mouth went dry.
You:
Yes.
Three dots appeared, disappeared, then appeared again. You stood in the dark with your scuffed Dansko clogs still on, heart beating too hard over a text message from a man who had spent all day saying nothing. Then his reply came through.
I’m like so high right now and I like I wanna blow second hand smoke in Dennis mouth so bad
Like whitakrr can I please like stick my tongue down your throat and stroke it and like puff the penny and then like hand it back to you and make him do the same or with fingers because I don’t have a dick I have a pusb
🩰-
ugh girl u do not know how many times i’ve imagined getting high with dennis and us fucking the shit out of each otherrrrr. like you guys shotgun each other and you go firstttr and you’ve got his hands on his pink cheeks and he’s parts his lips when you tap his jaw softly. your eyes close when transfer the smoke over to him, his eyes are open—eyelids low and droopy from all the weed.
as someone with 300+ unanswered asks in my inbox, i would love to see any “oops only one bed” uwu xoxo @rr-after-dark
james!! thank you so much for the request (: i decided to do this one with jack. i reallllyy hope you like it!! <3
content: 18+ mdni, sexually explicit content, a conference, a blizzard, and a single bed what could go wrong?? (:
dr abbot x f!reader
Jack frustratedly tapped his credit card against the front desk, "I don't understand, I reserved two rooms."
"I'm really sorry, sir," A flustered receptionist in her early twenties said emphatically, "With the rush because of the storm, we overbooked and—"
"Hey, I got the rest of the stuff," You said, materializing next to him with your bags. When you looked up to see his face, you frowned, "What's the matter?"
"Uh," Jack nervously rubbed at the back of his neck, "With the, uh, storm… The hotel seems to have… Overbooked the rooms—"
"Again," The nervous receptionist interrupted, "I'm so, so sorry."
"Oh no," You frowned, "There's no rooms?"
"No, no," The receptionist said quickly, "No it's just, you booked two rooms, but we only have one."
You visibly brightened, "Oh! That's a relief."
Jack could feel his blood pressure steadily rising. He knew coming to this conference with only you for company was a mistake. Robby had teased him about it when he realized, with horror, it would just be the two of you.
The entire trip he was overly conscious of his proximity to you, the heat of your body, your knee knocking into his. And you, by all accounts, seemed painfully oblivious to his internal warring. He had to fight himself not to touch you, not to look at you too long, not to imagine what it would be like to kiss and touch you the way he really wanted to.
Robby had encouraged him ages ago to just ask you out, but he felt so out of practice after his wife he couldn't deal with the possibility of rejection. It was much easier to just use the idea of you as a fantasy. What if he finally worked up the courage and you said yes?
But this entire trip, his anxiety had been at an all time high with no one else for him to buffer his nerves.
He cleared his throat, "The room only has one bed," He said lowly.
"Hm," You hummed and turned back to the receptionist, "Could we get a cot in the room?"
She shook her head ruefully, "I'm so sorry, all of them are in use. If you want I can cancel the reservation and fully refund—"
"No!" You said quickly, "No, no, it's um…" You turned back to Jack, "I'm totally fine with sharing a bed for one night if you are. I mean, everywhere has to be booked up because of the storm. We might not find anywhere else."
You were right, of course. Despite the fact that kill bill sirens were on a loop in his brain at the idea of having to be so close to you all night when he desperately needed to let off some steam in private after being so close to you all goddamn day— It seemed he didn't have much choice.
He forced a smile, "If it's good with you, it's good with me."
And with that, you took the room key from the receptionist and Jack Abbot willingly followed you down the hall into his own personal hell.
You showered first as he carefully removed his prosthesis and sighed in relief as he sat at the edge of the bed. Turning on the TV, he watched the weather report as a man went on and on about the severe blizzard conditions that were expected to start in a few hours. About ten minutes later, you came out of the bathroom in a robe and sat down next to him, the scent of coconut and vanilla wafting off you.
"Oh, shit," You murmured as you took in the report, "This is worse than they were saying a few hours ago."
Jack nodded. Although he was distracted with thoughts of you, he was also running over emergency contingency plans in his head. But really, besides having emergency supplies in his duffle (warming blanket, non perishable foods, flashlight, batteries, first aid kit) it seemed likely that they might be stuck here for more than just one night.
He tried not to think about that. Went to shower and fucked his fist in his shower chair, biting on his arm to keep himself quiet while his mind raced with thoughts of you, imagining himself peeling you out of that robe, kissing gently down your neck and color bone, licking up stray water droplets from the shower. He tried to imagine what you might sound like moaning his name in pleasure. He longed to worship you the way you deserved, if only he had the fucking nerve to tell you how he felt.
It was most on his mind this trip since you'd been forced to be alone together for so long. You'd traveled here together on the same flight, spent the entire conference side by side cracking jokes and mingling with other doctors. He saved you a seat at every table, listened intently when you rambled on about how nervous you were about presenting at a big conference for the first time.
"I've always been shit at oral presentations." You said, fingers twisting nervously in front of you as the two of you waited in the wings. You were up next.
"Don't put so much pressure on yourself," He said, "I'll be there the whole time. I'll jump in if you need me to.
You'd grabbed his hand, squeezed it gently, and smiled at him, "Thank you."
He'd nodded and pretended the softness of your hand in his didn't feel transformative, didn't make him feel like they were made for him to hold.
Now he made his way out of the shower, in just a pair of briefs as he used his crutches to maneuver back into the bedroom. You were sat up in the bed, eReader in hand, the blue light of the TV flickered over the plains of your face. Your eyes widened just slightly at the sight of him, shirtless and still dripping from the shower, but then swallowed and averted your eyes.
"Um, do you—" You cleared your throat and Jack stifled a smirk, "Do you need help with anything?"
Jack shook his head as he lowered himself to the edge of the bed again, "No, I got it. Thanks."
After some time, he made his way into the bed next to you and the two of you sat in companionable silence as the weather man continued to give play by play updates as the blizzard got ever closer. Jack was trying not to think about the warmth your body might provide in the night when you yawned and placed the eReader on your nightstand.
"Think I'm gonna try to get some sleep," You said, settling beneath the covers.
"Oh, let me turn off—" Jack started, reaching for the remote, but you cut him off.
"No, it's okay. Turn it off whenever. I can sleep through anything."
Jack sat awake for what felt like hours, unable to sleep for fear of reaching for you in his sleep. Somewhere in his subconscious was a level of desire he was hardly able to keep in check when he was awake. He had no idea what his body would do once his brain was offline.
He was listening to you snoring softly and had flipped the channel to M*A*S*H reruns when the room suddenly went dark. The whir of the heater creaked to silence until the only sound in the room was the wind rattling against the windows.
Fuck. He thought.
"Jack?" Your voice was bleary with sleep.
"Power went out," He said in response, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and fumbling around for his crutches.
"Well—Don't—It might come back in a second—"
"It's not coming back on. They can't send crews out in this weather."
"Well the hotel must have a generator."
"Maybe," Jack said, now ruffling through his duffel for a flashlight, "But it might be a while."
He clicked on the switch on the flashlight and immediately felt relief as light flooded the room. Pointing it towards your spot on the bed, you squinted and covered your eyes with your forearm at the sudden brightness.
"Sorry," He said and pointed it away from you.
"Why don't we just get some sleep," You said through a yawn, "The power'll probably be back up by the time we wake up."
You were likely right, but the more time passed the more he felt like the possibility of him being able to sleep while you were right next to him was slim to none.
He reached for his prosthesis, "I'm just gonna take a walk to the front desk to see—"
"No!" You said quickly, and it came out almost like a whine, "Please, don't. I just, um, I don't wanna be alone."
He almost laughed, "Are you… Afraid of the dark?"
You sighed, "Don't make fun."
"I'm not," He said quickly, schooling his features, "I'm just surprised. I won't leave if you don't want me to."
"Thank you," You said, the relief in your tone palpable.
He climbed back into the bed, leaving the flashlight on the nightstand and pointing towards the ceiling so that it bathed most of the room in a warm glow. He saw you shiver after a moment and frowned, "You're cold?"
You sank deeper into the duvet, "I can already tell the heat is out."
"Well I have an emergency warming blanket—"
You laughed, "You really are prepared for everything, huh?"
Not everything. He thought. Not you.
Instead, he only shrugged.
"I don't want some weird foil blanket, I'd have to be close to hypothermic before I'd use it."
He chuckled, "Suit yourself."
But after almost twenty minutes without the heat, you were nearly vibrating the whole mattress with your shivering.
"Could I, um…" You sounded shy and when he looked over at you, you were staring at the ceiling, "Could I move a little closer to you? Just…For warmth. I don't wanna make you uncomfortable."
He fingers itched to pull you to him, envelop you entirely in his warmth, but he resisted.
"Yeah, of course." He said instead, carefully camouflaging the want from his voice.
You scooted your body over until your hips were touching his. He wanted to resist, really, he did. But you were so cold.
"Well, that's not gonna help you much," He said softly and turned on his side toward you, "Can I?" He asked, reaching his arms toward you.
You barely hesitated before nodding and he pulled you into his arms. Once settled, you sighed in contentment, running your hands along his arms as they held you flush to his chest.
"This okay?" He asked softly.
You nodded, "Yeah, you?"
He closed his eyes, "I'm good."
He relished in the feel of you in his arms, the way your chest rose and fell with each breath. With you so close to him, his mind wandered to thoughts of kissing your neck and allowing his hands to wander beneath your shirt, knead and toy with the soft flesh of your breasts—
Shit. He felt it when the blood rushed between his legs, his cock swelling and prodding at your ass. He felt the flush crawl up his neck, "Fuck, sorry, I—"
"It's okay," You said quickly, sounding a bit breathless, "It a normal reaction, but…"
He hung on your every word, "But…?"
"Well, I just, if—If it were more than that. That would be okay, too."
He thought his heart might have skipped a beat. He swallowed thickly, "Yeah?"
You nodded, "But it's okay if… if you don't feel the same."
He laughed, "You have no idea just how desperately I want you."
"Really?"
He nodded and used his hands to gently tilt your face to the side so he had access to your neck where he laid gentle kisses all the way up to your ear. You sighed and turned your head so you could meet his kisses. The taste of you, finally on his tongue, it was addicting. The sounds you made, better than anything he could have imagined.
His hands roamed up your shirt and as he teased and twisted your nipples, you squirmed against him, creating friction against his cock, "Jesus Christ." He hissed.
So quickly, you were putty in his hands, unable to string a sentence together. Drunk on his touch.
He slipped a hand down your belly and into your panties. Slowly, he ran his fingers over your lips and then circled your clit. Repeated the motion, ghosting over your entrance, but never quite penetrating. Until you were writhing against him, rutting your hips into his palm, whining for more.
"That feel good, baby? You want more?"
You hiccuped, nodding helplessly.
"You want me to fuck you with my fingers?"
"Please, Jack." You managed finally and he smiled, pressed a kiss just below your ear.
"Good girl, so good for me." He murmured and slowly pushed his middle finger inside you.
Already wet and aching, you accommodated the stretch with ease and he began prodding, finding where it was that most drove you crazy. Then he pushed his ring finger inside you, used his thumb to continue rubbing your clit.
In moments, you were falling apart in his arms. He cooed sweet words in your ear as you came down and then slowly slipped his fingers out of you once you settled again. Unable to help himself, he sucked your juices off his fingers. The taste of you riled him so thoroughly, his cock twitched, aching and full against his thigh as he considered splaying you open to feast properly.
But before he could do anything, the TV came back on and the heater hummed back to life. You turned in his arms to face him, the blue light casting shadows across your face. But it didn't matter, he saw the giddiness you tried to hide. You swallowed, "Looks like the generator kicked in."
He nodded and ran his thumb over your lower lip, "It's a shame, I was looking forward to keeping you warm all night."
Finally, a smile split across your face and you closed the inches between you to kiss him, "I'm still pretty cold," You said softly into his mouth, "If the offer still stands."
A wolfish grin spread across Jack's face as you began tugging at his boxers.
Stoner! Luigi who doesn’t let you get high with anyone else but him. He knows that if you went and bought weed from any other guy they’d overcharge you and find a way to get into your pants.. he thinks they’re all nasty and perverted creeps. He swears he’s not anything like them because he only makes you pay in pussy and not both 😇. ‘I’m doing you a favor, baby. Those other plugs are disgusting. I actually take care of you when you’re high.’ Swears it’s just more convenient for you to sit in his lap while he shows you how to inhale properly, his big hand resting on your lower back, pulling you flush to the growing bulge in his sweatpants that’s there because of how much more blissed out you look the higher you get. One arm wrapped around your waist so you can’t squirm away while he lights the joint, brings it to your lips, and murmurs ‘slow, deep breaths…just like that, good girl,’ while his other hand slips under your shirt. He tells you the cough is normal the first few times, but he’s already subtly grinding up into you every time you do it, getting harder at how teary eyed and flushed you get. And you just can’t help but give in after seeing that red, low eyed look on his face! Pulling your panties to the side and splitting your tight pussy open on his pretty cock over and over again after he moaned, ‘Mhmm, f-fuck, make that dick disappear like a good girl, baby. Fuck, you’re so much wetter like this.’
gerran being soooo touchy feely on set he keeps getting in trouble and people keep asking if you're okay... ugh
you just reply with "oh yeah he's just like that" with a happy smile even though he's really not.... at least not like how he is with you... his hands grabbing your waist and hips as he passed you as he talks to you. his hand fixing your hair or gently touching your face and neck. the way he hugs you.... isa swears she's seen his hand on your ass but maybe she was just seeing things...
the worst part is you always end up nearly getting caught making out... you'll sneak into his trailer to "run lines" when really he's running his tongue over whatever skin he can get to during your 20 minute break.
One time you were straddling his hips finding the perfect rhythm as your hips grind together and you get a knock at your door a familiar voice calling your name your hand flys over Gerrans mouth to muffle his moans and your hips came to an abrupt stop
"hey, wanna go get coffee while we're on break?" you hear Shabana's muffled voice on the other side of the door. You're scrambling to get up and shove gerran aside muttering at him to hide. he gives you a huff concealing his hard-on and moving out of sight so you can go out with Shabana
thankfully she didn't suspect anything...
on carpets he loves being next to you in pictures there's definitely a few of him whispering to you you just laugh so they think he's being clever but he's saying whatever perverse idea came to his twisted head. while you're hoping no one notices his hands grabbing groping your ass
no thoughts, just Jack becoming dad level pro max when learning his little baby has a slight hip dysplasia.
like wdym the solution is carrying the little worm around in front of his chest, making sure the legs are at a certain angle?? he literally loves carrying yours and his baby around all the time, this is easy.
when you're a little worried, because you're still recovering from giving birth and not being back to full strength to carry baby around the whole time, Jack's got you. He loves spending the day with his girls anyway and loves showing his little worm the world at all times so he's. got. you.
during the day, he has her strapped to his chest for long walks or just being busy around the apartment, telling her little stories in a low voice so he won't wake you. telling her what he's doing when he's cooking, washing dishes or watering the herbs on the window sill.
and baby is talking back at all times. it becomes their little ritual, they're having full on conversations and Jack is so sweet about it. "so, you don't say, little lady?" / "is that so, baby girl?" / "yes that's right, that's what I'm saying to your mama as well."
(also as a new mom, your hormones are going crazy anyway, so seeing your hot husband handling your baby with the outmost care, his arms flexing when adjusting the baby in the harness and bonding with her, is alternating your brain chemistry and also making you very horny for him)
but kiss me & i might...
⤷ jack abbot x nurse!reader ⌇ 23.1k
✶ ― SYNOPSIS. the 5 times jack abbot walks you home + the 1st time you invite him in.
warnings.ᐟ mdni! no use of y/n, night-shift nurse!reader, colleagues to lovers, slow burn, smut (jack pussy pleaser abbot and his big dick, soft dom jack, fingering, piv, unprotected sex, praise, creampie, cum play, cum eating, smothering?, sex against a wall + cowgirl, hair pulling [jack receiving], slight dubcon as they are both tipsy), age gap (reader is early 30s), fluff, pining, longing, workplace romance, mentions of mental health struggles + therapy as consequence of the pittfest tragedy, violence + workplace assault, jack calls the reader kid but it's only as a coping mechanism!!! (he's down bad), one too many references to drop dead by olivia rodrigo, no mentions of jack's late wife or his wedding ring, 1 reference to a scene from the movie fresh. i tried my best to represent jack's life as an amputee as respectfully as possible, deepest apologies if i failed to do so.
ᯓ★ hyde's input. wrote most of this in the hospital, boots on the ground journalism.
𓂃✍︎ dt. huge big fat sloppy wet kiss for miss @pinksplace for popping my beta-reader cherry and reassuring me that this was not straight up buns, no hotdog. your friendship means the absolute world to me, the fact you match my freak is just a bonus. and to my cousin @iamthatonefangirl for telling me to watch the pitt back in february, you helped awaken something in me that had been dormant for months. & to me for continuing my tradition of posting a fic on my birthday, finishing this was my present to myself.
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The first time feels like a fluke.
A rare silver lining of good stroked through the grey devastation that was today; after hours of wading through blood and gore, you at last strike gold.
“You heading off too, kid?” Despite the questioning tone in Jack’s voice, you know it’s an order.
He’s staring down at the park bench, eyes hovering over you and how tightly you’re still clutching that fourth can of beer, zoned out and completely oblivious to how everyone else has already packed up for the night and headed home. Not to sleep, no. It’s doubtful any of you will get much sleep, not after the events of today.
Robby had slipped away first, not without sharing a few final words of wisdom aimed at soothing everybody’s aching soul. Javadi followed soon after, abandoning a half-drunken beer as she went racing off to answer her mother’s beck and call. Mateo, Princess and Samira called it quits together, each heading off in different directions. Even Donnie left eventually, the now empty cooler in tow, his wife waiting patiently for him to crawl back to their newlyweds home and into her arms.
Then there were two.
Abbot and you.
Neither of you dared to interrupt the silence that had rolled in, minds too busy swimming in pools of thought, struggling against violent currents and attempting to escape the deep end.
Moonlight crept through the crevices between the branches above, cicadas came together to sing in disjointed harmony, and the world around you both kept moving, completely oblivious to how your own life had come to a halt. Somewhere between waking up to the screech of your pager and rushing through the doors of the PTMC to find it in a state of chaos, different and bloodier than you’d known it to usually be, you had shutdown.
Jack knew better than to force you out of that state.
He saw himself in your blank stares and the bouncing knees, remembered how it felt to be young, bright-eyed, and finally forced to reckon with how brutal this field could be. He didn’t need to ask to know: this had been your first mass casualty event.
Maybe that’s why he sat with you, the passing of time irrelevant, and let you fester in your shock. Let whatever cracks were forming in your heart deepen, because he knew it was the only way they’d be able to solidify. Let you exist on the periphery of life for however long you needed, his own senses fully intact and ready to watch over your body while your mind drifted elsewhere.
Only when he noticed you stifling a yawn did he act.
Jack, conscious of not startling you, moved slowly. Calmly.
He started with his prosthetic, lifting it off the bench and placing it back down onto the ground before safely attaching it. Then his bag, hands rummaging unnecessarily as though to check everything was in place — he’d already checked before leaving the locker room, but he figured another revision and a few more minutes for you to sit with your thoughts couldn’t hurt. Slinging one strap over his right shoulder, he pushed his frame off the wooden bench and came to a stand, the sickly-sweet gravel of his voice perforating the silence at last.
“Hmm?” Your reply is practically nonverbal, a simple hum. Enough to acknowledge the fact he’s spoken, yet not enough to answer his question.
Hazel eyes zero in on your own, observing how they’re tired, blinking just a little bit too lazily. The beer has warmed your cheeks, sped up your heart, and slowed your mind. Dancing on a tightrope between tipsy and inebriated, the last thing Jack is about to do is send you off home alone.
“C’mon,” he gruffs out, prying the can from your hand and laying it to rest on the bench. He replaces the weight of it in your palm with his touch, thick fingers effortlessly engulfing your own. To his delight, you give way easily, rising to a stand as he tugs you up. “Let’s get you home.”
You attempt some version of, “I’m fine.”
Jack pays it no mind.
Instead, he grabs at your familiar pink duffel bag. Something settles in his chest, dark and sickening, at the sight of dirt staining the bottom of the fabric, ruining your usually polished belongings. How apt it seems, a perfect mirror to how today has the left a smudge on you.
You stare at him all of a few seconds, eyes red. There’s no tears in sight, just the remnants of those that have already fallen. Then, when the older man shifts his weight off his right leg, you finally begin walking.
The journey is slow.
Jack’s unsure if you set the pace to accommodate to him or to put off the inevitable of going up to a lonely apartment, where all that work you’ve done to suppress the storm of emotions building inside you will prove useless the moment you step into the quiet of your home, the furthest place from danger and, yet, where all your troubling thoughts will at last catch up to you.
He thinks he’s better off not knowing, chooses to believe you’re doing it for his sake.
Some of your steps are swayed. The sight of your unsteady feet and teetering body are enough to keep his mind alert, fighting off the exhaustion that threatens to find him soon. This was supposed to be his day off, after all. He was supposed to be catching up on sleep right now, not watching over one of his nurses and worrying himself sick with thoughts of how today’s horrors will linger with you for years to come.
It was supposed to be your day off too, after all.
Neither of you should have been at the Pitt.
One man and a weapon had changed that.
You come to a stop abruptly, catching the doctor off guard and sending his solid frame crashing into your back. Before either of you can stumble too far, Jack’s snaking his free arm around your waist and stabilising you against him.
Maybe it’s the warmth of his palm, large and imposing and seeping through the cotton of your top. Maybe it’s the gentleness behind his touch, the way it anchors your feet to the pavement and silently promises that it- he won’t let you fall. Maybe it’s the weight of today finally shaking your unbreakable self, your arms too weak to keep holding you above water for much longer.
The reason doesn’t ultimately matter.
What matters is you’re finally speaking.
“Did you litter?”
Not exactly what Jack expected you to say.
It startles him for a moment, has him forgetting how today was full of horrors and has him wondering, instead, if you recycle.
It shouldn’t be so easy to picture you, bed head and a wrinkled shirt (preferably one that originally belongs to him), huffing and puffing your cheeks while you shoot around his kitchen, bags scattered along the island as you berate him.
Jack, how many times have I told you. Yellow is for plastic and cans, blue is for paper, green is for glass!
And wouldn’t it be so hard for him to fight back a smile, heart bursting with joy? A lovesick fool, happy to be lectured on the complex recycling system if it means having you, half naked, half awake, frowning at him as soon as you notice the shake in his shoulders.
Sorry, sweetheart. Promise it won’t happen again… And his hands finding your waist, pinning you to the marble counter-top so there’s nowhere for you to run from his mouth, trailing molten kisses up the expanse of your neck, lips lingering just to feel the steady thrum of your carotid pulse, physical evidence that you’re real, and here, and in his arms-
The blaring of a horn pulls Jack Abbot back onto the sidewalk.
You’re still in his arms but his lips are far from your neck and the speed of your heart is testament only to the anxiety speeding through your veins.
“Yeah. Maybe. I- I’m not really sure,” try as he might, he can’t remember if he ever moved your can from the bench. Is it still there now, half empty and waiting for its owner to return? “I’m sure someone’ll throw it away.”
Like you can’t dwell on the thought for too long, you move on, and finally say what’s really been troubling you.
“I don’t know if I-” the words catch on your throat, dry from the beer and raw with emotion. “How do I go back?”
Vague, unspecified.
Jack, with years of becoming fluent in you, understands.
“You find a way.” He wishes he could give you something more helpful, more reassuring. All he can offer you is the truth. “It’ll be hard. Different to how it was before.”
“I don’t think I can-” once more, emotions cut you off.
You’re not crying, not yet.
Stubborn as he knows you to be, steadfast in your need to remain strong until the very end. It wounds him in a way that feels a little too deep for a man who should see you as nothing more than a coworker.
Attending physician. Nurse. Colleagues.
Those are the only three words that either of you should use to describe the other. Jack knows, has known so for years. So, why does he keep having to remind himself?
“I don’t think I belong there, Doctor Abbot. You saw it, I froze. I hesitated. You had to ask me twice for the scalpel, and then- We lost him. If I had just- I should have-”
The hand at your midriff finds your shoulder, turns you around, and then his eyes find yours.
“Stop that, now. That man, he was good as gone when he reached us,” it’s a brutal truth but one that needs to be said. Jack knew it then just as much as he knows it now; that red wristband was destined for peeds. “You could have handed me that scalpel at the speed of light, and it wouldn’t have changed a damn thing, okay?”
You take a steadying breath.
It doesn’t work.
Instead, Jack watches it shake right through your frame. Your eyes drift from his own, like if he stares too long, he might catch a glimpse of every self-blaming thought racing through your mind.
“D’you even realise how many lives you helped save today?” The question comes tumbling out before Jack can stop it, some enate part of himself screaming at him to reassure you, to scramble up all the fractured pieces of you and slot them back together. That’s an attending’s job, right? To keep watch over the crew, to take care of the crew. So what if you’re off-the-clock? “One-hundred and six.”
“I only worked on-”
“Doesn’t matter who you personally worked on. Every one, you hear me?” He gives a squeeze of your shoulder, tells himself it’s because he wants to get you to look at him. If the touch happens to ground him too, it’s a coincidence. “Every life we saved tonight, you had a hand in that. You being there mattered, we couldn’t have done it without you.”
The words settle over you like a blanket, wrapping you in warmth and promising you shelter.
They don’t erase the sadness, don’t make it dissolve into a puddle on the ground, left to be forgotten on the dirty surface of the sidewalk. But they do enough to ease the tension between Jack’s brows and to wipe a layer of uncertainty from your eyes.
Then, unable to help himself, Jack adds, “I know I certainly couldn’t. Can barely intubate without my favourite nurse at my side.”
You laugh, slightly.
It eases something in Jack’s chest, nonetheless.
“Doctor Robby says it’s not right for attendings to play favourites.”
Now Jack is the one laughing.
You take the chance to pry your bag from his grasp, throwing the strap over your shoulder. The first act of Goodnight.
“Yeah, well, come to me again when Robby starts taking his own advice.”
There is no grand goodbye between you.
Just an exchange of fractured smiles, a subtle nod of approval from Jack as you take the first step towards the building’s entrance, and the wave of your hand before you turn fully and dash to safety.
Before you can slip through the crack you make in the building’s heavy door, Jack calls out, “I’ll see you tomorrow, kid.”
Once again, not a question. An order.
The second time is all about convenience.
It’s the last night of your monthly seven-days-on, the kind of shift where the hours stretch themselves impossibly thin and it feels like you’re crawling towards the end, a goalpost that keeps moving an inch out of reach each time you start to feel relief. By the time you officially clock out, shooting off towards the locker rooms before Whitaker can ask you to accompany another patient for a CT or Princess can enquire on any night shift gossip, you’ve worked an extra two hours and the bags beneath your eyes feel so heavy, they may as well be dragging by your feet.
Out of your scrubs, back into clothes that only partially carry the sterile stench of bleach and blood, you busy yourself with cramming things into your bag while trying your best to let Mateo’s generosity down softly.
“It’s fine, really,” even you have to admit that you don’t sound as sure as you mean to be. For a moment, you mull it over, imagine the comfort of letting yourself sit back and relax in the passenger seat of Mateo’s car. The sooner you’re home, the sooner your week off can start, right? Still, something within forces you to decline. He lives on the opposite side of the city and, with gas prices rising and his body’s tank running on empty hours before his next shift, the last thing you want to be is a nuisance. “I don’t mind the walk, gives me the chance to decompress.”
Your fellow nurse looks at you with a level of distrust, doubting the reassuring smile you cast his way.
“Are you sure?” Mateo pushes, dragging his tired body along the lockers until he stands behind yours. His curls, freed at last from the constraints of a hair-tie, peek out from the door. “I really don’t mind taking you. I mean, no offence, but you look like you belong on the set of Night of The Living Dead right now. Don’t wanna send you off just to later find out you tripped over air and wound up back here as a patient.”
Slamming your locker shut and giving his shoulder a shove — with no force behind it and doing little to move the man — you roll your eyes, “I’m fine, dingus.”
“Dingus? What are we, five?”
“I don’t know, you tell me. You’re the one treating me like a toddler.”
“Like a toddler-?! I’m trying to be a good Samaritan. A gentleman!” You dodge Mateo’s hand as it reaches for your duffel bag. “Now quit being stubborn and let me make sure you get home safe-”
Everything happens so suddenly, your brain is forced to compartmentalise every action, step by step, as they unravel.
Mateo reaches for the bag, again.
You dodge it, again.
You glide to the left.
You run shoulder-first into a solid wall of warmth.
And there he is. Jack Abbot, freshly changed out of his scrubs. Hair wet from a shower, an overly woodsy scent clinging to damp skin, black t-shirt stretched a little too tightly over his chest. Despite his attempts to scrub the night away, he’s thrown on the same pair of cargo pants he spent the last fourteen hours rushing around in.
You almost want to chastise his stupidity, until you remember you can’t.
Not only is he your colleague, he’s your senior.
What business do you have telling a man like him to do anything?
“I’ll take her home.”
Never a question, always an order.
Unlike weeks ago, world turned upside down and veins full of sickly beer, you have half the mind to turn him down this time. To inch away from where your body collides with his. To reinforce your grip on the pink strap of your bag. To shake your head and offer a polite, though bashful, smile.
“Doctor Abbot, it’s fine, really! You don’t have to offer me a ride, I really do prefer walking-”
“I’m not offering you a ride,” Jack shuts you up with a pointed look, eyebrows jumping as though he’s daring you to shoot him down again. “Car’s in the garage, something’s up with the exhaust. I’m walking your way anyway, may as well let me keep you company.”
The truth is, you’re not sure why you are so hesitant to accept his offer.
Jack is a good guy, and he’s certainly not a stranger.
You’ve known him since you first stepped foot in the emergency room. Younger and brighter, the both of you. Back then, he was still new. Back then, you were still a student. Time passed, as it tends to do; Jack became a trusted figure of authority, you graduated right into the night shift. Brief exchanges of good morning, good night, and how are you? during the shift handovers blossomed into good job, good call, and I need you with me.
Lena likes to tease you, throwing looks over the top of her glasses every time he saunters up to the nurses’ station, raps his knuckles upon the desk and tilts his head towards whatever room he needs you in.
He likes me because I talk to the patients, is typically your explanation while Lena looks at you otherwise. Keeps them busy while he works.
He likes you because you’re a pretty young thing, Lena never fails to retort between answering the every whim of the staff, like the charge nurse she is. Gives those hazel eyes something to ogle.
“C’mon, are you really gonna run away from a disabled vet?” Jack pushes, shooting you that infamous silver-fox smirk. Damn him and those arms, muscles pulled taut as he crosses his hands over his chest, impatiently waiting for you to give in. “What if I stumble and there’s no one there to catch me? That’ll be on you, kid. Think you can handle it on your conscience?”
“Yeah, imagine you come back next week and find out gramps here split his head open on the curb,” Mateo chimes in from the sidelines, only for the amused expression to melt the moment you pin a glare on him. “What? The man made a good point!”
“Yeah, kid,” you barely have the chance to register how swiftly Jack tugs the duffel out of your grip, staking claim over your belongings and securing himself as a guardian to guide you home. “I made a good point. Now, are you gonna keep me waiting? ‘Cause I’d really like to see the tail end of this place at some point today.”
So you let him walk you home.
Steps less swayed, back more stiff, you try your best not to think about the last time you both walked this path. You, drowning in sorrows; him, swimming effortlessly with his head above the water.
The sun is rising slowly, rays of golden warmth kissing over the city. It’s not enough to fight away the bitter chill of winter, sending your hands diving into the pockets of a flimsy coat, reaching for a warmth they never quite find. Beside you, Jack is unshaken, barely bothered by the way his breath reflects back at him with each exhale.
“You did good today,” Jack says today in place of last night, the true mark of what the night shift does to a person’s perception of the world. Daybreak becomes dusk, while dusk becomes sunrise. Where others prepare to start their daily ritual of adhering to capitalism, you’re crawling into bed and giving in to the sweet relief of sleep. “Calmed that kid right down.”
You know immediately who he’s referring to.
James. A sweet baby boy, barely a day past 6 months, running a fever of a hundred and three, and sporting a nasty ear infection.
Understandably, he had been screaming up a storm.
Unfortunately, a certain patient nursing a headache was screaming even louder, profanities that pleaded for someone to Shut that fucking baby up!
Jack had offered to shut the patient up.
You had a more peaceful idea.
“Oh, uh, thanks,” god, you feel pathetic.
Praise is far from something foreign to you. Patients, colleagues, and friends alike are always firing off at you, sweet words that affirm the simple gestures and quiet good you bring into their lives. Whether it’s through fluffing a pillow, aiding in procedures, or gifting out your time freely; praise always worms its way into your ears.
But this is different.
Jack is different.
Every good job, every well done, every thanks, kid; it shoots right through you. Lightning that electrifies you, takes you from a state of near asystole to tachicardic in as little as the few seconds it takes his lips to shape the words. Your cheeks warm, your palms sweat. Words run from you, leaving you to grab at the few you can manage and stumble over half-formed sentences.
Worst of all, you think he knows.
He has to, right?
A man like him has lived through enough — lived long enough — to recognise the tell tale signs of the effect he has on people. Hardly anyone is immune or safe from his charms, from college kids that wind up in a gurney after having a little too much fun with a fake ID, to elderly women rushed in by their panicking children, afraid a bad cough or a sore back could be the sign of something far more sinister in the aging body.
“How did you know it would work?” It takes you an embarrassing amount of time to realise Jack is talking again, head turned to watch as you walk alongside him rather than focusing ahead. “Flipping him over?”
Right.
James.
The crying baby.
Your peaceful idea.
That’s what you’re both talking about.
“Old wives tale,” you finally answer, mind drifting back to the memory of your quick thinking. The screaming baby, the screaming patient. Your hands, gentle as they picked James up. The questioning look from everyone in the room as you flipped the infant over, face down and hovering a few inches off the basinet. And then, silence. No more screaming baby. “My mum used to do it to me, flip me over when she couldn’t get me to stop. It just, y’know, shocks the system. It’s like flipping a switch, turning the baby off.”
“Huh,” somewhere above, a bird chirps, singing a song of good morning. “I’ll have to remember that.”
And then, before you can think any better or question the possible implications, you open your big mouth, “Why? Thinking of stepping into fatherhood?”
Jack gives you the worst possible answer he could have come up with: “No such thing as too late, right?”
“Yeah, maybe. If you’re a man,” you huff. “I, on the other hand, am running out of time on my biological clock as we speak.”
“Then you should get to work on changing that. If you ever need any help with it, I’m always here.”
He says it so casually, like each syllable doesn’t inch you closer to an imaginary ledge.
But his words aren’t what move you to silence.
It’s the imagery they conjure.
Positive tests and hospital visits.
The cold touch of gel on your belly, the warmth of a hand clasping your own.
Sweat rolling off your skin, limbs tangling with yours upon a mattress.
You have to physically shake yourself out of the… Fantasy? Nightmare? Mortifying hell-scape where you’re envisioning what it would be like to let a very handsome attending bend you over and get you pregnant?
“Oh my god,” you half whisper, half yell. “Doctor Abbot, did you just seriously offer-”
“Oh, you’re a pervert!” he has the audacity to exclaim as he swings your bag and bumps it against your thigh, the mischief in his eye the only thing that gives him away. This is Jack, after all, a notorious and shameless flirt. His words didn’t mean anything beyond making you flustered. “I was just offering up my kind and professional aid, as a healthcare provider and an avid champion behind women’s health.”
Head shaking and shoulders bouncing; you’re caught under the influence of Abbot’s charm. Completely unaware of the false sense of safety he’s lured you into, taking you by the hand and dragging you out to sea, waiting until your feet no longer reach the bottom, and then he let’s go, leaving the currents to pull you under…
In simpler words, he asks you the very thing you’ve been avoiding: “How's therapy going?”
“Good. Great. Yeah, I definitely feel a lot… Better. Thanks,” the words taste bitter on your tongue, bursting out of you with an urgency.
Maybe, you figure, if you say it fast enough, there will be no space to doubt it, no time to notice the lie.
“That’s amazing,” he nods curtly, only for that easy-going lilt on his lips to twist into something a little more sinister, a little more interrogative. “Cause when I spoke to Caleb, he said you haven’t been showing up. You wanna pretend you found someone else, or are you gonna tell me why you’re not using the help that’s there?”
You knew this conversation was bound to happen, from the moment Jack referred you to the PTMC’s trauma specialist, high-strung and hell-bent on fast-tracking your progress to mental wellness.
Jack hadn't known about the nightmares.
Or the sickening doubt.
Or the fact you remember every face you treated that day.
Even then, he knew you enough to notice the shift in your demeanour in the days following the Pittfest tragedy. He knew you enough to pull you aside and introduce you to Doctor Jefferson.
Deep inhale, slow exhale. Eyes focused on the pavement ahead, you finally answer, “I just… I don't like it.”
Jack scoffs.
“Nobody likes therapy.”
“It makes me feel… weak. Like I'm not cut out for this.”
You make it to your apartment building sooner than you expect, despite knowing the exact time it takes to trek from your door to the entry of the PTMC.
Any smarter woman would use it as an escape plan, as an excuse to duck out of a conversation that has you shifting weight from one foot onto the other and searching for anything to look at other than the whirlpools of brown that the doctor has pinned on you.
It turns out, you’re not as smart as you think you are, because your feet remain planted on the ground and there’s a feeling hollowing out your chest at the thought of parting from his side.
You will yourself to strip your bag from his grasp.
“Look, kid, I can’t force you to go. I don’t want to force you.” It would be easier to focus on what Jack is saying, if he didn’t have to sound so distracting. Soft-spoken, deep voice, on the verge of begging at an altar if it will get you to listen. “But I know what this job does to people, how it rots away at us if we don’t cure our wounds. I’ve lived it. I’ve seen it. I don’t want that for you. So just… Try, would you? If not for you, then for the poor old attending who really needs the help of his favourite nurse and her magic hands that manage to soothe even the weepiest of babies?”
Echoes of Mateo’s voice ring in your ear, his overly enthusiastic exclamation of The man made a good point! on loop.
There’s every chance you’ve been damned by some higher power, afflicted to live this life with a particular weakness to the man before you. It’s the only thing that makes sense, truthfully, when you find yourself conceding without a fight.
“Okay.”
How unfair it is, for eyes like that to light up so easily, “Okay?”
“Yeah, I’ll… I’ll give it a try.” This time, there’s no bitter aftertaste to your agreement. Just the cold hard truth on your tongue: you’ll take a step down the path towards help, the path Jack put you on. “Can’t make it any worse, I guess.”
“That’s my girl.”
His words hit you like a sucker punch, straight to the gut and leaving you winded.
You stumble, both on your words and on the stairs, as you bid him goodbye and dash into your apartment building.
Safely tucked away at last, a whole week ahead without the threat of mortifying yourself in front of Jack Abbot.
The fourth time is a matter of protocol.
Jack once heard Dana ask Robby, “is it really a shift in the ED if you don’t end it wanting to quit?”
Today more than ever, he feels an itch to see resignation papers.
Not his own.
Yours.
Wrapped up in the active war zone of a multi-vehicle collision, Jack’s hands, eyes and mind were too focused on the woman actively bleeding out on the table to notice you slipping out of the OR, called upon by the charge nurse.
She needed you to check on a patient.
A favour, quick and simple. That’s all it was supposed to be.
There was never supposed to be a grapple for power. Or the clatter of metal meeting the ground. Or the crack of a skull following suit. Or the sickening sound of someone calling code Hula Hoop, when Jack’s hands are too occupied to run towards the source of violence.
It takes him twenty-eight gruelling minutes to make it free from the trauma rooms.
Jack strips himself of the PPE with haste, gloves and gown practically disintegrating under the force of his need to get out of the room and find out what happened, who it happened to.
He knows the answer is you before Mateo even gets the chance to speak.
Lena is on the phone, barking orders down the line. By the few words he manages to catch through his own deafening panic, the police no doubt sit on the receiving end of her call.
There are other patients to attend to, and other matters that are far more pressing — from an outsider’s point of view — that call for Jack’s immediate attention. He brushes them all aside, near blind to any consequence as something commands his feet across the department floor and straight for Exam Room 3, where the tiniest glimpse of you waits behind glass.
Shen is already tending to you, planted firmly by your bedside while the Pitt’s newest resident, Nazely, runs through your vitals. One of your arms is bent backwards, holding a compress to the back of your head. There’s a spatter of blood down the shoulder of your scrubs, splotches of a deep red staining the grey fabric. If Jack looks at it for too long, he’ll throw up, so his eyes shift to your face instead.
When he finds you smiling, a flood of anger finally collapses the immovable dam within him.
Jack frowns before he can even think to stop himself.
“What the hell happened?” Disgust stains each of his words, bleeding all over the room and stiffening the shoulders of those who potter around you, Nazely and the nurses alike.
Only Shen is unmoved by his outburst, turning to meet him with a deadpan stare and a mocking finger pressed to his lips, before he breathes out a gentle shh. “Watch it, old man, my precious patient’s got a nasty headache.”
There’s a likelihood Shen doesn’t get the chance to witness Jack’s eye roll, as the older man slips right through the gap between your gurney and his fellow attending. Without a word of acknowledgement tossed your way, he pries the cold compress from your fingers, commanding you to drop your arm and yield the task of holding it against your head over to him.
This time, Jack speaks a little softer, “Are you gonna tell me what happened?”
“I don’t know, Doctor Abbot, there’s this thing called HIPPA-”
“John, I swear to-”
“It was my fault,” your voice cuts through the bickering of the two attendings, snapping the heat of Jack’s gaze off of Shen and onto you. The frown lines along his forehead ease ever so slightly, against his will, as you insist on flashing him an even bigger smile than before. “Lena, she told me- warned me the guy was in an altered state of mind. I shouldn’t have- I know better than to turn my back on a patient in that state. But it’s fine-”
Jack starts up immediately, hackles rising on the back of his neck as he takes the stance of a defensive mutt, ready to fight tooth and nail to protect its owner, “It’s not fine-”
“I’m fine, Dr Abbot,” pathetically placid, the brush of your fingertips as they graze his arm is enough to neutralise his outrage, nostrils no longer flaring with each puffed out breath of frustration. “He grabbed me, we tussled, and then I slipped on my own untied shoe lace.”
“And where is he now? This altered patient,” his grip slips slightly on the compress, apologies flooding his tongue at the slight wince the action wakes in you. Ignoring your pain, you take more notice of the hostility in his stance, quirking an eyebrow up at him in a silent question. “Don’t give me that look. I’m a doctor, I want to make sure he’s getting the standard of care he deserves.”
When you try to shrug off his interrogation, Shen finally proves he can do something other than get on Jack’s nerves this evening and unveils the truth, “He took off, slipped out the ambulance bay when they called the code.”
“Son of a-”
“CT’s back,” Nazely, quiet as a mouse, had managed to slip out the room unnoticed, and now shoulder-barges her way back in, carrying your results and cutting off Jack’s foul mouth. “Other than a nasty bump, you’re in the clear.”
It’s not that Jack doubts the intern’s ability as a doctor.
And it’s certainly not that he doesn’t trust Shen.
It just so happens that, when the young resident goes to hand-off your CT scans to one of the attendings, Ellis comes knocking on the door, demanding the input of her most trusted attending.
Jack’s never been more relieved to come in second.
Hawk eyes scan over black and whites images, and only once he’s confirmed with his own two eyes that you truly are in the clear does Jack feel that tension in his shoulders begin to unwind.
In a room that now only houses two, he lets himself stand as close to you as he needs, shifting his stance to keep watch on the doors on either side of the room — a guard dog that can never deny it's nature to protect, even as it nestles into its owner.
He doesn’t quite nestle into you, careful to obey that fine line of decorum that exists between colleagues, between a junior and a senior, between a girl your age and a man as weathered as him. No matter the itch in his palm that begs to be scratched by skin no other than your own, he resists the urge to touch you.
Until you move.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Puzzled by the sternness in his usually nonchalant voice, you gaze over your shoulder at him, now sat upright and with both legs swung over the other side of the bed, “To finish… my shift?”
And that is how his hand finds your arm, a grasp that is gentle yet firm, allowing him to guide you back into your previous position. In his other hand still sits the ice pack, as he continues pressing it to your head.
“Uh-uh,” the denial is followed by a tsk, as he slips back into Doctor Abbot mode and puffs out his chest, taking on the persona of big, bad, commanding professional who knows exactly what his patient needs. “Your shift ended the moment that head of yours hit the ground. And since that asshole-” a pointed look shoots his way, warning in your eyes. Jack corrects his previous verbiage, “altered patient who did this took off, new protocol says I can’t let you leave hospital grounds on your own. Now unless you know someone kind enough to pick you up at 4 am, I suggest you take the opportunity to get some rest. I’ll come wake you when the morning shift zombies start strolling in.”
He leaves no room for debate.
He leaves the room, drawing the curtains and switching off the light.
If Jack were even a modicum more brazen, he’d shamelessly have locked the doors, ensuring you can’t slip away to return to your duties. In the end, he doesn’t have to worry about catching you back out on the floor, as when he checks on you some time after five fifteen, Jack finds you curled into the bed, the ice pack now fully melted and discarded halfway down the foam mattress.
By the time he wakes you, the clock has long struck seven and Robby is breathing down his neck, urging him to open Exam Room 3 back up to actual patients and not just that nurse you like to ogle.
Something in your demeanour has shifted.
Quiet, slow, weighed-down. You don’t walk; you drag yourself to the lockers. Head turned to the floor, body pulled in on itself, voice soft as you bid people good morning and goodbye.
Jack follows in your footsteps, hovering in the periphery of your every move, from your locker out into the street.
You don’t acknowledge him, barely even look at him, yet you yield easily to the way he takes the weight of your bag off your shoulder, slipping it onto his own. And so he gives you your space, walks a few paces behind as you both inch along the path back home — your home.
A shiver forces him to break the silence.
It creeps down your spine, from top to bottom, and settles into your hands, a subtle shake that not even shoving them into the pockets of your coat can quell.
“Wait a second, would you, kid?”
Jack’s never fought so hard to keep his voice soft. Despite his efforts, you startle at the interrupted silence. When your feet pause on the concrete, it’s unclear if it’s because of his request or your shock.
Instead of dwelling on the thought for too long, Jack focuses on his self-assigned task, shrugging his bag off of one shoulder and manoeuvring it to lay against his chest, allowing him to observe the contents as his hand riffles through it. Digging way down past rolls of bandage, a tube of specialised moisturiser, a few odd pairs of compression socks, and various other miscellaneous wonders, his fingers finally happen upon what they’ve been seeking: hand warmers.
“Here,” he starts up, as he hastily rips a packet open and shakes the bag. “This should get the cold out your bones.”
Jack has always prided himself on his rationality. Controlled and composed, with eyes that have payed witness to more horrors than the heart can cope with, it is a rare — if not impossible — feat to catch him sporting a heart rate higher than seventy three.
Watching you envelop the warmer in both your palms, soothing out the shake brought on by early morning chills and the residue panic from your attack, he’s tachycardic.
Months of awaiting the rise of an opportunity — since that second time he walked you home and watched you attempt to hide your skin from the wind’s bite with the flimsy pockets of your coat — buying those hand warmers has at last payed off.
He’s not quite finished digging through his bag.
Untangling the ball that has become of his wired earphones, Jack awaits permission before slipping one bud into your ear, the other into his own. He plugs them into his phone, swipes along his catalogue of playlists, and hits play on the first one that catches his eye. Medicine in the form of music, doctor’s orders.
And just like that, you’re both on the move again. The silence between you now carries a soundtrack, a mixture of eighties rock and seventies funk marking the beat of each footstep. Jack no longer hovers a few paces behind, welcomed back to your side by the short string of wire dangling between you.
Halfway through The Cure’s Just Like Heaven, Jack catches himself entranced in the shape of your lips as they mouth along to each lyric, and it strikes him, then and there, that maybe a moment like this is what inspires a musician to write, to eulogise an emotion through the eternal art of music.
For a man who long ago stopped talking to any version of a god that may exist, walking along by your side, hands brushing occasionally, bodies drifting closer to each other’s orbit; it’s as close to heaven as Jack may ever get.
Jack doesn’t leave you at the entrance to your building.
He holds the heavy door open for you, follows you in. Learning quickly that you live on the third floor, he bites back a comment about how shaky the elevator is, enduring the ride up. Following as you weave through the hall, right down to the end, he keeps quiet as you pause outside a door.
For a moment, he thinks that you’re going to say goodbye. That you’re going to thank him for walking you home, again, even after he’s told you it’s no bother. That you’re going to fish out your keys and slip through the door, starting the countdown on the clock of when he’ll get to see you again, later tonight for another shift in the pitt.
What Abbot isn’t expecting is for you to turn to him, cheek already streaked by a rogue tear, with another dancing on your eyelashes and promising to follow soon.
You take a moment to find your voice, lips parting and delivering the promise of your voice, “I’ve never felt unsafe at work.”
He doesn’t answer immediately, wanting to let your words simmer.
You have other plans.
“But when he-” the crack in his heart echoes the one in your voice, lips trembling over silent vowels as you fail to speak.
Tears roll down like waves, crashing against your chin and dripping onto the neckline of your sweater. And all Jack can do is clench his fist, hold it close to his side as blunt nails tattoo their print into the flesh of his palm. He cannot risk letting his guard slip, risk acting on an impulse you might not welcome.
“I was scared.” You breathe out, like the words you utter are a grave sin, the weight of guilt at last ripped off your shoulders. “Which is stupid, I know. I was fine, it was just a- I shouldn’t of-”
“It’s not stupid,” he interrupts, daring to take a step closer, hands still glued to his sides. “You were attacked.”
Like hearing it spoken aloud clicks something into place, gravity kicks in and you finally come crashing down, waves of tears now aided by a storm of overwhelming emotions. Shoulders shaking, breath stilling, eyes landing on every inch of the hallway but the place he stands.
Jack is no stranger to stomach-churning sights.
He’s withstood the horrors of a war zone, watched bullets hit their marks and shrapnel claim countless victims — his leg, to name one. From the brutality of war to the chaos of an emergency department, he’s bit back the acrid burn of bile at the back of his throat; it comes with each life he fails to save. There are nights where he cannot count the dead on both hands, never mind one. He has reckoned with the missing piece of him, where empty space now occupies the flesh that once extended below his right knee. Perched upon a shower bench, or throbbing with a phantom ache, or soothing vaselines and creams into an angry red stump, Jack learned to endure the pain.
But this — you, breaking down before his eyes, barely a step between you both — brings on a pain like no other, something he can't quite describe.
Cracks are forming in his composure, a trait he wears like armour, threatening to spill onto the dirtied floors of the building's hallway. His fingers slip, no longer balled into fists but pressed flat against the top of his thighs, drumming a nervous rhythm into stained cargo. When Jack tries to clear his throat of the ball forming within, he nearly breaks out in a cough, choking on the comfort he longs to speak into existence.
You interrupt his collapse of self-control.
Two steps is all it takes for your forehead to kiss his shoulder. Dampness overcomes the grey fabric of his shirt, your tears staining it a darker shade. Jack freezes at first, hands unwilling to move beneath the growing fear of touching you wrong, scaring you off. Then, slowly, as the weight of you presses deeper into the crook of his neck, his arms find themselves taking full possession of you, fingers splaying up the length of your spine and pulling you tighter against him.
For a moment, the outside world holds no consequence. Jack is not an attending, you are not a nurse. There's no decade of time between the age of your bodies, nor a quiet though respectful history of admiration between you as coworkers. That acceleration of his heart is not a reason to panic but a reason to rejoice, no fear of any wicked woes from years gone by sneaking back up to remind Jack of troubles past.
No, none of that matters in this moment but you, Jack, and the syncopation of your breathing.
One of his hands finds your hair, equal parts warm as it is large when it cups the back of your head and smothers you closer into his pulse point. Suddenly he’s grateful he reached for the expensive cologne today.
Clearing his throat, Jack attempts to self soothe from the sharp pain in his chest that grows with every sniffle from you, “Fear doesn’t make you any less brave.”
Your reaction is delayed, barely acknowledging the fact he spoke at first, until you’re bursting into a fit of subdued giggles.
While laugher wasn’t exactly what he was aiming for, Jack can’t help but feel like he's succeeded at something.
“Who knew you could be so deep, Jack,” he wrestles with his body at your soft reply, willing himself to not imagine you mentioning deep and his name in a much racier setting, preferably splayed out on the navy of his bedsheets, hair a soft halo that further cements your image as an angel… An angel he wants to commit every carnal sin against.
You move too soon for Jack’s liking, who nearly clings onto your figure until logic kicks in and reminds him how pathetic of an image that would paint. There's a streak of colour down your cheeks, stains where tears have dragged away the subtlest hints of makeup, yet Jack swears he’s never seen you in a prettier light than this: beneath the cold, buzzing light of the hallway, stepping back from his arms with a look in your eyes far lighter than the one you sank into him with.
“Easy on the teasing, kid,” the nickname has never felt more like a lie, sour on the back of his tongue. The last thing Jack Abbot considers you is a kid. Younger? Of course, but nothing short of a woman, in shape and in mind. “I stole that quote from my therapist actually, I’ll have you know.”
Then, for reasons less related to muscle memory than he would dare to admit, Jack shoots a wink in your direction.
Goodbyes exchanged and apologies for wet shirts successfully curved, Jack lingers by your door until he hears you twist the lock shut behind you, a solid frame of wood bringing the abstract divide between you into the world of the tangible.
Right then, right there, still running on that same spike of adrenaline from when he first heard the horrid cries of code Hula Hoop, Jack Abbot is struck over the head with a horrific realisation.
One taste of you in his arms is not enough, and it never will be.
Jack needs more.
The fifth time is a matter of routine.
You’ve always been a fiend for structure; a creature of habit. Doctor Jefferson reckons it’s the perfect trait to balance out the chaos your field of work brings into your life — when you reiterate that explanation to Jack, him retying his laces for the third time in a row and you reshuffling the same stack of papers for a fifth time, the attending is quick to agree.
“Have you seen yourself eat a sandwich?” Jack’s defensive retort comes no sooner than a moment after your hand teasingly swats his shoulder. Unbeknownst to you, the sudden sway he gives has less to do with the force behind your hand, and everything to do with how your touch grips at his soul. “You’re the only person I know that takes the exact same order of bites, every time.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” your protest is far from filtered through any seriousness, words that are soon followed by an amused snort. “No I do not!”
“Uh yes, you do,” back on his feet and standing straight, Jack’s gaze lowers to meet your own, sitting prudently at your desk and finding any measly task to occupy your hands for five more minutes, if only to continue giving your feet the break they need from running here, there, and everywhere. Force of his own habits, or perhaps a nervous tick, you watch as the attending occupies his hands with the shape of his stethoscope, two fists dangling from his neck as he curls his knuckles and tugs on the object.
With your apparent eating habit now dragged into the spotlight, Jack dismisses himself with nothing more than a cheeky lift of his lips, and a muttered Duty calls! as a set of EMTs come strolling in with a gurney.
The rest of your shift passes in a Jack-less blur, your eyes and ears too occupied as you trail next to Parker.
She had lay claim over you no more than seven minutes into your shift, face lighting up like a Christmas tree at the sight of you strolling out from the locker room, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes as your body familiarised itself with the shape of your scrubs. Without even so much as a hello, Ellis grasped a hand around your forearm and tugged you off towards triage, paying no mind to Jack’s questioning gaze as you both shot right past him. All she offered him was a, “Sorry, Abbot, your girl is mine for tonight.”
Abbot didn’t correct her.
Your girl.
Every part of your psyche is aware it’s a minuscule thing to get hung up on, to feel your stomach fluttering with an unknown anxiety each time you replay the scene; yet it happens all the same.
As you assist Dr Ellis, passing her a scalpel.
As you rip off dirtied gloves and replace them with a new pair.
As you stir sugar into your third coffee of the night, eyes staring blankly ahead while Ellis talks your ear off, venting about her recent misadventures in love.
“And then guess what she said!” Parker’s voice may as well be going in one ear and out the other, because you’re far from listening, eyes too busy following the shape of Abbot as he cuts down the length of a hallway, one of the younger residents glued to his side and pitching their newest case.
Has the casual dominance he wears like another layer of clothing always had this effect on you, firing off error warnings in your mind as you watch him steer his resident out the way of an oncoming gurney — a motion that reads as second nature, not even so much as a moment’s thought running through him before he’s executing the action.
Ellis snaps you out of it, fingers clicking in your face and blinking her back into focus.
“Are you even listening to me?”
“Huh? What?” It’s torture not to let yourself get wrapped up in Jack again as he perches himself across from you both, elbows braced on the nurse’s station and arms straining at the seams of a navy top you swear is purposefully two sizes too small. “Yeah, of course I am.”
“Then guess what she said next,” despite the distrusting glint in her eye, Dr Ellis spares you the humiliation of telling you she caught you staring at her attending.
“Uh… That she’s not ready for a relationship, even though you met on a dating app?”
“Worse!” she exclaims, right as you notice Jack’s hazel gaze meet yours, intrigue practically dripping off his eyelashes with every involuntary blink. “I don’t date Virgos. I mean, can you believe that? The girl is navigating her love life by letting goddamn starry shapes guide her!”
“Hey,” you feign a face of offence, hand clasped your chest as though to shield your heart. “Some of us just like the comfort of fixed compatibility.”
You watch as the betrayal settles over Doctor Ellis, glazing over her already dead-pan stare with a look of pure judgement, “Et tu, brute? Go on then, shove your knife deeper, would you ever date a Virgo?”
“I don’t know. I guess? I’ve never really thought about what signs I wouldn’t date,” you pause, the hairs on the back of your neck standing to attention as a strange sensation of being watched creeps over you. But as you look back over in Jack’s direction, you find him engrossed in his phone. A pitiful feeling dawns over you, baptising your heart with a hollow ache only disappointment can conjure. “Weirdly though, all my exes have been either a Pisces or Gemini. I don’t know what that says about me but-”
You finish on time, for once.
No last minute emergencies, no lingering to help Jack as he squeezes one last case into his already-finished shift, no letting your scrubs overstay their welcome; you pry them off like they are caught ablaze. And then you linger.
Hands occupy themselves with minuscule tasks, organising and rearranging the items in your locker; then unzipping your bag and going through each of your belongings. Eyes take the occasional peek towards the entries of the lockers, and ears perk up each time footsteps grow closer.
It’s only when Jack steps through the door at last, defeat written all over his face, that your mouth moves. First, stretching into a smile, and then forming a few words.
“Rough night?”
Relief ripples his features at the sound of your voice — like finding a streak of sunlight on a rainy day— bringing the tiniest spark of joy back into his sunken eyes, “Thought you’d have gone by now, kid.”
You waver, something about his question feeling accusatory, even if he delivers it in the gentlest of voices.
Why haven’t you left?
A troublesome cat, an unfinished box-set, and a bowl of leftover pasta sit in the confines of your apartment, practically begging you to race home back to them and delve yourself into comfort, that momentary pause to the chaos of the PTMC you struggle to find in the hours between shifts. A few months ago, you would already be a glass of wine deep and settling in for just one more episode of many, far from lingering like a bad scent amongst the lockers. But then again, a few months ago, the road home was a lonely one.
At what point did that seventeen minute walk become the highlight of your day?
Something warm meets your nostrils, dragging your attention across to where Jack now stands, spritzing his sweat-ridden neck with a few pumps of cologne. You don’t mean to notice the bottle has less than a quarter of its amber liquid left. You also don’t mean to reminisce on the first time you saw the bottle, clasped in Jack’s hands. The memory was one you thought would be singular, never once before having witnessed the older man groom himself after a shift.
Instead, it’s become his signature.
Clock out, hit the lockers, drown the stench of bleach with a warm musk, and then…
“Do you have any gum?”
You know this scene all too well, you almost get ahead of the script and answer before he even asks. Fortunately, you manage to play it cool, “Uh, let me check… Yes!”
Jack doesn't need to know that you didn’t really need to check.
And Jack definitely doesn’t need to know that you never used to carry gum, not until the first time he asked.
But does he need to move closer, that cloud of freshly sprayed cologne enveloping you in its arms, just to pluck the strip of gum from your outstretched hand?
Mint blankets over the notes of bergamot and black pepper, and Jack washes away the stale coating in his mouth, jaw wound tight as he crushes the white rubber beneath his molars.
He doesn’t inch away, retreat back to where he once stood. Instead, his hand finds your own, fingers bumping against yours and silently commanding you to relinquish control… Of the strap of your bag, of course, index and middle finger hooking beneath the padded fabric and slinging the bag over his own shoulder.
“You know,” you say, because you have to. If you don’t distract yourself with speech, you’ll drown in those hazel eyes, too close for comfort and, yet, nowhere near close enough. “You should really start bringing your own gum. Or a toothbrush, if you’re that scared of having a bad breath. What if I switch to day-shift, huh?”
Maybe Jack scoffs in disbelief, knowing there’s not a version of reality where you elect to work days. Or maybe the scoff is a way of downplaying his irritation at the thought, possessive over the sheer possibility of losing his girl to the likes of Robinavitch, hot-head extraordinaire with a touch of suicidal tendencies.
Whatever his reason, Jack is quick to mask the original expression on his face with an easy smile, one corner of his lips twisting upwards as he shrugs, “It’s less to do with not wanting a bad breath, more to do with the fact I like being in your debt.”
Frozen in shock, mouth slightly agape and brows furrowing, you barely register as Jack starts to make his way down the hall, snapping out your trance only as he calls your name.
Like a dog called to heel, you scurry off to join his side.
Jack stops informing you that he’s walking you home.
Without fail, every shift, he shows up, steals your gum, invades your space, and takes your baggage hostage, guiding you out of the ER with the ghost of his touch against your lowers back, steering you through the crowd of ailing folks and stopping you from diving in to help.
Conversation is no longer something the space between you demands, a comfortable silence settling in; the wind down of a hectic shift sound-tracked by the sound of a city waking up, the smack of your footsteps hitting the ground, and the occasional exchange of words.
Like today, as you pass by a unit under construction and Jack reads over the sign: a soon-to-open sushi restaurant.
“You ever been to Japan?” He asks, curiosity practically beaming from his eyes.
“Never. You?”
“Once, when I was young-” he hesitates, like he intended to add -er to the end of his word but decided against it. “Would you ever go?”
“To Japan?” He nods. “Yeah, maybe.”
His reply arrives like a confession, gentle and lacking the confidence you’ve come to associate with Jack, “I’ve been meaning to visit again.”
Silence keeps you both company the rest of the way, until your feet come to a halt outside your apartment block. Jack doesn’t intend to follow you to your door, not like the last time. Instead, he shrugs off your bag and helps you slip it over your own shoulder, using those large hands to scoop your hair up, rescuing you from the sharp sting of feeling the strap pull down on it.
Then Jack announces, just as lacking in confidence as the last time he spoke: “I’m not a Virgo.”
You stare at him, blinking slow, letting his words settle into the grooves of your brain and sink down until some part of you starts to make sense of them.
The more he speaks, the clearer it becomes what he’s attempting to say, “Or a Gemini. Not even a Pisces.”
Suddenly, those moments as you stood listening to Dr Ellis’ romantic woes, with the nurses station between you and Jack and fleeting glances snuck between nurse and attending, it all feels less innocent, less casual. More intentional.
Jack had been listening, hanging on to your every word as you entertained Parker and pretended to allow astrology to rule over the romance in your life.
“Just, thought I should let you know,” much to your dismay, Jack’s fleeing quicker than you can chase him, a sheepish smile overcoming his face and a hand reaching up to rub at the back of his neck. “In case you were ever wondering.”
Finally, there is the time where lines blur.
“Come on,” the tell-tale whine of a tipsy Trinity Santos rings out of your phone’s speaker, interrupting an intimate evening for three: you, your cat, and a cheesy horror movie, where the only thing scarier than the lacklustre VFX are the plot inconsistencies. “Even Crash- Ow! Sorry, I mean, even Vic is here!”
The last thing you want to do on your night off is to squeeze yourself into a pair of jeans and spend it in the presence of the exhausted day-shifters, four-drinks too deep for you to ever catch up, no matter how many shots you throw back.
Unfortunately for you, the only thing more convincing than Trinity’s pleading is Whitaker’s tipsy bellow of your name, followed promptly by, “I need a karaoke partner! Santos ditched me for Mel!”
It’s only with a groan that you agree, “Okay. Fine, yeah, whatever. I’ll come. But I’m having an early night! No seven am walks of drunken shame like last time!”
“Don’t worry meemaw, we’ll get you tucked into bed before three, latest,” Santos’ laugh rings down the line, the alcohol coursing through her veins amplifying the humour she already finds so easily in her own words. “Now hurry, the bar closes at eleven, then who knows where the night might take us!”
You enter the bar, already braced and ready for the impact of the Pittlings swarming you, like bees drawn to honey, a tangle of arms wrapping themselves around you. Only as Mel let’s you go — the last to do so — do you notice a figure you had not anticipated.
Dr Robby, sat in all his grumpy glory, greeting you with a tightlipped smile and a single wave of his hand. Before you can even open your mouth, ready to return the greeting, you take a step forward, heel landing in a puddle of spilled drinks, and nearly slip… only to find there’s a presence at your back.
Not touching you, but there; hovering, lingering. A buzz of energy trapped in the minimal space between the small of your back and the warmth of a hand.
“Careful, kid. There’s better ways to fall head over heels.”
Without even having to turn your head, you know it’s him.
You do so, anyway, and welcome in the sight of Jack Abbot clad in a pair of dark jeans, dark boots, and a white button up, sleeves rolled below his elbows and with the buttons undone enough to tease the way his collarbones sit dusted by freckles. Familiarity is in his scent, a cloud of his cologne settling into the atmosphere above your head, and the low lights of the bar catch on his pupils, reflecting warmth.
A million thoughts run through your head: how he’s no doubt come to keep Robby company, how the sleeves of his shirt are practically choking his biceps, how wrong it feels to see him surrounded by the Pittlings, how much of a relief it is to see him.
But all your mouth can manage is an unpleasant, “Why are you here?”
The table’s chatter comes to a pause, all eyes on you two as an exchange of chuckles, whistles, and even a soft ouch crawls its way out of Robby’s lips.
“No! Sorry, I-” hellbent on embarrassing yourself, it seems, you groan as your face dives into the safety of your palms, cheeks hot to the touch. “That’s not what I meant-”
Fingers seize your wrists in a gentle grasp, momentarily soothing over your rapid pulse point before they tug your hands away from your face, putting you back on display to the rest of the bar. All you see is Jack, in front of you, biting back laughter and fighting off a teasing grin.
“I know what you mean,” by the grace of something merciful, he lets go of you, sending your hands dropping back down to your sides. “I swapped with Shen. He needs my Sunday off.”
At the mercy of God, or the universe, Samira puts an end to your humiliation ritual and jumps out her seat, lacing her arm with yours, and drags you off in the direction of the bar, “Let’s get you a drink. Alcoholic, preferably!”
A half hour passes in the blink of an eye, clock striking ten and beginning the countdown to the bar’s closure. You down your first drink - a concoction of fruit juice, and syrup, and cheap liquor. The second is one you treat a little kinder, nursing your glass of vermouth and giving it the attention it deserves, each sip a chance to let the flavours melt into your tongue. By your third, the sweet feeling in your chest is enough to counter the bitterness of any drink, and so you move onto the cheap beer Trinity clings to like a lifeline.
Jack sits furthest from you, alternating between sophisticated sips of a bourbon and gulps from a beer bottle his hand engulfs entirely too easily. Despite the fact he sits knee-deep in conversation with Robby — who has spent most of his night complaining, no doubt, about a recent run-in with Gloria — while you lend an ear and a smile to Dennis as he pleads his case to you on why his friendship with a certain widow is perfectly innocent, the two of you orbit each other.
With eyes that wander, drawn from one side of the table to the other. At first, it’s bashful: whenever you catch him, Jack’s neck snaps his attention right back to his fellow attending. But as the drinks flow and time ticks on, it grows bolder, transitioning into a challenge; hazel eyes pinning your own into a staring contest as they watch you over the rim of his glass. You lose, conceding to whatever force draws your eyes down like magnets to the sight of his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.
With fingers that toy a line between distance and friction. When you reach for the handful of nuts at the centre of the table, Jack’s fingers meet your own in the bowl. The graze is minute, barely a whisper of contact between skin, yet it shakes you to the core. Familiar fingers meet your skin as Jack makes his way around the table, excusing himself with needing a trip to the bathroom. It’s as he passes you that he strikes, a teasing drum of fingertips against your shoulder — mimicking the call of someone searching for your attention — that has your head turning to the right, only to find no one there. By the time you catch onto the fact it was Jack, he’s standing in a queue for the toilets and offering you a challenging raise of his brows. What the challenge is, you don’t quite know yet.
You’re not given the chance to dwell on the thought, not when Santos slams an empty bottle down into the centre of the table and declares, “Time to find out all your dirty secrets. Truth or Drink!”
A chorus of groans echo from the surrounding party, yourself included… Yet you all entertain her all the same, no one daring to challenge her pointed stare as she spins the bottle.
It lands on Mel, whose excitement lasts all of the seven seconds it takes Trinity to dish up a question.
Have you ever tried to break up a marriage?
Mel drinks.
Victim #2, much to Trinity’s delight, is Javadi.
Javadi, who already is nose deep in her glass before a question can even hit the table, slamming her empty cup down onto the table with a sheepish smile.
“Dammit, I was gonna tell Mel to ask about Mateo,” comes Santos’ disappointment.
The younger girl is just as quick to reply, “Why do you think I drank?”
Poor Robby ends up roped into the game next, following in the footsteps of the previous players and drinking instead of answering Javadi’s interrogation, “Do you follow me on TikTok?”
It’s when Dennis takes a swig of his colourful cocktail that Samira groans, surprising the entirety of the table as she throws her head back and exclaims, “Oh my God, you people are so boring! All too chicken to answer!”
Jack seems to take that as a challenge, for when the bottle comes to a halt, neck pointed in his direction after Dennis spun it, his arms remain firmly crossed over his chest.
“Shit. Wow, okay,” the younger boy is startled, no question burning on the tip of his tongue for a man he barely knows. So he settles with something simple, something impersonal, something with no deeper intention behind it to humiliate the man: “When was the last time you lied?”
Jack doesn’t answer immediately.
No, he makes a show out of turning his wrist up to his eyes, squinting as they read of the dials and his face settles into an emotionless expression, “Like… an hour ago?”
Quick as a whippet, Trinity dives at the first chance to investigate, “Who did you lie to?”
“That’s a different question,” Jack fires right back, reaching for the empty bottle to spin.
For some reason, his eyes are pinned on you. Even as the bottle lands on Trinity, they linger on your frame, that same unknown challenge in his stare.
The bar spits you all out at four minutes past eleven, bodies spilling out into the street. It’s chaos, voices of strangers mingling in with those of your coworkers. You’re being tugged each and every other way, a million questions fired in your direction.
C’mon, don’t you agree we should go Downtown?
No, no! We have to head to Passion!
Ew, Passion sucks. Every surface is… sticky.
Can’t we just go anywhere that offers karaoke?
Poor, unsuspecting Dennis is left flinching back in shock as a unified bark of No! comes from all the girls, disgusted eyes burning him for so much as daring to suggest such a thing.
“Wherever you kids are going, it won’t be with her,” Jack, emboldened by the booze in his veins, finally lets that hand of his fully press against your lower back. Your head turns to find him already watching you, amused by your puzzled look. “You’re working tomorrow.”
“So are they!” You exclaim, hand pointing out to the crowd of Pittlings. “They have work sooner than I do!”
“And that’s Dr Robinavitch’s cross to bear. You, on the other hand,” a finger drags down the slope of your nose, taping against the tip as Doctor Abbot leans down to your ear, like you’ll suddenly lose the ability to hear him over the noise of the city streets. “You’re my problem.”
It’s hard to breathe; the night air too cold, too thick, too drenched in Jack’s cologne.
You know his reputation; you’ve been victim to it. Jack Abbot, shameless flirt, tongue always locked and loaded with a comment capable of shaking even the most stable of heartbeats. But this is different.
This is his hands on you, this is his voice claiming some form of ownership over you, this is his stare tearing through the fabrics of your being and embedding itself inside your chest, awakening a kind of warmth that even the hottest Pittsburgh summer day would envy.
“Boo!” It’s Victoria who cries out, cutting right through the budding tension between nurse and attending, one-too-few seconds away from blossoming into something far from the professionalism of colleagues. “You’re leaving already!?”
Your mouth opens, ready to answer.
Jack steals the words right out your mouth, “Yes. I think it’s about time we leave, don’t you agree?”
Spotlight pointed at you, he puts you on the spot for the entire group to watch how you fumble over a simple, “Uh, sure.”
The hand against your lower back sticks to you like a magnet the whole way home.
A journey longer than the one you usually stumble down with Jack by your side. It would have made more sense to hail a cab, any rational adult would recognise that, yet neither of you dare to suggest it. Crowds of drunken fools spill out from bars and invade the sidewalk — the kind of stumbling messes that activate a cynical part of you, wondering just how many of them will wind up in the care of your colleagues before the end of the night — Jack answers their invasion by drawing you closer, footsteps fading to the back of yours as he guides you to walk ahead of him, the burn of his hand reminding you that he’s there, that you’re safe, that no wave of foreign faces is going to sweep you up and drag you away.
Even as you make your way up the stairs to your apartment floor, elevator out of service, Jack lingers a few paces behind, watching your every move.
It’s as your fumbling around in your purse, fingers blindly rummaging through loose change and half-empty lip gloss tubes in search of the keys to your apartment, that Jack takes it upon himself to start spewing revelations.
“It was you,” he says, pauses and, when met with your questioning eyes, glancing back at him over your shoulder, clarifies. “The last time I lied, tonight. It was to you.”
A few seconds pass in silence, and then, “Oh.”
“Shen doesn’t need Sunday off.”
“Oh.”
“I knew you were off tonight.”
“Oh.”
“Oh,” he leans down, enters your orbit and invades you with the knowledge of how solid his chest feels pressed against your back, and how warm his breath feels, brushing against the shell of your ear as it mimics your repetitive exclaims of shock. “‘S that all you know how to say?” Before you can politely beg him to back up, for the sake of your sanity and your fraying willpower, hanging on by a single thread that seems more than eager to snap and unleash the burning in your loins upon the older man, Jack shuffles a few steps back and takes a deep breath — the kind that has his shirt straining against the growing width of his chest. “It’s not the first time I’ve lied to you.”
“Oh- Wait,” Cut off by your own confusion, you spin on your heel a little too quickly and stumble forward, hand inches away from rediscovering the meaning of balance against his chest. “What have you lied about?”
“There we go, finally using that pretty voice properly again,” if you had known this was what a tipsy Jack Abbot behaved like, you would have offered him a drink months ago. Especially with the way his cheeks sit blushing in red, a shy imagery to contradict the growing boldness in his words. “My car was never in the garage. I even drove it to work that day. But you wouldn’t accept Mateo’s offer for a lift, so I figured I’d need a real good excuse to walk you home.”
Clarity washes over you not in repeated waves, but in one single tsunami.
Overwhelming, a wall of emotions flooding over your being. You mentally retrace each step you’ve taken in his company. Each walk home, each careful conversation exchanged between you. Every cloud of worry that hovered overhead, convincing you of a reality where your presence and the act of accompanying you home is nothing but a burden to Jack Abbot, a simple kindness that’s gotten out of hand and now he does not know how to back out of.
But his words bend that reality, until it snaps in half and ceases to exist. Because here Jack is, telling you he orchestrated reasons to walk you home, excuses to linger in your presence after the night shift came to an end and patients are no longer a force that brings you into one another’s proximity.
Jack Abbot wants to be around you. So why on Earth would you part from him now, just because your finger had hooked itself around a keyring?
“Jack,” in the quiet of the hallway, his name echoes off your lips, uttered more intimately than ever before. “Do you want to come in for a drink?”
Your confidence is a case of easy come, easy go; dissipating before you can even wait for a proper reply from the man. Anxious thoughts dialled up and overloading, you turn back to face your front door, shakily shove the key into the door, and unlock something that feels a little more than just your apartment, a point of no return awaiting in it’s premises should Jack choose to accept your offer.
Walking in before Jack can speak, you get your answer with the gentle closing of the door behind you and the clearing of Jack’s throat, swallowing back what may just be a similar ball of emotion swelling within your own.
If you had anticipated Jack Abbot standing in your living room tonight, you would have at least attempted to tidy up.
Then again, if you had anticipated this, there’s other things you would have done differently… You would have made sure you actually had something to offer him to drink, for starters.
“Uh… I don’t have any beer,” you mutter, more to yourself than Jack, one hand holding the fridge door open and the other rummaging through the half-empty shelves, like you might somehow unveil a surprise bottle of anything-worth-drinking. “I can offer bourbon? Maybe? Or I’ve got leftover wine. Might have gone bad though. Shit, sorry, I really don’t have anything to offer.”
Closer than you anticipate, hovering by the entry to the kitchen, Jack rasps a careful, “Just you is fine. ‘S all I’m really here for.”
Like two opposing magnets drawn together by an unseen force, distance becomes null and void as eyes meet and you both inch closer, devouring the space between you with careful steps. Face to face at last with everything that has been brewing beneath the surface of your interactions, you barely squeeze out a whisper of his name before Jack claims your mouth as his prisoner.
Lips lock like shackles, trapping you in place against the older man. Hands find one another’s frames, his large palm staking claim over the back of your neck and tilting your face into the perfect angle for him to deepen the kiss, tongue teasing with a graze over your lower lip, the beginning of a chuckle bubbling in his chest as you answer his touch with a pitiful whine, before he finally licks into your mouth. Your own hands carve out a path for themselves, sliding over the expanse of his broad shoulders, curling around the tightness of his biceps, trailing down his waist to find the worn out leather of his belt, two finger hooking beneath and drawing his body closer — like any space still exists between you.
He lets you move him all the same, walking yourself backwards and dragging him along until your back hits whichever wall sits the closest. Any memory of the layout to the apartment you’ve spent the last five years living in has melted away in the heat of Jack’s mouth, kissing you like he has something to prove and this is the only chance he’ll ever get.
Squeezed flush against one another, no barrier but clothes sitting between, you feel the shape of him pressing into your hip and making you painfully aware of the fact Jack Abbot, the older attending you forced yourself to learn to observe quietly and cautiously from a safe distance, now has his semi-hard cock straining against you. That realisation must run through you too viscerally, for Jack’s soon tearing his mouth away from you.
“Shit- Sorry,” he just about gasps the apology out, lips incapable of drifting too far for too long, a smatter of kisses meeting the edge of your jaw as you feel Jack angle his hips away from you. “Been a while since I last-” He’s cut off by his own groan, reactionary to the weight of your hand landing atop the bulge of his jeans, palming at the length of him in hopes of finding out just how hard he can grow. “And I’ve just been thinking about this, ‘bout you for so long. Just-” greedy mouthed, even his desperate please for apology are interrupted by the drag of his tongue over your pulse point. “Ignore it, I’ll keep myself in check. Don’t wanna come on too strong, scare you off.”
It’s a bit late to retreat now, is what you want to say, with the way your thighs are squeezing together in search of any friction and the cotton of your panties sticks uncomfortably against your folds.
But Jack is blushing enough as it is, tips of his ears as red as you imagine his hair once was, face burning hot as he burrows it deeper in your neck. So you spare him some kindness and settle on the buckle of his belt, choosing direct action over teasing words.
A switch seems to flip at the brush of your fingers as you reach for Jack’s belt, attempt to dive beneath the waistband of his boxers. The older man stiffens against you, in more ways than one, head rising from your neck like a cobra enchanted by the notes of a flute. Thick fingers curl around your wrist, prying your hand from him gently yet accompanied by the disapproving tut only an authority figure could conjure, moments away from teaching you a lesson.
His chastisement isn’t vocal but physical, dragging your wrist up to his mouth and greeting it with the gentlest press of lips, right where your pulse recounts a soliloquy on the affect this man has on you, heart rate spiking. Jack lingers, face turning to brush the tip of his nose against your skin while his eyes slip shut, like he’s drowning himself in the fading notes of your perfume. Then, he jumps right back into action, manoeuvring both your arms above your head and pinning them against the wall.
“No one ever tell you to keep your hands to yourself, sweetheart?” No man’s condescension has ever sounded so appealing, so soft. A softness he pairs with the brush of fingers, his free hand tracing a path for itself down the length of your torso, catching on the waist of your jeans and lingering, only to continue its descent over the shape of your thigh. “‘S okay, I don’t mind being the one to teach you.”
“Doctor Abbot,” you breathe, something stirring in your bones the longer the man stares at you, eyes spilling secrets of every degenerate thought passing through his mind.
“Really?” Jack reclaims your skin with his mouth, teeth scraping over your clavicle before his tongue tastes your flesh, a slow drag of the wet muscle halfway up your neck. Your pulse, a bass drum thrumming against the restraints of your veins, brings him to a pause, luring him into peppering a series of chaste kisses over the spot. All the while, his hand is familiarising itself with the curve of your thigh, fingertips dragging over the seam of your jeans and following its journey north, inching towards your clothed core. “Still calling me that, even while I’ve got my hand between your thighs?”
Maybe the alcohol is clouding your judgement, eradicating any hint of the usual hesitation that has ruled over past encounters like these, leaving you shy and bashful, and far from the kind of person willing to rip their aching desire right out their chest and present it to it’s new owner, heart in hand and lust in eyes.
The unexpected confidence boost has your hips shamelessly rolling into the palm of Jack’s hand as he engulfs the expanse of your core. Breathing stalls as the inseam of your jeans brushes against your lace-covered clit, pulsing with anticipation of whatever the older man plans to do with you.
“You’re beautiful, y’know that?” It’s unfair, hearing such earnest words falling from his lips, a touch of breathlessness to further sweeten the desperation in his voice; all the while one hand tightens it’s grip on your fidgeting arms and the other, firm and steady, undoes the button of your jeans and begins drawing the zip down at an agonizing pace. “Dangerously so. Might have to file a complaint soon, tell the board how inappropriate it is of you to distract me with just a smile while we’re meant to be saving lives.”
A sigh, delicate as silk, robs you of the satisfaction of replying instantly, body too busy accustoming itself to the intrusion of his hand on your skin, explorative touches that dip beneath your waistband and drag slowly through your folds.
Stealing yourself and silencing the part of you that wants to melt into his hand and let him remould you into something new, you eventually manage an amused, “I can always change departments, Dr Abbot. They’re always looking for extra hands with the inpatients.”
“Do that, and I’ll drag you back, kicking and screaming, if I have to.”
Beneath your clothes, the tip of Jack’s middle finger has taken to dipping between the warmth of puffy lips, collecting a dollop of your liquid pleasure, and lathering it over the desperate nub of your clit in gentle circles. His movement is casual, careless, not a hair out of place or a shaking of nerves evident on the man in front of you. Just the hungry eyes of a man in control, ready to take his time tearing you apart bit by bit, in a way only he can put you back together after.
“Fucking soaked,” Jack’s comment feels aimed at his own ears, a passing acknowledgement of your state that you just so happen to hear as he brings a second finger up to lazily play with your clit, all the while the wet patch soaking into your panties grows, no doubt seeping through lace and staining denim. “‘S actually a little pathetic, kid. I’ve barely even touched her and she’s weeping for me.”
Heat burns at your cheeks, the foul nature of the words leaving his mouth bringing you to a confusing state of embarrassment mixed with the headiness of lust, clouding your better judgements and axing whatever part of your brain is in charge of overthinking, just in time to halt a spiral down into the dreaded pits of sleeping with a coworker, a man you’ll have to continue to see nearly everyday, for better or for worse — everything hinges on how tonight ends.
There’s no time to worry about the end when Jack is just beginning.
Those same fingers that teased at your clit dip lower, nestling themselves between your folds. As though shocked by your warmth, you feel more than hear the man groan into your neck, a half-bitten back string of curses parting from his pretty lips.
“Can I, sweetheart?” His plead for permission pulls you out of your body momentarily, mind drawn away as it attempts to recall the last time a man bothered himself with asking before taking. “Need to know how she feels, ‘s all. Can you let me do that, hmm? Let me fill her with my fingers? Promise I won’t ask for more, won’t push my luck. Christ, already know I’m pushing it now, thinking an old man like me has any business messing with a pretty thing like-”
“Yes, Jack!” Cutting off his rambling mouth, your hips keen into the tantalising drag of his fingers through your slit, a back-and-forth motion he’d spent his whole monologue performing idly, with an occasional torturous catch of his fingertips on your entrance, threatening to delve deep only for him to course-correct and set them back on the track up the length of your slit. “Please, God, just- Touch me.”
“Greedy girl,” he tuts, face winding it’s way out from your neck just for his hazel eyes to observe your face as he finally breaches his fingers past your entrance. “Am I not already touching you?”
Replies are lost to the kitchen air, breath knocked out your chest in one foul swoop as he burrows his fingers knuckle-deep. Your lips part, your eyes roll back, and you grind down against his hand, as if by some grace of god he’ll hit some place deeper inside, fingers already pressing against that spot inside you as Jack curls them towards himself, putting the come in come-hither.
The angle is awkward, movement hindered by the tight squeeze of your jeans around his wrist, yet Jack works through the strain, digits pulling out at a slow, agonising pace, only to slip back inside equally as slow. It’s like he’s making you savour the feeling, imbedding every ridge and wrinkle along his fingers and knuckles into your memory, so the next time you find yourself hot under the blanket and struggling to sleep at night, your own hand won’t bring you half the relief.
His fingers fall into a rhythm, a back and forth tease that sets your nerves ablaze and unravels a ball of desire you long ago tossed aside, four weeks into working at the Pitt and telling yourself that those pesky butterflies you felt every time a certain attending crossed your path were nothing but newbie nerves. Marking the tempo of his touch, the repeated squelch of your cunt being filled by his fingers rings out; the deeper he dives, the wetter you grow. Your moans follow along to his beat, a perpetual huff of half-formed whines and hitched breaths, echoes of pleasure that claw their way out your throat and shamelessly sing him a song of praise.
“Ah, ah,” Jack mimics you, hot breath brushing against the shell of your ear as he feeds your moans right back to you in a tone so condescending, you feel your toes curl. “‘S that all you know how to say?”
Those same words and that same mocking tone from the hall have your skin crawling with need. A need to press yourself closer, until all your frayed edges tangles themselves in Jack. A need to fight against the hold of his hand, wrists squirming and fighting for release in hopes of winding your arms around his broad shoulders. A need to give in to the overwhelm, dive head first into the waves of desire that roll over you… So you do.
Jaw slack, toes curled, head thrown back. An orgasm crashes into you with the force of an ocean, sweeping you under and flooding the palm of Jack’s hand with the sticky sweet evidence of how good he’s making you feel.
His fingers fuck you through the experience, lazily curling and stroking the fire, drawing out your pleasure for as long as your body allows him, until a dry sob racks through your chest and tears dance along your lash line, head shaking as you protest the overstimulation.
The retreat of both Jack’s hands, slipping from the waistband of your jeans and relinquishing the grip on your wrists, it does not grant your poor heart respite, a chance to calm the beating it’s delivering against your chest. Instead, he doubles the speed, raising the fingers stained in your own slick and brushing the tips against your lower lip.
“Say ah,” not a question, a demand. Jack is an expert at ordering you around in a manner soft enough, confident enough to have your head reeling and will bending to his every wish.
Under the effect of his darkened gaze and the intoxicating scent of his cologne mixing with the beer on his breath, how can you do anything but let your mouth fall open?
Your first thought is disbelief, running cold down your spine at the unexpected sweetness that coats your tongue; sweetness that melts into a sharp tanginess, giving way to a thirst like no other, glands going into overdrive and wetting your palate. Drunk on yourself, you let your eyes slip shut and your lips wrap around the stretch of Jack’s fingers, a pleased hum bubbling up your throat as his digits apply the slightest of pressure against your tongue, testing the waters of your gag reflex as he slowly pushes himself deeper in your mouth, soaking himself in your spit.
“That’s it, pretty girl,” Jack’s spare hand has found its way down to your waist, slipping over the slopes of your curves and perching itself atop your hip, where he delivers a firm squeeze. “Made a real mess of my hand, ‘s only right you clean it up.”
By the time Jack pulls his hand back, a string of saliva connects his fingers to your lips and a craving is reawakening between your thighs. Afraid to fracture the fragile atmosphere between you and the attending, you choose to lead with action again, one hand grappling at the buckle of his belt while the other begins to hastily drag your jeans down the swell of your ass, skin-tight fabric stubbornly refusing to give way and grant you the freedom of air against your legs.
You only make it so far, barely managing to pry apart his belt when Jack intercepts your desperate touching, hands reclaiming possession over your own and shooing them away. With a pause for consideration, the mental cogs visibly turning behind his eyes, you watch as the attending descends the path of your body, peeling down your jeans along the way. A hiss is bitten back as he bends his knees, one foot planted firmly on the ground the other — his right knee — kissing into the kitchen floor, prosthetic calf laid behind him.
It’s the brush of a breath against your thigh that has you lurching back into your body, ignoring the worried nagging voice that wants to drag him off his knees for the sake of his health and comfort… and instead focusing on the part that wants him off his knees for a far more selfish reason.
“Jack,” your attempt at protesting is pathetic, a well-intended firm call of his name fracturing midway and collapsing into a whine as the man takes to laving his tongue up the expanse of your inner thigh, inching dangerously close to where you can feel your centre throbbing, crying out for him in morse code, desperate for the simplest of touches so long as the one delivering it is the older man currently kneeling on your kitchen floor.
Fingers wind in greying curls, the faintest burn of auburn and copper tickling against your knuckles. You attempt a tug, gentle enough to do no harm yet firm enough to get the point across of what you want: Jack, up and on his feet.
The man does not take the hint, instead he inches further up your leg, nose nuzzling against your mound. Blood rushes in every direction as you witness him pull in a sharp inhale, flooding himself with the intoxicating scent of your would-be pheromones.
“I want to taste you,” he says it with a fire behind his eyes, words impassioned by an animalistic desire; any woman would be mad to not throw herself at him, plead him to take anything and everything from her, however he should please.
Which makes the confusion burning his features more than understandable as he takes in your shaking head and your gentle mutters of no, followed swiftly by, “I need you to fuck me, Jack.”
Hands seek purchase on your hips, grip squeezing a little tighter as he steadies his prosthetic back onto the floor and brings himself back to his standing height. You can see the hesitation, in his eyes and in his fingers, as he slowly continues the undoing of his belt, slow and calculated movements that drag cracked leather free and loosen the clutch his jeans have around his waist.
“Who knew the Pitt’s sweetest nurse could be so demanding?” he muses, like joking might distract you from the cloud of doubt that has so visibly rolled in and settled above you both.
You entertain him, even if only for a moment, “Only when I don’t get what I want. Are you gonna deny me, Jack?”
“So you’re a brat,” bypassing your question, Jack drags the zipper of his pants down and leans his face in, lips brushing against your own with the ghost of a kiss. “Noted.”
His kisses paint a pretty picture of distraction, peppering affection over inches of skin that had spent so long being neglected, you’d nearly forgotten they existed. Over the swells of cheeks, down the slope of a throat, onto the point of a shoulder and back up to the shells of an ear. While your heart wants to sink into the feeling, fall back and let him lather you in every mouthful of affection he can sear against your burning skin, your brain takes the reins of the situation and forces your hands onto his shoulders.
“What’s wrong?” Direct and to the point, you avoid the time-waste of skirting around the subject and confront the change in his demeanour head-on, the sudden hesitancy. A sense of panic licks up your spine, filling your mind with thoughts of Jack regretting having started this, crossing over the safe lines of coworker and marching across into trickier territory. “If you don’t want- I’d understand, okay? If you say it was just the heat of the moment, and the beer, and that you no longer want-”
“What? Baby, I promise this is anything but- Fuck,” Jack practically collapses into the groan that tears out of him, hand falling over his face and pressing into the corners of his eyes as he struggles to get the words out fast enough, a soul-crushing need to put an end to the rejected twinkle in your eyes as you offer him a gentle smile, the kind offered by politeness instead of happiness. Jack hates it on you. “I don’t know how to explain without sounding conceited.”
“Oh-kay,” your confused exclaim melts into acceptance, though your eyes remain sceptical as they trail over the attending’s face, awaiting further explanation. When it doesn’t come, your eyebrows jump, a visual nudge that has Jack finally spilling confessions all over your kitchen floor.
“I’m… Big.”
And cue the laughing track.
Watching as the tips of his ears bleed a bright red, you bite back and swallow down a comment about how his height is a little over average at best. Because when a puppy-eyed Jack Abbot warns you of his size in a manner that implies real danger, the last thing you should do is turn his panic into a joke.
“How big?”
“I don’t know-” Then he cuts himself off, like reality has struck him over the head and he remembers he is, in fact, a medical professional and, though he may never have measured his own endowment, surely he can guesstimate. “Maybe like eight. Inches, I mean. And, um…” what a thrill to see Jack reduced to a mumbling mess, a man so usually consumed by his flirty nature, a charm so potent that it pours off him in rivers, soaking all who wind up in his vicinity. Yet here he stands, barely enough space for a deep breath between you, shyly detailing the heat he’s packing beneath the waistband of his trousers. “I’m- I mean it’s pretty thick, too.”
Silence haunts the space between you.
A sick satisfaction pools in your loins, knowledge renewed on the fact you’re bare from the waist down yet all the power seems to sit in the palm of your hand in this moment, Jack’s fate hanging in the balance of however you choose to react to his assumed shameful confession.
So when all you offer is cocked head and a tongue poking against the inside of your cheek, Jack just about falters into insecurity, seeking validation before you even have time to utter a word.
“I’m not bragging. Or, you know, talking myself up. It’s just- I don’t want to hurt you, or to-”
“Take it out.”
His neck practically snaps as his gaze flies from the floor to your eyes, hazel rings that grown thinner under the enlarging of his pupils, lust bleeding into his stare as he managed a careful, “What?”
“This big dick of yours,” emphasis to your words, you finally let yourself look down and catch sight of him, firm and heavy beneath the confines of dark blue denim. The view of his bulge alone is enough to have your mouth watering, but you can’t let it slip, not when your grip on the reins is finally secured. “Let me see it, Doctor Abbot.”
The switch is instant.
Bashfulness melts away and the cloud of doubt is blown away as a cockiness overcomes Jack’s features, face splitting into a shit-eating grin. Fingers work fast this time, dipping beneath the elastic of his boxers and granting his cock freedom at long last.
No trace of a lie in his words; Jack is big. Uncut, with a rosie red tip that’s already made itself known, glistening with the rogue drops of precum that smear the mushroomed head. At the base sits a bush of hair, groomed enough to show you he cares enough to trim it yet overgrown enough to tell you it’s been a few weeks, silver locks threaded through a valley of dark auburn. Freckles dust his skin in subtle specs, while a vein draws a colourful line up the length of him.
You can practically feel yourself throbbing, calling out for him with each moment that passes, your eyes glued to the phallic shape. Jack, evil incarnate, has the gall to lick a stripe up his palm, hand wrapping around himself and daring to give a slow pump.
“I’m gonna need you to stop looking at me like that,” Jack cuts himself off with a hiss, teeth taking his bottom lip hostage as a chuckle rustles out from the depth of his chest. In that moment, you swear nothing has ever been more attractive than the gentle disapproving shake of his head as he rakes his stare down the shape of you, eyes clinging to where your thighs sit squeezed together, stealing any amount of friction you can find. “‘Else I might cum all over myself like some desperate college kid.”
You reach your hand out, searching for traction and finding it in the belt loop of his trousers, still clinging to his tree-trunk thighs. And thank god for that, for it allows you to tug the man closer, chest to chest, knuckles brushing over the hood of your clit as he works his hand over his cock one last time.
“Then give me a reason to stop looking, Doctor Abbot,” swallowing back any lingering shame or shyness a less hornier version of yourself possesses, you curl a hand over the top of his and stare into pools of hazel as you speak, “Don’t you want to make my eyes roll back?”
Never has a man looked so eager to part your legs, the skin of his knuckles burning white as he takes a hand to the back of one of your knees and hooks it over his waist. Left with no choice but to keep your thighs spread, you indulge yourself by glancing down at the view. Visual sin, erotica live in emotion, Jack guides the blushing tip of his cock up the length of your cunt, soaking himself in your arousal. A mutual gasp echoes out into the kitchen on his second swipe, head catching on your entrance only to be denied easy access, hips rolling only to watch himself press against your clit.
“Don’t care if it hurts,” bordering on lost in lust, you barely register the words as your mouth moves. Jack, on the other hand, clings to every syllable, awaiting whatever salvation they promise to bring him. “Just wanna feel you, Jack. All of you, please.”
“Shh, shh,” his hushing is full of mockery, like the last thing he really wants is to silence the desperate plea in your voice. He does so, unintentionally, by finally lining himself up with your entrance. “Don’t need to beg, baby. I’m gonna give it to you, all of it. Just be sure to cry real pretty for me if it gets too much.”
Something animalistic comes over you as Jack feeds the first inch into your cunt.
The burn is there, the stretch of long-unused walls remoulding themselves around the shape of Jack. But any pain is sweet, the kind that tickles at your nerves and has your heart speeding up, adrenaline activated and intoxicating your bloodstream.
Jack, conscious of the crease between your brows, is tentative, careful. He gives a barely-there thrust, letting himself inch just a little deeper into the pulsing warmth of your pussy. There’s a vein across his forehead that makes itself known, the force of his concentration paired with an accelerating heart rate drawing it to front and centre stage of his face. All it does is make you want him more, deeper, quicker.
Words cease to serve any purpose as the two of you give in to the physical, hands that grasp and pull and anchor themselves atop one another’s skin. You think you breathe some version of his name, but the letters are knocked out of you as your fingers tangle themselves in grey curls and, in the blink of an eye, Jack’s pelvis sits flush against your own, cock buried right to the deep hilt and face collapsed into your own, foreheads exchanging sweat as his temple kisses against yours.
A pitiful whine claws its way from you, suddenly painfully aware of how well Jack fills you, stuffed to the brim in a way no man before has quite achieved. You feel him in your cunt, in your guts, in your lungs with every shaky breath you pull; you are drunk on the attending and the feeling of his cock pulsing deep within your gummy walls.
“Sorry, baby. I’m so sorry,” apologies are overflowing from the fountain of Jack’s mouth, brushing against your cheek in tiny puffs of breath as the older man blesses you with a whimper so pathetic you nearly come undone right then and there, cunt ready to spill all over his throbbing cock. “Didn’t mean to- shit. Wanted to take it slow, ease him in, but god… You’re just so tight. And warm, and- Ahh! And your nails, they- they scrapped against my scalp and you were tugging on my hair and I couldn’t help it, baby.”
How can you even contest or complain, when you feel like a live wire, thrumming with a deadly kind of energy that threatens to burn everything and anything that touches you and isn’t Jack Abbot?
His hips rock back slightly, only for him to fuck back into you, tip to cervix. The leg hooked around his waist tightens around him, holding Jack as close to you as possible. The scene between you plays out with an intensity one could cut with a knife.
Slow and shallow rolls of hips, punctuating each shaken breath you pull and forcing the air out of you in pitiful whines and moans, songs of praise for Jack's viewing pleasure.
Foreheads together, breaths mingling until it’s hard to tell where your exhale stops and his inhale starts. Both nurse and attending, junior and senior, woman and man; whatever title you and Jack may be addressed by, you’re equal measures of the same mess, staining one another with nails that scrape over freckled skin and five o’clock shadows that burn at cheeks.
“Look at you,” Jack marvels, one hand scooping up to cup your face and remind you of how big his hands look — hands you spent weeks wishing would reach for yours during quiet walks home. Yet now one cradles you while the other grips at your body, tilts your hips at angle that drives him just that little bit deeper. “Taking it like a good girl, no whining or complaining that it hurts.”
What really hurts is that he is still moving at an agonisingly slow pace, torturous drags of his thick length along your walls. If you weren’t speechless under effects of his ministrations, you’d maybe find the ability to tell him this.
“You’re just grateful to have something to fill this pussy, huh?” Something catches in Jack’s throat, a fractured groan that raises a sudden alarm. It feels different to previous ones, born from somewhere deeper, more painful in his chest. “If I knew you’d be do eager, I wouldn't have waited this long to come inside.”
You stomach three more measured rolls of Jack’s hips before you cave into the anxious feeling hollowing your pleasure, the wince on his face having grown deeper and more concerning.
All it take is a hand to his shoulder and a barely formed Jack, wait, for the man to tear himself off you, putting immediate distance between you despite the hand that remains on your face, holding it steady as his gaze sweeps over you in search of evidence of your well-being.
“What’s wrong, kid?” Just like that, you watch him slip back into the practised role of a caretaker, Dr Abbot taking centre stage and relegating Jack, the man keen on seeing you come undone at his touch, to the wings. “Did I hurt you? I’m sorry, I told you- Warned you, baby.”
His rambling would be endearing, if you weren't aware of the sudden empty feeling of your cunt clenching at nothing and, worse, the bitten-back wince of pain that pronounces itself across his face as he shifts weight from one foot onto the other.
So you take matters into your own hands to silence his spiralling mind.
Literally into your hand, fingers wrapping themselves around the thick swell of his cock, standing at attention and smearing the evidence of your lust over Jack’s lower abdomen. The reaction is instant: hips bucking into your touch in a stuttered thrust, mouth falling agape and silent as you envelop him in your gentle touch.
“You didn’t hurt me,” quite the opposite, the tight fit of his dick bordering on nothing short of heaven. “But you’re hurting yourself.”
Before Jack can demand a much earned explanation, you trade his cock for one of his hands, threading yourself to him and enduring he can’t let go as you begin guiding him to your bedroom, the gentle jingle of his loose belt slapping against his thigh announcing each step he takes.
Lit only by the silver light of moon, you turn to him as you reach your humble queen size bed and try your hand at that stern yet caring look Jack has mastered — the look that’s held your heart hostage since you first witnessed it directed at you.
“Your leg. It’s hurting,” now you wish you had opted for switching on a light, because you swear you see the subtlest hint of a blush taking over Jack’s cheeks, guilty and caught when he thought he was doing such a good job to mask the dull ache of his limb. “Take it off, Jack. Or at least let yourself rest on the bed, let me do the work.”
Your silver fox puts up little fight, mouth opening and swiftly closing before any empty protest can flee. The mattress squeaks beneath his weight as Jack sits down on the edge, both legs bent at the knee and feet planted on the floor — he makes a conscious effort to keep his boots from touching the small carpet that runs along your bedside, unwilling to taint the cream coloured fur.
As he hunches over, hands peeling back the leg of his trouser to expose the sight of his faux-calf, a fragile quiet befalls you both. You watch entranced as he removes the prosthetic, a practised ritual he performs with the ease of a man who long ago came to terms with the cards that were handed to him. Freed at last, unwinding a strip of bandage from the stump, Jack takes to removing his clothes next, while you take to filing away his previous movements into a part of your mind labelled later, a future in the shape of a question mark, the possibility of some day needing to remove it for him.
There is something decidedly cruel about the sight of Jack Abbot sitting at the edge of your bed, completely undressed and pinning you beneath his stare as his hands now occupy themselves with more nefarious actions, one gripping at his cock and indulging himself in a languid stroke while the other takes claim of the bottom of your shirt, balling the fabric up in a fist as he tugs you close so abruptly, it’s only natural that you slip and tumble into his naked lap.
An awkward repositioning is punctuated by your own nervous laughter, a shy giggle making itself known as you straddle the doctor, the hand between his legs now teasing at your core, dipping into your honeypot just to soak himself in your sweetness before diverting his attention to your clit, pointer and middle finger rubbing an agonisingly slow circle over the nub.
“You’re gorgeous,” Jack whispers, honesty rolling off him in waves as his eyes ravage the newly exposed sight of your naked chest, t-shirt and bra tossed behind you in the blind chaos of falling into Jack. “You know that, right?”
There is urgency in his voice, like his worldview might just collapse if you tell him otherwise, and the desperation is enough to have you giggling all over again, a noise that quickly is intercepted by a gasp, eyes slipping shut as the man welcomes himself to the taste of your flesh, mouth swooping forward to take the right nipple between his lips, “You might have mentioned it before.”
“Then let me mention it again,” mumbled into your chest, he marks the sentence with a kiss to the opposite nipple, “And again,” the next kiss lands back on your right nipple. “And again.”
Both of you groan at the other’s ministrations, your hand threaded back in the silver locks of his hair and tugging at them just sharp enough to have Jack’s hips rutting up into you, bodies searching for the sweet release of friction yet neither of you rushing to give in as you slowly wade into the depths of lust, grinding desperately against one another like a pair of inexperienced college students.
“Jack,” you breathe his name, hand tilting his head back from your chest and granting you the freedom to plant your mouth against him, tongue dipping into the cavern of his mouth, the taste of beer and bourbon still on his lips.
“Hmm,” Jack hums, hand cradling your cheek.
Between you, tensions rise as your folds spread around his cock, rubbing up the length of him as he rocks himself against you.
“Are you going to fuck me,” is all he lets you get out before he drags you in for another kiss. “Or are we going to sit like this all night?”
“I don’t know, feels pretty good to me,” he’s teasing you, enjoying the sight of you growing more and more dishevelled by your own carnal needs, your nails digging into his freckled shoulders. “I wouldn’t mind.”
Sighing with nothing but sexual frustration, you recapture those earlier reins and slip your hand between you both, grabbing at Jack’s cock and lining it up at your entrance, thigh muscles burning as you hover, “Well I would.”
You sink down onto him slowly, eyes incapable of resisting the urge to roll to the back of your skull as you feel that sweet familiar burn of him stretching your walls.
Jack is speechless, but far from quiet, mouth open and singing you the prettiest songs of guttural praise. His hands are on your hips, gripping you in a way that threatens to bruise, all the while you are savouring the flush press of your bodies, your soaked folds kissing the base of his cock with a creamy ring.
When you finally begin to move, a careful raise of hips, you condemn both of you to a world polluted by lust, and pleasure, and the aching need to keep stimulating friction.
The rhythm comes naturally, a slow build-up of you fucking yourself down onto him, stuffing your cunt full to the brim. Jack has given in, handed himself over to you for you to use how you please, while his hands rake over every sliver of skin they can reach. Smoothing over your thighs, grabbing at your waist, pinching at your hard nipples, guiding your mouth down to meet his, a kiss that is more an exchange of breaths than a battle of lips.
A symphony composed entirely of sin, the darkness of your bedroom is set ablaze by the wet slap of skin meeting skin, a squelch punctuating each time he fills your cunt and a new wave of your arousal drips down his thighs and stains your bedsheets.
“This fucking pussy,” Jack speaks like you have personally wounded him, your forehead meeting his shoulder as you let out a squeak, the hands on your waist no longer sitting idle but now guiding you, bouncing you down to meet the upward rut of his hips. “‘S so tight, and warm, and perfect. You’re perfect, letting me stretch this little hole. Taking all of me.”
“Love it, Jack,” You’re babbling into his shoulder, mind turning to unusable mush the faster Jack slams you down on him.
“Love what, kid?”
“Your cock.”
“Yeah?” Oh, the smugness in his voice should be illegal, but you have only yourself to blame. “Who knew my pretty nurse was so good at taking dick. Can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me all this time.”
A chord is winding inside you, drawing tighter and tighter as Jack continues to bounce you down on his cock, pausing every few thrusts to let you savour the full stretch, grinding up and biting back laughter as you greet him with the whites of your eyes.
“Holding- ahh! Out?” Your walls flutter around him as you feel yourself closer to the edge of an orgasm.
“Yeah, sweetheart, holding out,” a kiss lands on the side of your head, as though Jack is incapable of not showering you in as much physical affection as possible. “Ignoring all my flirting, never giving me a sign that you want me just as much as I want you.”
“Flirting?!” Head out from his shoulders, you gaze down at him in disbelief, refusing to take the blame for why it has taken so many months for the pair of your to wind up here, naked and desperate and staining your sheets together. “How was I supposed to know? You flirt with everyone- Jack!”
His name is more shriek than moan, tearing out of you as his fingers press themselves to your clit and send you head-first into an orgasm.
Jack fucks you through it, slower rolls of his hips stretching out your state of euphoria and granting him a longer view of your mouth spewing profanities and your eyes rolling back and your hips bucking atop him, both fleeing from and feeding into his touch.
A sudden bang interrupts the scene, cutting your bliss short and forcing you to swallow back a moan.
Frozen in place, fingers to your clit and cock half-way buried inside, Jack’s wide-eyed gaze watches you with a questioning glance. Silence isn’t given the chance to settle fully between you, as soon another sound — from the same direction as the bang — echoes through your bedroom.
“Hey! Keep it down, some of us are trying to sleep.”
Jack is the first to react, laughter shaking his shoulders. His head tilts back, disbelief gripping him in its clutches. Collapsing back onto your bed, he drags you down with him, sweaty chest pressing to sweaty chest. You follow him into laughter too, your own muted chuckles spilling into his neck as you shyly bury your face away, mortified by the thought of one of your neighbours hearing you and Jack.
Apparently, it has the opposite affect on him.
Because instead of crippling mortification, Jack has already begun rutting back into you, shallow thrusts that he somehow manages to deliver, despite the fact his cock already fills you to the brim. Nerves aflame from a ruined orgasm, your body is quick to submit to him, hips tilting to welcome him deeper, back arching into his body. But the moment your lips dare to part, a chastisement is quick to follow, a disapproving tut coming from the man beneath you.
“Shh,” despite his hushing, he makes no attempt to slow his thrusts, the very cause of your fracturing sanity, mouth no longer in control of the noises you let out. Neighbours be damned, you would happily dare any of them to feel the sweet release of Jack stretching them out and not turn into raving banshees. Well, not quite so happily, for you are very quickly growing not only fond but possessive of the attending. “I know, kid, I know. Feels good, right? So good you just wanna scream, don’t even care if someone hears?”
Whether you realise it or not, you nod along to his mockery, desperate please for more, please, just like that, Jack proving his point perfectly: you don’t care.
The only thing you can do is feel him, all of him.
“That’s it, let it out,” he croons, faux sympathy in his voice while he cups your face and swipes away at a tear, the overwhelm of feeling so full and so close to cumming for a third time finally getting the better of you. Tear gone, the hand on your cheek drifts down to cover your mouth, smothering you into silence, muffling the shriek you let out as his hips grow sloppy, desperate, fucking you deeper, harder, faster each time, his own orgasm creeping over the horizon. “I’ll take you to my place next time. ‘S a detached bungalow, can be as loud as you need to be. And, god, I plan on giving you reasons to be loud, put you in every possible position, make you cum so many times you lose count.”
Every moan and groan and whine of his name that leaves you is muffled by the heavy palm of his hand… Which turns out to be a blessing in disguise when a third and final orgasm collides, head first, right into you, leaving you a mess. As you writhe and wriggle, one of the muscles in your calf cramping as your toes curl and your body pulls itself taut, Jack is fighting his own personal battle, hips stilled and limiting the friction as much as possible while you fall apart atop him.
Fingers tangled in his hair, face engulfed by his heavy hand, thighs squeezing around his hips; the image of you cumming is the kind that pushes a man to pick up a paint brush, all in the hopes of memorialising the art in motion onto canvas. Jack can barely focus on you, however, eyes squeezing shut as he steadies his breathing and struggles to hold back a flood.
“‘M gonna cum, baby,” Jack strains out, pulse near visible along his jugular as his heart rate shifts into overdrive. “Need you to lift these pretty hips off me or else- ahh!”
The whimper you pull from him is damn near heartbreaking, right from the gut and full of a fractured sincerity. Unwilling to so much as let him finish any thought of pulling out, never mind his sentence, you’ve staked your claim, shook your head, and cemented yourself flush atop him, cock stuffed to the brim and left no choice but to spill into the pulsing heat of your walls.
Hot, thick ropes of Jack’s cum flood your pussy, painting a pearly white mess inside of you. Overflowing and with nowhere else to run, you feel the unmistakable stickiness of his cum, now mixed with your own orgasmic bliss, leaking out of you and staining both your skins in the act. Breathless and minds drifting far away from the physical plane, you crash down atop Jack, overstimulated and overspent, and drift into the comfort of his arms enveloping you, holding your sweaty figure against his own in an embrace that says stay without uttering a single syllable.
Frozen in time, the pair of you remain glued to one another. Your breathing falls in sync, each rise of his chest matching perfectly with your exhale, and a gentle rocking remains between your bodies, an invisible stream of desire that ebbs and flows, manipulating Jack into rocking up into you and teasing you into grinding down to meet his movements, in spite of the teeth clenching sensitivity tingling at your skin.
You are the first to move, a careful rise from his chest. Already softened within you, his cock slips out of you and you pull a breath in through a grimace. The muscles in your thighs have turned to mush, more unstable than jelly, and so it is nothing short of a miracle to feel Jack’s steady touch settle itself on your hips, hands supporting the dead-weight of your lax body and guiding you to hover over his lower abdomen. You quickly realise he has less than pure intentions, as you watch satisfaction creep back into his pupils when a string of his cum dribbles out from your cunt and drips down onto his skin.
Admiring the picture you paint over his lower stomach, Jack has the nerve to mock the tired whine he coaxes from you as fingers swipe through the white mess and slip between your folds, feeding his spend right back into your walls.
Back hitting the mattress before you can protest, you struggle over a gasp and a barely stringed together sentence while the attending slips down the length of your body, pausing only when his head reaches your thighs.
“What are you doing?”
“What’s it look like?” Jack, with reflexes quick enough to match his wit, intercepts your legs before they can crush his head between them, your hips bucking and your heart unsure whether you are trying to chase after or run from the teasing stripe he licks up your cunt. “You cleaned your mess, now let me clean mine.”
Your heads hit the pillow as the Sun hits the horizon.
By nine, birds chirp by the windowsill and sunlight cuts through the sliver in your curtains, forcing your half-asleep form to retreat into the safety of Jack’s chest. He answers your cry for help instantly, arms pulling tighter around your waist as he continues to venture through a land of dreams, lips parted in the softest snore.
By noon, the city is awake. Cars honk their horns, voices fill the streets, doors slam from floors above and below. But in your apartment, not a creature stirs, bodies clinging to one another and sleep with equal fervour. If you drift left, Jack soon follows. If Jack flips onto his front, your palm is quick to flatten itself over his back. Magnets connected by an unseen force, the pair of you toss and turn beneath wrinkled bedsheets.
By four, the bathroom mirror is fogged. You are a nervous wreck contained behind the nervous smile of someone who is trying their best to be supportive despite the shampoo stinging at your eyes and the grown man you are supporting against your frame. Unwilling to let you drag one of your leather dining chairs into the cubicle, Jack had insisted he would be fine to shower standing, so long as you kept him company.
By six, your apartment is empty. Clad in the familiar shapeless clothing that is sure to keep you comfortable throughout your shift, you’re struggling to find the right time to ask Jack to hand you your bag back, too used to his habit of prying it out your hands to even notice he had done so as you both departed from your front door. No choice but to throw on last nights clothing, Jack is silent at your back, one arm pulling you against him as yet another neighbour slips into the confines of the elevator — freshly fixed yet sending a shiver down your spine with each shake it gives in its descent down to the ground floor.
By some miracle, you make it out onto the street.
Which maybe, now that the fresh air hits your cheek, you are beginning to lament. Because this is it, the point of no return; where you go one way and Jack will go the other, trailing home to enjoy the rest of his night off while you no doubt will spend your entire shift dreading where the events that transpired between you — the stolen kisses, the lustful whines, the rolling hips — leave you both standing.
Taking your bag from him seems like the correct first move to make towards goodbye, but when you reach your hand out, Jack answers your silent plea with his empty one threading itself into your hold, fingers entwined in a manner so perfectly it has you reminiscing on how your bodies lay atop your mattress.
The attending has already tugged you halfway down the street before your mouth catches up with your feet, choking out a dumbfounded, “Where are you going? You’re off today.”
“So?” Jack barely offers you a bothered shrug of his shoulders, glancing back at you with a look in his eyes so warm, you worry you might just melt into the asphalt. “That doesn’t mean I can’t walk you to work.”
+ extra hyde!
· this fic was meant to be short, believe it or not... my first proper fic of 2026, yippee!
· olivia, girl... never stop making albums for me to cry to.
· pov: jack abbot, the biggest flirt who turns into a bumbling idiot when faced with the person he actually wants:
CONTENT — fluff | pathetic!dennis, sexual innuendos & kissing
WC — 7.5k
NOTE — coming out of my hibernation because im so obsessed with the pitt
MASTERLIST
Dennis Whitaker had only been at PTMC for a few hours before he saw you. In the staff lounge, you stood by the counter, brow furrowed, fingers tugging at a stubborn little packet of protein powder.
Dennis couldn’t explain it, not really. There was just something about you that made his chest tighten. He had seen plenty of people in his life, but none had made him feel like this—like he actually wanted to introduce himself, right now, without hesitation.
“Need a hand?” he blurted out before he could stop himself, stepping a little closer than necessary. His heart was pounding, and suddenly the packet in your hands seemed more like a reason to stay by your side than a snack.
You glanced up at him, startled, and for a second, Dennis thought he might have misjudged the situation—but then he saw the faintest flicker of a smile tug at your lips.
“Oh—uh, maybe,” you said, stepping back just slightly. “It’s being… stubborn.”
Dennis’ smile widened, more out of nervous excitement than skill. “I’ve got this. First day, but I’ve learned a thing or two about… opening things.” He leaned in, trying to look confident, like he wasn’t about to make an utter fool of himself. “Here, let me—”
The packet exploded in his hands. A cloud of white powder shot into the air, coating your hands, his scrubs, and half the counter. Dennis froze mid-apology, eyes wide, looking like a deer caught in the headlights.
“Oh—oh no! I—I didn’t—sorry!” he stammered.
You blinked through the haze, a mix of shock and amusement on your face. “It’s… fine,” you managed, trying not to laugh. “First day, huh?”
Dennis swallowed hard, brushing powder off his hair and scrubs. “Yeah… first day. And apparently, I’m making a memorable first impression,” he said, sheepishly, though a grin was tugging at his lips. “I’m.. uh.. Dennis Whitaker…”
You shook your head, laughing despite the mess. “Well… you’re definitely memorable. Messy, but memorable.”
Dennis’ eyes lit up, and he straightened. “I can make it up to you. I—uh, I’ll get a towel, or—maybe help clean up?” He gestured vaguely at the powder-covered counter, a little too quickly, and in the process knocked over a cup of pens, sending them clattering across the floor.
You winced and bent down to pick them up. “Whitaker, it’s okay. Really.”
“No, no! I can fix this, I promise!” He scrambled to grab a paper towel, only to knock the packet of protein powder itself over, sending another small cloud puffing into the air. His face fell as he froze, completely mortified.
You sighed, half-amused, half-exasperated. “Whitaker… stop. I really do need to get back to my patients.” You gave him a small, forgiving smile before slipping out of the lounge, leaving him standing there, a little hunched, dusted in white powder, and utterly dejected.
A couple of hours later, you were sitting at one of the computers, reviewing patient charts beside Dana. You were focused, tapping through files, when a shadow fell over the keyboard.
“Hey… um, excuse me,” came a hesitant voice.
You looked up to see Dennis standing there, holding up a finger that was smeared with blood. His expression was a mix of sheepishness and worry, and he kept glancing at you like he wasn’t sure he had permission to stay.
“Oh!” Dana gave a small laugh. “Looks like someone got into trouble.”
Dennis flushed and stepped closer. “I—uh, yeah. I just… a gurney got dropped on my finger. It’s not bad, but… Doctor Robby told me to come see you?” His words tumbled out fast, too many at once, like he was worried he’d overstay his welcome.
You blinked at him for a moment, then nodded, reaching for a bandage from the small first aid kit nearby. “Sure. Let me see.”
Dennis held out his hand like it was fragile glass. You carefully cleaned the cut and wrapped it, trying to suppress a smile at the way he was watching every movement with wide, anxious eyes.
“Sorry…” he started again, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know I’m probably wasting your time, and I—uh, I really didn’t mean to bother you after the whole… powder incident…” His voice trailed off, but his fidgeting hands and nervous glance at Dana made it clear he was genuinely uncomfortable.
You shook your head gently. “It’s okay. Really. I don’t mind helping.”
He exhaled, a little relief softening his tense shoulders, but he couldn’t help letting another nervous string of words tumble out. “I just… I don’t want to be that guy who keeps making a mess or… or bothering people. I—uh, I really appreciate you helping me.”
As your hands worked, his gaze wandered—first to the careful way you handled the dressing, then up to your face. He found himself utterly captivated by the curve of your smile, the focus in your eyes, the way your hair caught the light. His heart was hammering, and all of a sudden, the world shrank to just you.
“Okay… all done,” you said, snapping him back from his trance.
Dennis blinked, realising he had no idea what you’d just said. “Uh… yeah. Right. Done. Perfect… thanks…” His voice came out rushed, awkward, entirely betraying how utterly entranced he still was.
You gave him a small, reassuring smile. Dennis cleared his throat, still holding his bandaged finger, but now his eyes wouldn’t leave your face.
He tried to sound casual, but it came out a little too breathless. “You know… you have, uh… really steady hands. Very… professional. Makes it kind of… impressive.”
You glanced at him briefly, smirking just a little. “Thanks. I’ve had a lot of practice.”
Dennis leaned in slightly, a little too eagerly. “Not just practice… it’s kind of… mesmerising. How you, uh… focus like that.” He ran a nervous hand through his hair, clearly aware he was rambling, but unable to stop. “I mean, wow… you’re, uh—really something.”
You chuckled softly, shaking your head. “Whitaker, it’s just a finger.”
His smile faltered just a touch, the flush creeping higher up his neck. “Oh… right. Of course. Yeah… totally.” He tried to push a casual grin, but it came out more like a pout. “Well… I just thought maybe… uh, never mind.”
You gave him a polite, kind smile, returning your attention to the computer screen. “Don’t worry about it. Just… focus on not cutting yourself again.”
Dennis huffed softly, a little put out but trying to hide it. He shifted from foot to foot, clearly disappointed that his flustered, awkward charm hadn’t really landed. “Yeah… okay. Got it,” he muttered, looking down at his bandaged finger, then sneaking a quick glance at you before stepping back.
—
It has been a couple of weeks since you first met Dennis and it was pretty safe to say that, since then, he has made it his mission to be around you as much as he can. Your locker groaned open the way it always did—a long, metallic complaint that echoed faintly off the tiled walls. The hinge caught halfway before giving in with a reluctant clunk, like it needed convincing every single shift.
Inside was the usual controlled mess. A half-crushed granola bar wedged in the corner, a pen you could’ve sworn vanished three weeks ago, and your emergency chocolate stash. Your shoes carried you on autopilot toward the heart of the department—the nurses’ station, command central, the brain of the chaos. You could already see the giant patient board glowing from halfway down the hall, rows of names shifting in real time like a living thing.
You adjusted your stethoscope as you approached, your pace slowing to a stop at the desk. Dana stood planted at her usual post behind the desk, tablet balanced in one hand, reading glasses perched low on her nose. A paper cup of coffee sat dangerously close to the edge of the counter, one accidental elbow away from disaster.
You stepped beside her, resting a hand lightly on the desk as you tipped your chin up toward the board. Your eyes tracked automatically—room numbers, sats, colour-coded priority flags.
“Morning,” Dana said without looking up.
“Morning,” you murmured, already scanning.
“Mr Tom Allen in room five has been waiting for a check up,” Dana said, tapping her screen. “He’s all yours.”
“Perfect, thank you,” you nodded, pushing yourself off the desk.
You turned, and walked straight into someone solid.
“Oh—apologies,” you said quickly, steadying yourself as your hand landed gently on Dennis Whitaker’s arm.
“It’s okay,” he said with a sheepish smile that didn’t quite know where to land.
Up close, he stood a little too straight. A little too close. Shoulders locked like he was bracing for impact that had already happened. He cleared his throat awkwardly and gestured downwards with a jerky nod of his head. You followed the motion and glanced down at what he was holding.
A muffin. Carefully wrapped in a napkin. Chocolate chip, if the faint sweet smell was anything to go by.
“Oh! Thank you, Whitaker,” you smiled, gently taking the muffin from him.
“Dennis,” he mumbled, gaze dropping instantly to the floor.
Across the nurses’ station, Santos didn’t even pretend not to watch.
“Hey, where’s my muffin, Huckleberry?” she called out.
Dennis straightened. “In the staff lounge,” he said quickly, shooting her a stern look that carried absolutely no threat.
Her grin widened and she pushed off the desk with a quiet laugh, walking past him and shaking her head. Just before turning the corner, she mouthed dramatically: pathetic.
You broke the muffin in half, a few crumbs dusting your fingers as you popped a piece into your mouth, humming under your breath at the sweetness.
“Okay, wow,” you said around the bite. “That’s really good.”
You swallowed, offering the other half to Dennis. He blinked, looking at the muffin, then at you, and back to the muffin. He accepted it carefully, both hands for a second before remembering that was weird and quickly switching to one.
Smiling, you brushed your hands together, a few crumbs sprinkling onto the floor before you grabbed one of the tablets and turned on your heel, heading down the corridor toward room five.
Dennis watched you go with a small, helpless sigh. His shoulders slumped and his gaze drifted down to the muffin in his hand. Dana didn’t even try to hide her smirk as she leaned her elbow on the desk.
“You gonna frame it or eat it?” she asked, one brow arching.
He opened his mouth to protest when from the hallway, you called, “Whitaker? You coming?”
Panic surged through his body. He shoved the muffin into his mouth in one deeply unwise decision. He was filled with immediate regret as he tried to chew. His eyes went wide, cheeks puffed as he attempted to swallow.
Dennis thumped his fist lightly against his chest, attempting dignity while very clearly losing a battle against baked goods. He gave you a frantic thumbs-up that absolutely did not reassure anyone.
“Yeah!” he tried to say but it came out as, “Mmff—yeah!”
He stumbled into motion, nearly tripping over his own feet before catching himself on the edge of the desk. As carefully as he could, Dennis hurried down the corridor after you, still chewing the muffin.
You glanced back at the sound of hurried footsteps. “You good?”
Dennis nodded vigorously, still working through the mouthful, one hand raised in a strained all good gesture. A heroic swallow. A tiny cough. A recovering breath.
“All good,” he croaked, falling into step beside you like nothing had happened.
He tried, and failed, to look casual. His hands shoved into his pockets. Then out again. Then one back in. He adjusted his badge. Smoothed his hair. Checked his reflection mid-walk.
You slowed as you reached room five and Dennis came to an abrupt halt beside you—nearly colliding with your shoulder. He straightened instantly, clasping his hands behind his back like he was reporting for inspection.
“You’ve got crumbs,” you said casually, trying to bite back a smile.
“I do?” he asked, his voice already betraying him.
You stepped closer without thinking twice about it, lifting your hand toward his chest. “Yeah—right there.”
Time slowed to a medically concerning degree. Your fingers brushed lightly over the front of his scrubs, sweeping away a scatter of crumbs clinging to the fabric. The contact was brief and innocent.
But to Dennis, he stopped breathing. His brain short-circuited so violently it was almost audible. Your hand moved again, softer this time, brushing near his collar where one last stubborn crumb had lodged itself.
“There,” you said, satisfied. “All good.”
Dennis’s face had turned a shade of red that did not occur naturally in hospital settings. From his ears down to the collar of his scrubs—bright crimson.
“You—uh—thank you,” he managed, voice half an octave higher than usual.
You gestured politely toward the door. “You can go in first.”
He stepped forward confidently and walked directly into the closed door. Thump. He froze with his forehead against the glass for half a second, soul briefly departing his body.
“Careful of the door,” you said gently.
“Yep,” he replied, already recovering. “Saw that.”
He reached for the handle this time, opened it like a normal human being, and walked inside with forced composure that fooled absolutely no one. You followed a step behind, lips pressed together to hide a smile.
The end-of-shift chatter buzzed softly through the corridor as you and Dr McKay collected your things from your lockers. You were laughing about a minor mix-up with a patient’s chart, the two of you leaning casually against the cool metal doors.
Dennis came skidding around the corner a little too fast, eyes wide, and nearly ran straight into the lockers beside you. He grabbed the edge of the nearest door, doubling over and trying to catch his breath.
He straightened, brushing an invisible layer of dust off his scrubs, clearly flustered. “Oh—hey,” he said, still panting slightly. He glanced between you and McKay, looking a little uncertain. “So… uh… what were you two talking about?”
You exchanged a sly look with Cassie, who raised an eyebrow and grinned knowingly. “Oh, nothing much,” McKay said casually. “Just… plans for the weekend. You know how it is.”
Dennis tilted his head, suspicious. “Plans? The two of you? Uh… together?” His tone was incredulous, and his cheeks were beginning to tint pink.
You suppressed a giggle, leaning just a little closer to him. “Well… since we both have the weekend off, we were… talking about getting laid,” you said, letting the words linger in the air.
McKay snorted softly, playing along, nudging you with an exaggerated wink. “Yeah, it’s, uh… very top secret. Classified weekend operations.”
Dennis froze mid-step, eyes darting between the two of you. “Wait… wait, are you… a couple?” His voice wavered, equal parts scandalised and mortified.
You shrugged innocently, letting Cassie add a dramatic nod. “Could be,” McKay said, smirking. “Who’s asking?”
Dennis’ jaw dropped, and he instinctively straightened, trying to hide how flustered he was, but failing miserably. “Uh… I… no… I mean… what? I—uh… I just wondered…” He stumbled over his words, cheeks now a deep, unmistakable crimson.
You leaned against the locker again, grinning. “Relax, Whitaker. We’re just teasing you.
Dennis let out a defeated huff, running a hand through his hair and trying to regain some semblance of composure. He rocked back on his heels, clearly debating whether to retreat or attempt a recovery. Unfortunately for him, determination won.
“So,” he said, pointing awkwardly between the two of you, “these… classified operations—do they require, like, backup? Support staff? I’m very team-oriented.”
Cassie let out a short laugh. “Oh, he’s trying to enlist.”
You crossed your arms, pretending to assess him. “Hmm. Qualifications?”
Dennis straightened instantly. “Right. Yes. Qualifications. I’m… punctual. Mostly. I bring snacks. Morale’s important.” He gave a hopeful nod, then added, “I also make a mean bowl of pasta.”
“Tempting,” you said, tapping your chin thoughtfully.
“What… uh… what are you really doing this weekend?” he asked, trying to sound casual.
“Oh, probably nothing,” you shrugged, slinging your bag over your shoulder.
Dennis hesitated, gathering every ounce of courage he had. “Would you like to come around mine?” he asked, hope written all over his face. “As a friend thing?”
You tilted your head slightly. “Do I have to do anything?”
“Nope,” Dennis said quickly, shaking his head a little too fast. “Just… enjoy it, I guess?”
“You guess?” you teased, smiling at the way he immediately tripped over his confidence. “You know what—okay. I’ll come.”
Dennis blinked. “Wait—really?”
“Yeah.” You held out your hand expectantly. “Phone.”
He stared at your palm for half a second before scrambling to fish his phone out of his pocket, nearly dropping it before catching it against his chest. “Right—yes—phone. Here.”
You took it gently from his hands, thumbs moving quickly across the screen. Dennis watched like the moment was happening in slow motion—the soft furrow of your brow as you concentrated, the faint glow of the screen lighting your face, the way you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“There,” you said, handing the phone back. “Now you’ve got my number.”
Dennis looked down at the screen like it was the most important thing he’d ever held. He had your number. He smiled to himself, soft and a little dazed, clutching his phone like it was something precious.
You laughed softly and started down the corridor with Cassie, calling back over your shoulder, “Text me, Whitaker.”
The day finally caught up with you sometime after ten. You stood in your bathroom, toothbrush in hand, staring vaguely at your reflection as mint foam gathered at the corner of your mouth. The quiet hum of the extractor fan filled the room—steady, peaceful, the first real silence you’d had all day.
Your phone buzzed on the counter and you glanced down. A small, automatic smile tugged at your lips as you nudged the screen awake with your knuckle. The message was sent by an unknown number but you knew who it was straight away.
[ Unknown Number ]
Hi.
Hello…
Sorry… I hope this isn’t too late.
Another buzz.
[ Unknown Number ]
This is Dennis by the way…
I was just wondering what time works best for you tomorrow?
Morning? Afternoon? Evening?
I’m flexible.
You snorted softly, toothbrush still in your mouth.
[ Unknown Number ]
Also… food.
Important question.
What food do you like?
Any allergies?
Favorite snacks?
Sweet? Savory? Both?
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
[ Unknown Number ]
And movies!
Do you like comedies? Action? Rom-coms?
Documentaries?
Is there a movie you’ve seen a million times and still love?
Or one you refuse to watch ever again?
You quickly spat into the sink, laughing under your breath as another message appeared.
[ Unknown Number ]
Sorry that was a lot of questions.
I just want it to be… nice.
You wiped your mouth and picked up the phone, quickly adding his number into your contacts.
[ You ]
You’re very enthusiastic for “just a friend thing,” Whitaker.
The typing bubble appeared instantly. Disappeared. Reappeared.
[ Whitaker ]
Professional enthusiasm.
Clinically appropriate levels of planning.
You leaned back against the counter, smiling.
[ You ]
Afternoon works. No allergies. I’ll eat most things.
Snacks = yes.
Movies = surprise me.
[ Whitaker ]
Surprise you in a good way or a “we never speak again” way?
[ You ]
Dealer’s choice. I’m brave.
The typing bubble lingered longer this time.
[ Whitaker ]
Okay. Good. Great. Excellent.
This is excellent.
You could practically hear his nervous energy through the screen.
[ Whitaker ]
I’ll text you the time tomorrow morning.
And I’ll handle food.
And movies.
And snacks.
And… logistics.
You shook your head fondly.
[ You ]
Relax. It’s just hanging out.
[ Whitaker ]
Right.
Just hanging out.
A beat.
[ Whitaker ]
Looking forward to it though.
Your smile softened.
[ You ]
Me too. Night, Whitaker.
This time, the reply took a moment.
[ Whitaker ]
Good night :)
Dennis had been ready for twenty minutes. Not almost ready. Not finishing touches ready. Ready-ready. The apartment looked like a furniture showroom that had been warned about a surprise inspection. The cushions on the couch were plumped into perfect symmetry, their corners sharp and deliberate.
The coffee table sat centered with mathematical precision over the rug’s pattern. A bowl of snacks rested in the middle like a museum exhibit—chips sorted by size, candy lined up in colour order, not a crumb in sight.
It was suspicious. Unnaturally so. The kind of tidy that screamed someone is trying very hard. Dennis, meanwhile, was pacing a narrow track into the hardwood floor.
“Okay,” he muttered, dragging both hands down his face. “Normal greeting. Casual. Friendly. Like a person. Just… be a person.” He stopped and turned toward the TV screen, using his reflection like a rehearsal partner. A small wave. A tentative smile. “Hey. Hi. Come in.”
He grimaced instantly. “Too stiff. That sounded like I’m hosting a corporate meeting.” He shook out his arms like he could fling the awkwardness off his fingers. “Hey! You made it.” Finger guns. Dennis froze mid-pose, stared at himself, and slowly lowered his hands.
“Nope. Absolutely not.”
He exhaled hard through his nose and resumed pacing, heart already beating like he’d run a mile without moving an inch. A knock sounded at the door and Dennis froze. His heart launched into a full sprint as he rushed to open it. His sock slipped slightly on the floor and he windmilled an arm to recover, dignity barely intact.
He yanked the door open and there you were. For a moment, he just stared. Brain completely blank. Every practiced line vanished.
“Hi,” you said, smiling softly.
Dennis opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He tried again. “Hey—hello—hi. You’re—here. Which—good. That’s good.”
Brilliant. Incredible. A linguistic masterpiece. Dennis thought, mentally slapping his own forehead.
You laughed gently. “I’d hope so.”
The sound should’ve reassured him. Instead, it twisted into panic. Were you laughing politely? Was he already being a lot? He stepped aside too quickly, nearly bumping the doorframe.
“Yes. Come in. Please. Enter.” Dennis smiled, Enter? Who says enter?
You walked past him, amused, taking in the suspiciously tidy space. “Wow. You cleaned.”
“I always clean,” he said automatically. A beat. “I panic-cleaned.”
He shut the door and exhaled slowly, pressing his forehead against it for half a second and trying to reset his face into something that didn’t scream social catastrophe. You turned with a grin when a shrill beep cut through the silence.
Dennis’ eyes widened in horror. “The oven!”
Of course. Of course he forgot. The one thing he’d timed perfectly. The one thing he’d practiced like choreography. Temperature, minutes, plating—planned down to the second. Yet, the moment you arrived, his brain had unplugged itself. He spun on his heel and bolted toward the kitchen. There was the clatter of a pan, a muffled yelp, and the frantic shuffle of oven mitts.
“I meant to not forget—this was planned—I swear!” he called out, voice tight with panic.
You followed at an unhurried pace, leaning against the kitchen doorway, one shoulder resting on the frame. You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh. Dennis wrestled with oven mitts like they were sentient. Finally victorious, he opened the oven and carefully pulled out the tray with exaggerated caution, like he was defusing something explosive.
He stared at it for half a second, watching as a thin ribbon of smoke curled upward. That is not what food should look like.He straightened slowly, shoulders sinking as reality settled in. Turning toward you, face flushed pink, he held the tray out stiffly like evidence in a courtroom.
“Recovered,” he announced with a wince. “Mostly.”
You leaned forward and glanced down at the tray. The contents were charcoal-black. Beyond saving. Possibly fossilised.
“Looks delicious,” you hummed, teasing warmth in your voice.
Dennis let out a small, defeated breath. “I’m sorry.”
And he didn’t just mean dinner. He meant the awkward greeting. The verbal nonsense. The spiraling panic. The way every moment he wanted to get right kept slipping sideways like a scene from a blooper reel. He’d wanted to seem put-together. Effortless. Someone easy to be around. Someone worth choosing to spend an evening with.
You stepped closer, your voice gentler now. “Perhaps we should order take-out?”
Dennis looked up, hopeful but sheepish. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Yeah, that… that sounds safer.”
He carefully set the ruined tray down with exaggerated care, the metal clinking softly against the counter. Dennis reached for the dish towel beside the sink. He wiped his hands once. Then again. Then folded the towel in half with precise edges and wiped them a third time, buying himself a few steadying seconds.
“This way,” he said, gesturing toward the living room like a host trying very hard to recover his dignity.
You followed him down the short hallway. The kitchen light faded behind you, replaced by a warmer glow. The lamps in the living room cast soft amber pools across the walls, turning the carefully controlled neatness into something gentler, almost cozy.
The couch sat centered like a stage set. A knitted blanket was folded over one arm with suspicious precision, its edges aligned so neatly it looked professionally styled. Decorative pillows rested in symmetrical formation, their seams facing inward like they’d been coached.
The coffee table was a study in preparation. Coasters spaced with geometric accuracy. Napkins stacked into a perfect square. Bowls of snacks arranged in tidy rows—salty, sweet, savory—like categories in a very anxious buffet. Dennis hovered near the arm of the couch, suddenly unsure where to put his hands.
“I didn’t, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Overdo it, did I?”
“It’s cute,” you said lightly, one shoulder lifting in a small shrug.
He blinked, caught off guard. “Cute?”
“Thoughtful,” you corrected with a small smile.
The word landed gently, and something in his expression loosened. Dennis pulled out his phone like he’d just remembered an important mission. “I’ll order. My treat.” He nodded once, decisive. “What are we thinking? Pizza? Thai? Something healthy so we can pretend we tried to be responsible adults?”
You laughed softly, the sound warm and easy. “Whatever you’d like.”
He nodded like you’d entrusted him with a state secret and sat down on the very edge of the couch cushion. Back straight. Knees together. Phone held with intense focus. You sat beside him, close enough that your sleeve brushed his arm. Dennis immediately went statue-still.
You tilted your head, amused. “Whitaker.”
“Mm?” His voice came out tighter than intended.
“You can relax,” you teased.
“I am relaxed,” he insisted, shoulders hovering somewhere near his ears.
You nudged his arm lightly. “I don’t bite.”
He paused, eyes wide, “I—right—no—I didn’t think you did—I mean not that it would be bad if you—I just—”
You laughed, and leaned back into the couch. “You’re safe. Promise.”
Dennis released a slow breath through his nose, like he’d been holding it since the front door opened. His shoulders lowered by a fraction. Small, but noticeable. Dennis cleared his throat softly and looked back down at his phone, grateful for something to focus on.
“Okay… food,” he murmured, scrolling with intense concentration. “Safe options. Crowd-pleasers. No culinary incidents.”
You watched the small crease form between his brows—the face he made when he was trying very hard to get something right.
“Ooh—this place is good,” he said, a little more confidently. “They do great noodles. And dumplings. And—oh—these crispy things I can’t pronounce but fully support.” He risked a quick glance at you. “Sound okay?”
“Perfect,” you nodded.
He tapped decisively, relief flickering across his face like he’d just passed an exam. “Done. It says… about twenty minutes.” He gave a small, satisfied nod. “See? Competent. Efficient. Minimal disaster.”
You laughed quietly. “Gold star.”
He set his phone down on the coffee table and rubbed his palms on his knees, nerves slowly bleeding off now that the big decisions were handled.
“So,” he said, a little softer, “movie?”
Before hesitation could catch up, he reached for the remote and turned toward the TV. The screen flickered to life, washing the room in cool shifting light. The soft murmur of a streaming menu filled the space. Dennis leaned back—just slightly at first—testing it, then he sank a little deeper into the cushion. He scrolled through titles, posture loosening with each click.
“Terrible action movie?” he offered. He tilted the remote toward you like a presenter revealing a prize. “Comfort rewatch? Something neither of us has seen so we can judge it together?”
You leaned closer to see the screen better, your shoulder brushing his. “Whatever floats your boat, Whitaker.”
“Oooh—” Dennis brightened. “Classic comfort.”
On screen WALL·E popped up and he hit play before the universe could interfere. The opening scenes rolled, gentle and quiet, filling the apartment with soft mechanical whirs and sweeping music.
Somewhere along the way, without either of you really noticing when it happened, the space between you quietly disappeared. Dennis only became aware of it when he felt the faintest shift of warmth at his side—light, steady, and unexpectedly comforting. Your thigh rested against his. Just there, close enough to be unmistakable, but gentle enough that it felt almost natural.
For a second, Dennis went perfectly still. His mind, of course, did not stay still with him. Was it accidental? Had you leaned over without thinking? Were you comfortable? Should he move away a little? Stay exactly where he was? Say something? Pretend not to notice? Disappear through the floorboards out of pure social panic?
He didn’t move at first, worried any reaction might make it awkward. His mind raced through possibilities. Was it accidental? Were you comfortable? Should he shift? Stay still? Evaporate?
He glanced sideways with painstaking care, trying to do it subtly enough that it wouldn’t look like he was checking. You seemed completely at ease. Your attention stayed on the screen, your posture loose and unguarded, one hand resting lazily near your lap. No sign that the contact meant anything except what it was.
The tension in his shoulders eased by degrees, and after a moment he allowed himself to settle back into the couch again. He stopped hovering at the edge of himself and let his leg rest naturally where it was. The contact stopped feeling like a question.
Dennis finally stopped analysing every tiny movement long enough to just be there with you.
Then he swallowed, a thought forming slowly enough that it almost felt brave. He turned his head just a little, about to say something—anything—that might keep this calm, comfortable closeness going.
“Hey, I was just wondering—”
The door bell rang and the both of you jumped. Dennis blinked at the door like it had personally betrayed him. “Oh—food!”
He scrambled upright a little too fast, remote slipping from his hand onto the cushion. “I’ve got it!” he added quickly, already moving.
His sock caught the edge of the rug—the rug he had meticulously straightened earlier—and his foot snagged just enough to ruin his momentum. There was a graceless half-stumble, half-hop as his arms windmilled for balance.
“—whoa—!” He threw out a hand and caught himself against the wall just before he could fully crash into it, the impact making a dull thud against the plaster.
“I meant to do that,” he called back, voice tight with embarrassment as he pushed himself upright and tried to salvage what remained of his dignity.
He ran a hand through his hair as he hurried the rest of the way to the door, this time moving with much more caution, as though the floor might try to betray him again. He took one deep breath before opening it, then pulled the door wide with what he hoped looked like calm, competent adulthood. The delivery driver stood there with the order in hand.
“Hi—yes—thank you,” he said, accepting the warm paper bags like they were precious cargo. The rich smell of take-out instantly filled the hallway.
He nodded at the delivery driver with an earnest little smile, reached for his wallet, and tipped him a little too generously in the process, as though that might somehow make up for everything else he had already fumbled tonight.
“Have a good night,” he called, shutting the door gently with his foot.
He lingered for half a second in the quiet hallway, the soft click of the door settling into silence behind him. Warm paper bags hung from his fingers, their folded tops rustling faintly as steam slipped out in gentle breaths. The heat seeped into his palms, grounding him, as he turned back toward the living room.
When he returned to the living room, you looked up as he approached. He crossed to the coffee table and knelt slightly to set everything down, moving with careful precision. Containers were placed one by one, aligned without him even realising he was doing it. Plastic lids popped softly as he opened them, releasing fresh waves of warmth and savory fragrance into the air.
“Here,” he said quietly, sliding one container toward you and offering a pair of chopsticks. His fingers brushed yours for the briefest second during the handoff—quick, accidental, but enough to make him acutely aware of everything again.
He took his own container and settled back beside you. This time, he didn’t perch on the edge like a guest afraid to wrinkle the furniture. He still carried a hint of nervous energy—a slight tightness in his movements, a carefulness in how he held himself—but the rigid formality from earlier had softened. He even managed a small, genuine smile as you both started eating, the movie playing quietly in the background while the room filled with the warm smell of food.
It felt natural. Comfortable. Dennis found himself relaxing again, shoulders loose, posture easy as he leaned back into the couch. Mid-bite, you said something he didn’t quite catch, and he glanced over, then paused. There, faint but unmistakable, was a small streak of sauce near the side of your mouth.
“Uh—hey,” he said gently, tapping his own cheek in demonstration. “You’ve got a little…”
You paused, touching the side of your face. “Here?”
“No, a little—” He leaned in slightly, then stopped himself, suddenly aware of how close he was. “Sorry. I can—uh—”
His words tripped over themselves. Dennis hesitated only a moment longer before lifting his hand carefully. His thumb brushed gently against your cheek, the pad of it wiping away the sauce in one slow, careful motion. It was so light it barely felt like anything at all.
“There,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Then he pulled his hand back like he’d just realised what he’d done, blinking once and going just a little pink.
“All good,” he added quickly, voice softer now.
You looked at him, a small smile resting easily on your face. “Thanks.”
The movie’s quiet soundtrack filled the small silence that followed. And Dennis suddenly found it very hard to focus on anything except the warm, fluttery feeling in his chest. He tried to focus on his food again.
He tried to act normal but only three seconds had passed before he cleared his throat and blurted, “Sorry.”
You glanced over. “For what?”
“That. The—face thing,” Dennis gestured vaguely toward his own cheek, then yours. “I should’ve asked first. I mean, I kind of did? But not officially. Not clearly. And I don’t want you to think I just—assumed—or invaded your space or—”
“That. The—face thing. I should’ve asked first. I mean, I kind of did, but not officially, and I don’t want you to think I just—assumed—or invaded your space or—” He stopped eating entirely now, words picking up speed. “I just don’t ever want to make you uncomfortable. Or anyone. Especially you. And sometimes I misread situations and then I try to fix it and make it worse and—”
He stopped eating entirely. Chopsticks hovered midair before lowering slowly back into the container. His words, meanwhile, did the opposite — picking up speed, tripping over each other in their rush to get out.
“I just don’t ever want to make you uncomfortable. Or anyone. Especially you. And sometimes I misread situations and then I try to fix it and somehow that makes it worse and then I overcorrect and that’s worse too and—”
He inhaled sharply through his nose, like he’d run out of runway. The container made a soft thk as he set it down on the coffee table with exaggerated care, aligning it with the edge like neatness could compensate for nerves.
“I overstepped, didn’t I?” He mumbled and before you could answer, he was already on his feet. “I overstepped.”
Dennis began pacing in front of the television, the movie’s soft glow washing over him in shifting light. His hand dragged back through his hair, leaving it slightly mussed.
“I knew it,” he muttered. “First the greeting, then the cooking, then the rug, and now this. There’s like a—” he gestured in a loose circular motion “—a pattern. A sequence of avoidable disasters.”
“I’m really sorry. I just—sometimes I try to be helpful or normal and it comes out…” He made a vague, helpless motion with both hands. “Too much. Too fast. Too… me.” His shoulders slumped slightly. “And you’re being so nice about everything, and I don’t want to make the night weird.” He gestured between you, like the space itself needed careful handling. “Or make you feel weird. Or pressured.”
He resumed pacing, but the distance shortened — smaller steps, tighter turns, restless energy with nowhere to go. His socks whispered softly against the floor with each pass.
“I can absolutely sit back down and create, like… a respectful buffer zone,” He nodded once, convincing himself.
He stopped mid-ramble, blinking like he’d just caught himself on a security camera of his own thoughts. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again.
“I just don’t want you to regret coming.” The words landed softly. He didn’t dress them up. Didn’t rush them. They just sat there, honest and unguarded.
Dennis stood there in the middle of the room, anxious and sincere and more open than he probably meant to be. Then he started pacing again.
“And it’s just—” He exhaled sharply, the breath shaky on the way out. “I really like you. Like… really like you.” His voice softened, vulnerability threading through it. “Which probably makes this worse, because now every tiny thing feels huge and I don’t know what the right move is supposed to be. There’s a script somewhere, I’m sure, and I did not get a copy.”
A soft, self-conscious laugh slipped out. “I don’t even know if I’ll ever have a real chance with you. I mean—look at me tonight.” He gestured helplessly at himself. “I’m basically a compilation reel of awkward decisions.”
“But I wanted this to be good. For you.” His eyes flicked up, steady despite the nerves. “Because you deserve good.”
Through all of it, you just watched him—quiet, warm, an unmistakable smile slowly growing as his nervous honesty spilled out in tangled threads. Dennis kept pacing for another moment, words still half-caught on the edge of another apology, another explanation, another attempt to make sense of everything he was feeling.
You stood, taking two calm steps forward. You reached for his wrist, and the restless motion of him came to a stop all at once. Dennis looked down at your hand, then slowly back up at you, as if the whole room had gone beautifully, impossibly quiet.
Your fingers stayed warm around his wrist, steady and grounding. Your thumb rested lightly over the quick beat of his pulse, fluttering beneath his skin with all the leftover nerves he hadn’t quite managed to hide. You took another step closer until there was almost no space left between you.
Up close, Dennis looked wonderfully undone—cheeks faintly pink, hair falling a little messily over his forehead from all the anxious hands that had run through it, eyes wide and bright with worry and hope. He seemed to forget, for a second, what he’d been about to say.
“Dennis,” you said softly, your voice low and gentle. You lifted your free hand and rested it lightly against his forearm. Your voice wasn’t loud, but it cut cleanly through the noise in his head. “Breathe.”
“You called me Dennis,” he said faintly, as if that alone had short-circuited his brain all over again.
A tiny, fond smile touched your mouth. “Breathe.”
He drew in a careful breath. It trembled at first, then steadied. The tight line of his shoulders began to ease, tension loosening thread by thread. The restless energy that had been humming through him softened into something quieter, more manageable. His gaze steadied, focusing on you instead of everything that could go wrong.
Dennis swallowed, his voice smaller now, worn thin by honesty. “I… I do really like you.” His fingers twitched slightly at his side, like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure he’d earned that yet. “And I know tonight’s been kind of a mess. I know I’ve been…” He gave a tiny, helpless shrug. “A lot. But… I really want a chance.”
You lifted your hand slowly from his arm to his forehead, brushing that loose strand of hair back into place. Your fingers moved carefully through the soft fringe, smoothing it away from his eyes.
He went very still at the touch, like even breathing might interrupt it. His mouth parted slightly, like he’d forgotten what he was about to say. Before his thoughts could catch up—before another apology or nervous spiral could form—you leaned in. You gave him time to pull away if he wanted but he didn’t and your lips met his in a soft, quiet kiss.
For a second, he didn’t move at all. Then all at once, his shoulders loosened completely, and the tension he’d been carrying seemed to dissolve under the quiet warmth of it. His hands found their way to your waist, clumsy but determined.
Then you pulled back just enough to look at him. Dennis blinked, a little dazed, but trying to act casual. He pushed his chest out, squared his shoulders, and lifted his chin like a man who’d totally handled this. “Yeah. That. Fine. No big deal,” he said, feigning confidence, his voice just a little too sharp, a little too deliberate.
You gave him the tiniest smile and before he could fully convince himself he was composed, you pecked his lips again. And again. And again. Dennis went rigid for half a heartbeat. Then he melted. Completely.
He cleared his throat, voice quieter now, a sheepish little quaver escaping. “Was… was that—uh—to shut me up? Or… because you, you like me?”
He bit his lip nervously, glancing at you like the answer might somehow change if he looked long enough. You shrugged, casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Both,” you said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips.
Dennis’ jaw slackened slightly. He blinked. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. His entire body seemed to be trying to decide whether to collapse into the couch, leap up in relief, or melt entirely—and, truthfully, he probably wanted to do all three.
Finally, he gave a tiny, helpless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh. Both. Okay. That’s… good. Really good.” he swallowed, voice low and hesitant, tugging at the sleeve of his shirt almost unconsciously.
“Um… do… do you think we could… maybe… do that again?” he asked, sheepish and awkward and completely endearing all at once. His eyes flicked up at you, wide and hopeful, like he’d just confessed a terrible secret.
You rolled your eyes, a teasing curve of your mouth, pretending to consider it like he’d just asked a very difficult question. “Hmm… let me think about it,” you said, dragging out the words in mock deliberation, tilting your head just enough to make him squirm under your gaze.
Dennis’ shoulders twitched. His hands fiddled nervously at his sides. “I… I think it would be… nice. Maybe. If you want to,” he added quickly, trying to cover the way his whole body was practically vibrating with anticipation.
You smiled, that faint, knowing smirk that made him go weak in the knees, and leaned in without another word. Dennis’ world narrowed to you again, and the second your lips met his, he melted completely.
hi!! could i pls request a smutfic of s1 whitaker x soft dom fem!r with an established relationship? <3
(a/n: i just want you to know that i had to look up what soft dom meant and my god idk what that says about me, but i hope i did it justice lol.)
warnings: smut, nsfw, 18+, mdni!!
You can tell how his day was by the way he comes through the door.
On good days, he fills the apartment with a warm laughter and wide eyed hope. On bad days, his mind is still stuck on the floor of the ER, hands twitching with leftover adrenaline, jaw locked like he’s bracing for the next code.
Tonight is definitely the second kind.
You watch him from the couch, your book forgotten in your lap. He sets his bag down with care, trying to force control onto the smallest actions. He rolls his shoulders, tension radiating off him in waves. He doesn't look at you.
"Hey." he says, his voice flat.
"Hey yourself."
He retreats to the kitchen. The tap runs and he drinks deeply. The refrigerator door opens and clicks shut, completely empty of intention.
You set the book aside. "Dennis."
"I'm fine."
"I know." you say, a familiar lie you both accept. "Come here anyway."
You can picture him perfectly. One hand gripping the counter, head bowed, weighing whether he actually deserves comfort.
It takes him a moment. It always does. But he comes.
He stops at the edge of the couch, looking down at you. You reach up, wrapping your fingers firmly around his wrist. "Sit." you command softly.
He sinks onto the cushions and you shift to face him properly, tucking one leg beneath you, and cup his face in both hands. You force his gaze to meet yours. His eyes are exhausted. "There you are." you murmur.
"Sorry," he starts.
"Don't." You cut him off, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone. "You're not in trouble. You're here. That's all."
Straddling his lap, you slide your thighs along his. His hands react on pure instinct, gripping your hips. You lean in close, feeling the heat radiating off his skin. "Look at me."
He does, his dark eyes wide and vulnerable.
"Good." You lean in, capturing his lips in a punishingly soft kiss. You pull back just an inch. "Again?"
His breath hitches. "Please.”
You make him work for it. Dennis spends his entire days running around the ER, making life or death decisions, so you take the burden of control entirely out of his hands. You kiss him slow and deep, and when he tries to take over, to push his tongue forward and quicken the pace, you pull back.
His fingers dip down to grip your ass. "Hey, wait.."
You trail kisses along the tense line of his jaw, down to the sensitive dip beneath his ear. "I've got you. Stop thinking. And let me."
A wrecked, helpless sound escapes his throat, and the tension in his spine finally snaps. He goes pliable in your hands, melting into you. Finally, completely present.
You grip the hem of his scrub top and pull. He lifts his arms automatically, a man finally remembering how beautiful it feels to be taken care of. The fabric tosses onto the floor, exposing the expanse of his chest. You press your palm flat against his sternum, feeling his heart hammering against your hand.
"Hey." you whisper, leaning down until your lips brush his ear. "Where are you?"
"Here." he groans. "God, I'm here."
You don't give him time to overthink. You reach between your bodies, untying the scrub bottoms and pushing his briefs down, freeing his thick length. He’s already leaking, slick and fully aroused from your authority over him.
You reach behind yourself, discarding your own clothes until there is nothing left between you. You grip his hard shaft, stroking him once, twice, listening to the hitch in his breath.
"You're so ready for me." you murmur, guiding his wet tip to your opening.
"Please." he rasps, his knuckles turning white where they grip your thighs.
"Ask for it, Dennis."
His head drops back against the couch, his chest heaving. "Please. Now. I need you."
You lift yourself slightly and sink down in one smooth motion.
You stretch completely around him, taking every single inch of him. Dennis lets out a cry, his hips bucking upward on pure reflex.
"Okay?" you gasp, the fullness of him sending a violent shiver down your spine.
"Yeah, Fuck, yes."
You stay still for a moment, letting him adjust to the warmth of your body. Then, you begin to move. You lift and drop, grinding your hips in a way that drives him insane.
His hands clamp onto your waist, trying to force a faster, harder pace.
You instantly catch his wrists, pinning his hands firmly down to his own thighs. "I said I've got you. Don't move."
A broken whimper escapes him.
You pace the pleasure with agonizing precision. You ride him slowly, sliding up and down his shaft, twisting your hips at the bottom of each stroke to rub your clit against him. Dennis arches off the couch, his chest slick with sweat, his head hitting against the cushions as you completely dictate his pleasure.
"Look at me." you command, your voice wavering with your own building climax.
He opens his heavy lids. His expression is completely stripped bare.
"You're mine." you whisper, picking up the pace. "Tell me."
"Yours." he chokes out, a whisper. "Always yours."
summary: its a hot summer's day and you're apartment is hot as hell. you and your roommates have made the mutual agreement that it was okay to be in your underwear in the heat. however it doesn't stop your male roommate for getting aroused by your body.
tags: smut, sweat, unprotected sex, cold temperature play
wc: 2.1k
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
In the middle of summer there is a particular season that makes it more unbearable. Corn sweat occurs during the heat waves when the corn in the region releases water into the air, making it feel like you were swimming in air. It brings out the worst in everyone this time of year.
So, to prevent the feuding and frustration your roommates, Santos, Whitaker, and you have come up with a compromise. Without judgment, you could wander your apartment in your underwear to beat the awful heat. Your apartment had on A/C and fans were not doing enough. Even when the sun was down the humidity would just linger.
You usually came home first. You were a year 2 psychiatry resident. You didn't know if not being on-call was a blessing or a curse.
Out of the temperature regulated hospital and into the unbearable humidity of the night. You debate whether or not to pretend to be on-call and linger the ED until your roommates were off work. But instead, you head home and immediately strip off your clothes. You go around every room to turn on the fans, the room you go into is Whitaker's.
"So you mean to tell me, that hot shrink is probably naked walking around your apartment right now." Antoine leans over the desk with a few of the younger men in the department all looking at Whitaker for an answer.
Whitaker had made the mistake of telling them how he was beating the hear. He neglected the fact that they knew you were his roommate and doing the same thing at home as they speak. "I-it's not like that."
"She's half-naked, you're half-naked and you haven't thought about once?!" Antoine raises his eyebrows. The other's chime in as well.
Of course Dennis has but he is not a pervert. During the heatwave, he has been very courteous. When he comes home he averts his gaze when you are in the central rooms. Although his room is the hottest, he will go there for your sake. He liked you but so did half hospital. Calls seem to increase when you are the one on-call. He stood no chance compared to the other departments. You probably thought of him as a joke like Santos did.
"He knows better, you perverts." Santos walks over, coming to his rescue, "Don't you guys have work to do. I'll call Dana over if I have to." The group of men immediately disperse.
"Thanks for that." He clears his throat.
"It was for her sake more than for yours." She shakes her head, "It was embarrassing how quick you put yourself in a corner there."
"I shouldn't have said anything." He sighs defeated.
"You can't let them push you around like that. Especially because you like her."
"I don't— I don't like her." He purses his lips.
"Sure you do. Your face lights up the brightest when she's here for a consult. You get flustered when you see her bra in the bathroom. Hell, I'm surprised you haven't overheated seeing her—"
"Okay, I get it, thank you."
"Plans tonight?"
"None. You?"
"Garcia invited me over her place which has A/C so I am grateful." She smirks, "So it will just be you and her tonight."
Dennis rolls his eyes, "Have fun."
"You too. If you two start bunking together we could get another roommate. Make our rent even cheaper." She winks before walking away. Dennis scoffs in disgust at the idea of a 4th roommate in their hot apartment.
Back at the apartment, you sit in the dark living room with a fan sitting in front of you. The only light source you have is the television playing 24hr cafe music from YouTube. You had gone to the liquor store before coming home and gotten a pack of ice for cold drinks. However, when you had put the ice in the cup, it felt so good in your hands you opted to just rubbing it on your skin once in a while.
You sit on the couch and slide the ice over your arms and down over your chest. As the smooth jazz plays you feel the cold water trickle over your skin. You let out a satisfying moan as it slips over your breast.
You mind wanders to Dennis for a moment. Since your little agreement, you've been having a hard time keeping your eyes off of him. His boxers didn't leave much to the imagination.
You move the ice over your nipple. You think about the time he fell asleep on the couch during the heatwave. His serene face and his bare chest rising and falling. You slide the ice down your cleavage then to your other nipple. You thought about what it would feel like to be on top of him. Grinding down on his lap. Your other hand trails the cool water from your cup down into your underwear. He would look up at you with those big eyes of his. His hands would be on your breasts as he grinds back against you. You would hold his face and lean down to kiss him. His hands will move to your hips and pick the pace. Both of you getting closer and closer until—
The front door unlocking snaps you out of your fantasy. You quickly remove the ice from your body and chew it up. Dennis comes through the door with a smile, "Hey."
"Hi, long day?" You says as you try to catch your breath without raising suspicion.
"Not too bad, you?" He sets his keys and bag by the door and walks further into the house.
"Just the usual," You giggle when you notice, "You're all sweaty."
"Yeah… I took the bus. Santos is at Garcia's." He wipes his brow feeling the sticky sweat against his skin.
"Thank god, I would have hated it if she brought Garcia here. It's hot enough just the three of us." You huff.
"You look sweaty just sitting there." He chuckles then averts his gaze.
"It actually not sweat. I was using ice cubes to cool down."
"Nice. My brothers and I would sit in the icebox in the garage when it got hot."
"I'm jealous. I didn't buy enough to fill the tub."
"Well it would get gross after the third turn and my dad wasn't too happy with what we did with the stuff inside to sit in it." He starts walking to the hall, "I'm going to go change before they stick to me forever."
"Oh right, you might want to spend the night out here. Your fan short circuited." You says apologetically, "I tried to turn it on earlier and it crapped out."
"Damn it," He sighs and trudges into his room.
You were right. It was sweltering in his room. He couldn't last more than the few minutes to get undressed. He returns to the living room in just his boxers looking like was holding his breath it was so hot. When he sits down on the couch, you offer him your cup of ice. "You're getting red."
"Thanks," He takes a piece of ice and goes to put it in his mouth.
"No! You're supposed to put it on your body." You take the piece from him. "Like this." You gently drag the ice from his wrist to his shoulder. Dennis' breath hitches as he feels the cold sensation.
"Feels good?" You ask as you remove the ice and do the same to his other arm.
"Yes." He says breathily. You're so close to him, he can feel your body heat. You move the ice across his collarbone. A heat soon rises in his chest. "Y-you know I can do this myself."
He tries to take the ice but you yank your hand away. "No way. I scratch your back, you scratch mine," You snark. "C'mon Dennis, there's no harm in it."
"I guess not…" He sucks in a breath as you place the ice back on his chest. He bites his lip as you move further down. He watches as you move the ice from one pec to the other. Slowly, you get closer to his nipples.
"Dennis…" You whisper. He looks at you and sees your face is very close to his. He leans in and captures your lips in a kiss. Your tongue slides against his and you moan against his lips. You move into his lap as you continue to kiss. The small piece of ice slips out of your grasp and slides down his chest.
"Ah!" Dennis hisses as the ice slips down his naval.
"Sorry Dennis." You reach for the ice but he grabs it first. Now with the ice non-existent, Dennis rests his cold wet hand on your chest. You squeal as you feel the cool touch, "Dennis!"
"Sorry, I had to get you back."
"I see." You giggle. Then you grab your cup of ice, taking a piece and placing it between your lips. You lean down and push the ice into Dennis' mouth. The two of you share the ice between each other. The mix of the ice cold water swishes with your warm spit. Your tongue feels numb against his. Then you pull away, moving down his face to his jaw then to his neck. "I've wanted this for so long," you mutter against his skin.
"You wanted me?" He moans and pulls you off his neck so you face him again.
"Yeah," You lean in, "and I need you bad."
He dips his hand in the cup until his fingertips are cold. He then drags them over your chest and into you bra. You bite back a moan as he pinches your nipple between his two fingers.
"Dennis," You moan. Your hips shift and he pants a little at the friction between your hips.
You put your hand in the cup as well and drag your hand down his stomach and under his waistband. He sucks in a breath as your hand reaches the base of his dick.
"So cold." He laughs nervously.
"Really? I'm still hot." You reach behind your back and unclip your bra. You look him in the eyes and whisper, "This is okay, right?"
"Yes." He slides down his underwear. You wrap your fingers around the base of his cock. He moans as his eyes screw shut. You move your hand up and down the shaft with your cool wet hand. He moans your name as he lifts his hips with the motion of your hand.
He takes his own cool hands and continues to kiss you. "W-wait… I don't want to cum yet." He whimpers.
You pull your hand away and he picks you up from the couch. He goes to your room and lays you on your bed. He disappears for a moment then returns with the cup again. He puts a piece of ice in his mouth then kisses down your stomach.
He pulls down your underwear and kisses your pubic bone, "Is this okay?"
"Yes," Your voice no louder than a whisper.
He lays between your legs and spreads the lips of your pussy. With his cold tongue, he sends a chill down your spin. You moan out in surprise and bites your lip. "Dennis please!"
He kisses your clit then rolls circles around it with his tongue. With the now melted ice cube in his mouth he sucks on it spilling some of the water from his mouth. You roll your hips as he continues his focus on your clit.
You feel his fingers massage your entrance before going inside. You moan with the strokes of his fingers. You drag your fingers through his hair as he proceeds in giving your clit attention. "God Dennis, that feels so good." You pant.
He pulls away and takes your wrist from his head. He pulls it down and kisses the palm as he crawls back up to face you, "Condom?"
"I don't have one." You shake your head, "I'm on the pill though so it's okay."
"Okay," He looks you in the eyes and nods.
He inserts his cock slowly inside you. You arch your back and raise your knees against his waist. He grabs under one and picks up his pace. He's already close so he puts his focus on you. He places his mouth on your nipples and you feel cold it still is. His fingers press against your clit as he tries to reach your orgasm for you.
Your moans get higher and higher until the rubber-band snaps inside you. You claw down Dennis' back as you shake through your orgasm. Dennis' follows shortly after yours. You kiss as he rides out your highs then he pulls outs.
As he lays beside you, you turn to him, "I've definitely cooled down."
"Me too." He smiles.
"I heard this weekend is going be in the 90s." You move your head to his chest.
"Oh no." He feigns disappointment, "At least we have a way to stay cool now."
"Mhm. There's still some ice left in the freezer." You smirk.
Well, that was a lot! And seemingly nothing about jury questionnaires😅I predicted earlier yesterday that this would come up, but keep in mind that extreme emotional disturbance is different than insanity. I’ll go into detail later today on how these differ.
Also, choosing this defense means that the defendant DID commit the act or that the prosecution has met their burden to show that defendant did commit the act. However, this defense is only available for murder charges — not weapons charges.
One good thing is that the burden of proof is lower for extreme emotional disturbance. Usually, the burden of proof in criminal cases is “beyond a reasonable doubt”, but this defense must only be proven by “a proponderance of the evidence.” I’ll go more into that later too! Send me your questions and I’ll get to them throughout the day!
LYRIC: "i can do a lot in 15 minutes, only gonna take 2 to make you finish"
────────── ୨ৎ ───────────
dennis is absolutely pathetic for you, always has been and always will be. from the moment you guys first started dating. he turns into mush under your hands even when you’re not doing anything special.
like right now, he’s trying his absolute best to keep his composure and remain good for you. but you’ve got your hand on his cock from over his pants and he’s only able to let small whines spill out between your soft kisses. you love it, you love teasing him. he makes it so easy. he's always so patient and you love pushing him to see what his limit is.
you’re kissing him deep and slow, laying happily in beside him with your hand in his lap as you take your time with him. you’re able to feel the unmistakable erection in his pants as you palm him and your pussy grows wetter the longer you play with him. but you’ve made your mind up on what you’re doing right now. so you can wait a little bit longer.
you decide you want to tease him a bit more, you move your attention to his neck, kissing down his throat. dennis’ hands are by his side and he digs into the sheets, a moan breaking free from his throat as he moves to give you more access, tilting his neck. he whines your name softly, urging you to do more.
"c'mon, stop teasing…please, no more," he practically whines out.
you pull back from his neck to look at him. his eyes are incredibly blown, all pleading and wide. his face flush from need. he’s so beautiful, you think. you give a fake pout as you reply, "but i'm not done with kissing you yet baby.”
but you’re nice. and you decide to take mercy on him. you move your hand to inside his pants, skimming past his boxers and grabbing his cock. he jerks slightly at the feeling of your skin on his. it’s somewhat awkward, thanks to the position you’re in but you pull his pants and boxers down, his cock springing out. it’s all hard and leaky already.
you take it in your hand, starting by giving one slow stroke to his length. you smile to yourself when his hips jerk up at the slightest touch. you hear him let out what you think is a whine at the same time.
“baby-,” he chokes out.
his voice dissolves into a gasp when your brush the head of his cock with your thumb. you decide to stop teasing and begin to work your hand around the length of his cock, up and down. squeezing in his particularly sensitive spots. his hips roll into your hand in small, greedy thrusts. you praise him when he lets out an embarrassingly loud moan as you move your free hand to play with his balls.
he starts cumming out of nowhere. except it’s not really nowhere, he knew it was coming. shudders run through him and he grabs at you, at the sheets, at anything, trying to hold on tight as his warmth spurts into your hand. his hips desperately rut up into nothing as an attempt to ride out his high. his whines are high-pitched and so needy.
he’s quick to turn and bury his flushed face into your body. you're surprised by his orgasm but it turns you on so much. he moans softly as he continues to grind up into your hand, and you continue to stroke his cock softly as he comes down. he lifts his head up to look at you and the sight you’re met with, it’s even more beautiful than before. he's a mess, eyes weepy. his lips are pink and swollen and a bit bitten from your shared kisses.
"i'm sorry, i'm so sorry," he nuzzles upward against your again, "i was so turned on, you're so pretty and your voice and your hand. i’m so sor-”
except you shush him with a hand to his lips, “baby, that was so fucking hot.”
dennis stared at you, the sweat dripping down and into your scrub shirt, he could imagine the sweat droplet going down your cleavage. it was hot, so fucking hot, the ED was full of heat strokes and dehydrated people.
“and you’re practically drooling” trinity sighed, tapping her forehead with her pen.
“actually he’s just staring” mel added. “—very intensely…are you okay whitaker?”
dennis snapped out of it, “yes! i’m fine! it’s just hot” he sighed, his face going into the crook of his elbow.
trinity rolled her eyes. “just don’t move you might poke our eyes out with your boner for dr. yln over there” she sighed, her voice lower.
dennis smirked and looked at her.
“awe you think it’s that big?” he laughed.
trinity got to see not so nervous dennis whitaker, he would say they were almost best friends but trinity would never allow that but that meant he also had to endure trinity telling him that she had bigger dick and balls when she wore a strap on than he could ever have in his life.
“not as big as mine huckleberry”
there it was.
you were charting, it was 8pm and you were ready to go. dana stood behind you fanning both her and the back of your neck, you could faintly hear her and robby talking about the heat.
“hey do you guys know of any ice cream shops near by that are open late?” you asked logging out of the computer.
“cute little mom and pop place just a couple blocks away by the new papa john’s, listen i took emma, princess and perlah and they loved the strawberry cheesecake ice cream and i mean LOVED” dana went on, robby laughed with her and nodded.
“—hey robby i’m gonna head out” you interrupted dana’s cute ramblings about perlah and princess making new bets on if mckays ex was gonna dump his new girlfriend.
“bye sweetheart be safe now” she said and pat your shoulder lovingly. robby waved and then cross his arms and leaned back against a desk.
you grabbed your clothes from the bag in your locker, looking to your left and seeing dennis.
“this heat could kill me” you tried to make indirect conversation.
dennis looked around.
“i’m just glad im on the farm in this heat” dennis shook his head, you laughed.
“you wanna get some ice cream?” you asked.
“me?” dennis pointed at himself, you smiled and nodded.
“dana recommend a place near by, let’s go, you know cool off” you fanned yourself. dennis nodded.
“yes yes i would love to” he smiled, this was a lot easier than he thought.
20 minutes later, both of you now changed out of dirty scrubs and the day of taking care of other people was over.
the vanilla ice cream dripped down your fingers, you licked up the cone some of the cream getting on your chin. you put your mouth over the top the scoop, you pulled back and licked the ice cream off your knuckles.
dennis watched you carefully, taking a deep breath when you would finally reach the top. he imagined you were licking his cum off his sensitive cock, cleaning him up with your mouth like a good girl. his pants felt tight, his cock throbbing against the fabric restricting it.
he felt something cold on his knuckles bringing him out of his head, his ice cream was now starting to drip. dennis cleaned up his hand, pulling away from his ice cream.
“you got something right there-“ you said as you leaned over and wiped the side of his mouth with your thumb then licking your thumb. you hummed, the strawberry ice was good.
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