ִ𝜗ৎ hai i’m sugar or sweet ! 19 yo - she/her 🐾 audhd .ᐟ still figuring out my sexuality tbh.
more about me / my blog 🪽
i love animals. such sweet babies, they deserve the best 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 i currently have a shawn hatosy obsession.. he’s just too cute okay 👀 i reblog. A LOT. - mostly nsfw and dark content so mdni please !! also a sweet treat lover okay. if anything i enjoy is available you best believe i’m going to devour it. and pls omg i wanna smell like cake or a sweet shop?! hmm. okay i love love love listening to music ! i have so many playlists.. and more to make hehe
i think that’s it for now?! but this will probably receive more edits in the future ₊˚ 🐈⬛
cw: reader calls him dada, she’s also overly horny for jack & he loves it!
dad bf abbot who is vv gross but always strict with you. because of his long shifts at night he gives you a phone occasionally— but for this reason alone is why he would rather be around you then give you any type of electronic freedom. when he finally goes on his break he hears the slight ding and vibration of his phone. you've texted him before he could even get to you. so when he opens his phone & goes to the message, what he sees is unexpected— it’s you. well, it’s your pussy, bare and open, fat lips parted & hole gaping. you’re feeling so empty, he knows it. his cock immediately thickens.
your legs are spread wide like you’re preparing for jack to come take you right now, with one singular message attached to the photo: dada... mm i ned u, need u n mi kid cunnie pls . god, you’re so far gone into subspace you can’t even type correctly. “what a dumb little girl.” he grumbles up under his breath, shaking his head.
jack already knows he won't be able go get through to you via text, so he calls. you pick up immediately, jack is the first one to speak though. “wow, kiddo.. you are so fucking naughty. what’s got you all worked up, hm?” he can hear the slight squelching of your pussy over your loud whines & heavy breathing through the phone, he knows how wet you get when he calls you kiddo, how you grip around his cock when he calls you the pet name— already knowing how your needy hole is clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled.
he almost feels bad for his babygirl.. knowing how needy you are right now & how much you need your dad’s cock, but there's a big problem unbeknownst to you and he needs to let you know of it. when you don’t reply, he speaks again, “hey- hey, kid. i know you’re real wet for your dad right now, but i need you to let me know you’re listening.”
when he hears your moans and the squelching of your soaked pussy becoming louder and louder, that confirms it, but jack says something you don't expect “bun, stop touching your cunt. i’m serious.” the squelching stops immediately, but you begin to whine again- slick fingers still between your legs. you slur out, “..mm, dada… why?” jack finally reveals the slight dilemma.
“you will not cum before cleaning up that room. i see those stray clothes on the floor in your picture, kid.” if you weren't feeling so dumb right now, you'd be more bratty and argue with him, but he’s right. it’s all of the clothes you just took off- feeling so hot thinking about your daddy. so, you just ask one question before obeying. “will i get your cock then if i do?” it sounds so foreign coming from your cute voice— so innocent-like, but jack just chuckles & answers you anyway. “yes, bunny. you'll get all of your dad's big, grown up cock when he gets home. but i want that room to be spotless, you hear me?” you giggle slightly at how stern he is— but also at how excited you are to have him inside you again.
so when you send him a picture of your room all perfect, neat, & tidied up— not even twenty minutes later, his cock chubs up again. ready to give you your reward for listening so well for him— yeah, he’ll be taking the next few days off.
a/n: can’t stop writing dadbf.. might just make it my thing :0 sorry that abbot is slightly mean i think i want him to degrade me a lil ..
i keep thinking about that one scene in s1 where pope cuddles with smurf and just… urgh.
andrew 'pope' cody who doesn’t sleep very well but goes to bed at the same time as you, and doesn’t get up until you do. it’s his favorite part of the day, really, getting to hold you while you sleep, your warm body pressed to his side or his chest or his back.
andrew 'pope' cody who wouldn’t touch you the first few times you share a bed, afraid of overstepping — afraid you’d go rigid at his touch like smurf does — and it always feels like nothing short of a miracle when you grab his hand and pull it to you: his palm between the valley of your breasts, his chest pressed to your back, your hair tickling his nose. it’s comfortable and not at the same time, half of his body going numb but he wouldn’t change it for the world.
andrew 'pope' cody who doesn’t get this sort of quiet and softness anywhere else other than your bedroom. he fights off sleep as long as he can to keep watch over you and, even though he always wakes up at the crack of dawn, he keeps his body incredibly still until your alarm goes off, just feeling your body on top of his, your head on his chest or your nose pressed to his bicep.
andrew 'pope' cody who whines and clutches to you when you try to get up in the middle of the night. you chuckle when you push him away, telling him you’re about to pee yourself— he relents and lets you go, eventually. he almost wants to ask to tag along, but he doesn’t voice those feelings, always afraid you’ll finally see him as the creep everyone else does.
andrew 'pope' cody who always loved summer but now resents it because heatwaves make you crabby and you don’t let him crowd you in his sleep anymore. so he buys an ac and blasts it in your room every night so you’re cold enough to cling to him again.
andrew 'pope' cody who will sometimes shimmy down the bed and put his head on your chest to feel your heartbeat, who wraps his legs around yours like an octopus and who counts your breathing instead of sheep when he has trouble sleeping.
and then you, who doesn’t sleep all that well afterall. who wakes up in the middle of the night when pope is fast asleep and traces his face with your fingers, memorizing the way he looks so carefree, how his lips don’t purse and his brows don’t frown while he’s unconscious.
you, who pretends to sleep in even in the mornings you wake up before your alarm just to feel andrew’s body pressed against yours, his nose on your shoulder and his arms caging around you.
you, who can tell pope is having a nightmare by the way his muscles tense, who will pull him out of it and then hold him for the rest of the night, peppering kisses between his shoulderblades as he clings to this new, happy reality with blood-soaked fingers.
cw: fauxcest, uncle!pope, sub!reader, implied age gap, hint of cunnilingus, a little baby talk
uncle!pope ♡ giving you good night kisses every night without fail. always at the same time, exactly 9:30PM. he's very strict about your sleeping schedule, making sure you get enough rest.
besides that, he always fixes you up a nice, warm cup of milk. taking the time to heat it up on the stove. it tastes even better that way rather than putting it in the microwave.
"time for bed, sugar. phone, please." he held his hand out, patiently waiting for you to turn your phone off. strictly no screen time for you either because he knows you'd just play with it until the battery runs flat. that thing fries your brain, he said. you wanted to roll your eyes at him when he told you that because he sounds like a facebook boomer. but you knew better than to give your uncle an attitude.
you started to get settled in your bed, getting yourself comfortable. you're buzzing with anticipation because of what's to come next in your routine.
"good night, sugar. i love you." pope leaned towards you, giving a chaste kiss to your soft, plump lips. "i love you so much." another quick kiss.
you're feeling a little more pent up tonight than usual. you chased pope's lips when he quickly pulled away more than you'd like, you tightly wrapped your arms around his neck.
"one more, please. please, uncle." you pleaded, gazing up at him with the most doe-eyed look (you know he could never say no to) you could muster.
pope didn't say anything. just gave you a small smile, endeared by your neediness, and leaned in to you once more. the kiss was slow this time, careful. you took this opportunity to stick your tongue out, licking his lips. letting him know that you want more. he immediately let you in, your kiss turning ravenous and hungry.
"what's gotten into you, huh? you like my good night kisses that much?" pope hummed close to your mouth, his lips touching yours in the process as he spoke. "mhm, my flower likes them too." you started to get restless in his hold. rubbing your thighs together.
"you're a squirmy little worm tonight. your little flower couldn't wait for my kisses? don't worry sugar, i never forget her. i'm gonna give it to her, don't wanna make her jealous." pope shimmied himself further down the bed, pulling your tiny sleep shorts off at the same time. your cunt was glistening and clenching as your uncle gave his attention to it.
he got closer to your pussy, you felt his breaths as he whispered, "good night. i love you too, so much."
without fail, pope has also never missed a single night without giving you good night kisses there. ♡
💭 another icky one and i'm being super brave about it
summary: In an attempt to seduce a past hookup, you accidentally send your attending, Jack Abbot, a lewd photo.
tags/warnings: MDNI 18+, smut, oral (f receiving), piv sex, pussy eating, fingering, pussy slapping, jack abbot certified bush lover, overstimulation, implied age gap (reader is a resident), medical inaccuracies (peritoneal lavages are rarely used nowadays, but who cares), no use of y/n, trauma scene based on an episode of ER teehee.
wc: 9.5k
a/n: okay this is fully like two weeks late to the trend but it was inspired by that “you shaved your bush” tiktok trend lol. I genuinely do not know how this got so long, It was supposed to be a cute little fic but i got carried away, oopsies! I hope you enjoy <3
credits: gif credits to @ho-ii !!
It was Friday afternoon and you were desperately, achingly horny.
You’d tried your old faithful vibrator, which was doing the job fine, but you were desperate for some human connection. Your mind drifted through the mental rolodex of who you could call up for some casual fun. It was a short list, your demanding schedule not lending itself to a particularly vibrant social life. You’d only been on a handful of dates in the past year, most of which ended in disaster.
Alex was out of the running because of his unfortunate odor problem.
Sam was out due to a creepy doll collection he failed to disclose until you made your way to his apartment.
And Daniel was out because, frankly, he was terrible at sex, which is kind of a sticking point for you right now.
That left James, a guy you met on one of the apps and who was decent enough with his mouth that you’d seen him a handful of times. You didn’t hook up with him often, mostly because he was particular about your pubic hair. He preferred for it to be cleanly shaven, or at least heavily trimmed before he would consider going down on you.
So despite the fact that he wasn’t much good at fucking, you tended to go back to him when you needed a release. Yes, your standards were abysmally low, but the truth of the matter was that residency didn’t really give you any time to get out and meet new, better hook-ups. So James it was.
It had been a couple months since you’d hooked up, mostly due to this preference of his. Unfortunately, taking the time to take an ‘everything shower’ just to get your pussy eaten was a luxury that you were not often afforded due your residency schedule.
But today you’d had the time, energy, and desire to get devoured, so you hopped in the shower to take care of everything. By the time you emerged your hair was double cleansed, you’d applied a hair mask, exfoliated, shaved your legs, applied moisturizer and body oil, and–most importantly–your pussy was cleanly shaven.
You had a renewed pep in your step as you made your way over to your bed, ready to entice James. You maneuvered onto the bed and experimented with a few poses before landing on one that showed off your assets the best. You propped up your phone–timer set for 10 seconds–and you scrambled into position, perching back on your haunches and settling back on your feet, back arched a little uncomfortably.
You heard the shutter of the camera going off and quickly extricated yourself from the uncomfortable position. Looking over the image, you were very impressed.
The photo pictured your nude body from the chest down, beginning with the barest hint of the underside of your breasts showing, then the expanse of your stomach and curve of your hips. Lower, your fingers were on your pussy, parting your lips just enough to tease. It was a damn good nude, if you did say so yourself. James was lucky to receive it.
It had been so long since you texted him that instead of scrolling through endless scam messages and bill reminders, you just typed in the first few letters of his name to pull up his contact. As soon as you typed ‘ja’ it popped up, and you quickly began composing your message.
Gnawing at your thumbnail, you went back and forth on a few messages, trying to sound sexy, but playful. After five minutes of deliberation, you decided to just go with what you had. Honestly, it’s not like James was going to give it more than a second thought–if he wanted to fuck he wasn’t going to care about how sultry (or not) the message you sent him was.
You settled on:
you: shaved just for you. want something sweet to eat? ;)
You looked it over for a minute, nodding to yourself and hitting send before you could psych yourself out.
What a mistake.
Jack sat at the work station, mouth open and slackjawed, still staring at his phone screen.
Not at the photo anymore–no, that had been quickly swiped away–but the image was still burned into his retinas, the after image projecting onto the back of his eyelids when he closed them.
Why?
Because three minutes ago he received a text message from one of the day shift residents. He was concerned, initially, because there was little reason for day shift residents to contact him as opposed to Robby. Which is why Jack opened the message as soon as he saw it come in, thinking it might be an emergency, especially because it was you.
Instead, he was greeted with a sight he thought he’d never have the pleasure of seeing.
You, stretched back on your heels, breasts barely visible, pussy on full display for him. Your fingers held you open, your folds glistening in the late summer light that was streaming in, your pretty little clit in the center, just begging to be sucked. It was, quite possibly, the prettiest pussy he’d ever seen.
He couldn’t take his eyes off of the photo for a good 30 seconds, before the logical side of his brain kicked in and he remembered oh yeah, I’m at work and can’t be caught looking at my resident’s cunt.
He wasn’t unfamiliar with you, even though you’d only worked a handful of shifts together. But he saw you every morning at handoff, and you two shared warm smiles and easy jokes, your sardonic wit matching his bar for bar. He knew you were smart, able to hold your own in a trauma, and compassionate and empathetic underneath it all. And he couldn’t ignore the fact that you were gorgeous either.
And he would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought of you in this sort of light before, either. Jack Abbot was not a proud man–he could admit that on more than one occasion, he’d stood in his shower fisting his cock to the image of you on your knees for him.
It was especially bad when you did something impressive at work. Like the time you went toe-to-toe with a surgeon about whether a patient really needed surgery when you insisted that all they needed was a pericardiocentesis, and to prove your theory, you stuck the needle into the pericardium and extracted the fluid despite surgery’s objections. A ballsy move, one that would have been deeply problematic if you were wrong, but paid off. He’d had to rub one out in the bathroom that day. He apparently has a thing for competency.
“You’re gonna catch flies, Abbot,” Ellis said, walking out of an exam room, IPad tucked under her arm and smirk wide on her face. Jack shook himself out of his reverie, trying desperately not to think of your photo (but failing miserably).
He cleared his throat, “Sorry, what’ve you got for me?” he asked, still a bit dazed. Ellis looked at him skeptically–there wasn’t much that threw Dr. Jack Abbot–but proceeded to present her case anyway.
Once he approved her plan of treatment, Jack returned to his phone. He sat there for a long moment, contemplating what to do. You hadn’t said anything else, no frantic “I’m so sorry, that obviously wasn’t meant for you,” texts that explained the situation. Jack was positive it wasn’t intended for him, and he didn’t want to embarrass you more than you were sure to be.
His thumbs hovered over the keyboard, dancing nervously as he typed out his reply.
You started getting ready after sending the text, anticipating that James would want to meet up tonight. You did your hair, applied a bit of light make up, and threw on a cute little sundress.
It was about an hour later when you went to check your phone again, fully expecting to see a cheeky message from James inviting you over for some fun.
What you saw made your stomach drop instead. You felt dizzy, nausea washing over you in roiling waves. The text thread you were looking at was addressed to Jack Abbot, not James. And staring back at you was your nude body, followed by a response from Dr. Abbot.
Jack Abbot: I don’t think I’m the intended recipient for that photo.
Jack Abbot: But for what it's worth, a real man would eat it even if you didn’t shave. Would prefer it, actually.
Jack Abbot: Sorry, that was inappropriate. I’ve deleted this text thread, along with the photo. We can pretend this never happened.
There’s no fucking way. Absolutely not. There is no possible way that you accidentally sent a nude photo of yourself to your fucking attending. Not just any attending either, but the one you'd had a big fat stupid crush on for the better part of a year. The one you’d spent endless nights fantasizing about with your fingers plunged deep into your cunt, whose visage you’d pictured hovering over you, fucking you hard and deep; the name you accidentally moaned when James was eating you out the last time you hooked up.
Your mind refused to accept that this was reality, hoping against hope that this was some twisted fucking nightmare.
Shame welled up inside you, your cheeks hot from embarrassment and tears pricking at the corner of your eyes, mortification settling in earnest now. In addition to being humiliating, you also felt like a fucking creep. From his perspective, you just sent him a completely unsolicited nude photo.
Even more so, you hated that this probably killed any chance you had with him, even if that chance had been slim to none to begin with.
You paced your bedroom, thumbnail chewed raw as you tried to do damage control. What does one even say after they accidentally send a nude to their boss? After far too much deliberation, you decided to keep it simple, apologize, and crawl into your bed for the remainder of your two days off.
You: Dr. Abbot, I am so sorry about that!! I obviously didn’t mean to send that to you.
You: I meant to send it to a James and must not have looked closely enough before I sent it.
You: Thank you for deleting the photo, and I’m so sorry once again that you were subjected to seeing that.
You threw your phone as far away from you as possible, recklessly disregarding its safety despite the fact that you most certainly could not afford to repair said phone if it was damaged, and flopped onto the bed, screaming into a pillow. Your throat was raw by the time you surfaced for air, your body limp and exhausted, mind shuffling through worst case scenarios.
In the midst of your spiral, your brain drifted to the other part of his message: a real man would eat it even if you didn’t shave. That was, admittedly, inappropriate, but no more so than sending a nude to your superior, so you figured you were even. He probably just meant it to be supportive; to try and diffuse the awkward situation.
But another part of you wondered if he meant something else. If he was signalling to you that he would eat it, bush or not. The thought was indulgent, if not utterly preposterous. He was an attending; you were a resident. There was no way he’d meant anything by it. But you couldn’t help thinking…
Did he like the photo? Was he picturing you with a bush? Did he think about tasting you, about swirling his tongue around your clit or plunging it deep into you?
A notification dinged, shaking you out of your daydream, and you contemplated whether or not you actually wanted to see what he said, if anything at all. Curiosity eventually won out, hands grappling for your phone and swiping open the notification.
Jack Abbot: No worries. 👍
It was a completely normal response, which almost made it worse. Part of you wished he would lash out, call you disgusting or a whore, at least you’d know what to do with that. Shame or disgust were easier to digest than nonchalance.
You didn’t bother to send the photo to the correct person, your lust dampened, the fire doused with cold water, remnants pulverized to ash. Groaning, you burrowed into your bed with no intention of leaving for the next two days.
You had no idea how you were going to face him Monday.
You woke up two days later and ran through your options.
Flee the country and never return to Pittsburgh ever again (unrealistic, you’d devoted too much time to becoming a doctor, you weren’t giving up because of some catastrophically stupid mistake)
Arrive to work 20 minutes late, hopefully avoiding Jack Abbot by all costs (unlikely, the man worked more overtime than anyone except Robby. He was sure to still be there, and all you’d get was attendance point for your trouble)
Be a mature adult, apologize, and forget this ever happened, like he suggested (undoubtedly the best choice, but could you really ever forget that your attending has seen your pussy? And, a far sicker thought, did you want him to forget?)
Indecision weighed on you as you got ready, ultimately deciding on lucky number option 3. Your only saving grace was the fact that you were on day shift, and Abbot rarely worked days. The only interaction would be at handoff, and maybe if you could busied yourself enough getting a jump on patients, you could avoid him for as long as possible.
That was your plan of action as you walked into chairs, head down as you scanned into the ED and approached the nurses station. You didn’t hear his voice, which was a good sign; typically, you could hear it as soon as you entered, steady barking out orders over the hum of the department. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself and thinking for the first time since you sent that photo that things might be okay.
You spot Ellis at a work station, and beeline to her to get the handover started.
“Hey Ellis, how’d the night go? Any weird and wild cases?” you ask,
“Oh, you know, the usual,” she said, “foreign body extractions, a couple MIs, an insomniac who overdosed on benadryl and swore that the hat man was after him for money,” she laughed, shaking her head.
“To be fair, the hat man could be after him for money,” you said solemnly, face straight for a second before you burst out laughing.
Handover continued smoothly, Ellis updating you on which patients needed labs or imaging and which needed to be discharged. You almost made it through unscathed, your body turning to make your way to North 5 when you heard his voice calling to Ellis.
Your shoulders tensed–body betraying you by freezing in place–and he was next to you before you could scuttle away. Resting his forearms on the counter next to you, he continued talking to Ellis–about what, you couldn’t say, static filling your ears as you remembered what you’d done.
“Morning, Doc,” he said, startling you out of your daze.
“G-good morning, Dr. Abbot,” you stuttered, eyes glancing briefly at him before settling on his chin, unable to meet his eyes for more than a second.
He looked annoyingly normal, showing no sign that anything unseemly had occurred between you. You chanced another look at his eyes, the hazel orbs showing no hint of amusement or belittlement. But there was a look of acknowledgement, a steady one that should have reassured you that everything was okay, that you weren’t a laughingstock. The same look he’d give you in a trauma when things went sideways through no fault of your own.
And In any other situation, it would be reassuring. But right now, all it did was remind you that he’d seen your most sensitive parts, that he’d commented on the state of your pubic hair (or lack thereof). Heat bloomed in your cheeks, and your breath caught in your throat, eyes unable to breakaway from his gaze.
When you did manage to look away, it was, traitorously, to look down at his lips. They looked so soft, and for a split second you imagined yourself leaning in, capturing his lips with yours and kissing him into oblivion. You snapped back to reality half a second too late, seeing the edge of Abbot’s mouth turn up in the barest hint of a smile.
Clearing your throat, you quickly excused yourself to see a patient, all but running to the exam room. You managed to slow your breathing and compose yourself before you entered the room, squaring your shoulders and getting back to work.
This was going to be a lot harder than you anticipated.
Jack was being honest when he told you he deleted the text thread with that photo in it, a fact he was coming to regret as he laid in bed post-shift, body tired but too wired to relax and fall asleep. He’d committed the photo to memory, though, losing himself in it as he dragged his hand up and down his cock, thinking about how soft you’d be, how sweet you’d taste, the sounds he’d pull from you as he fucked you with his tongue. He’d fallen into this routine an embarrassing amount of times since he received that photo, feeling like a pervy, dirty old man all the while, but doing nothing to stop himself either.
His hand glided over his shaft once more, imagining that it was your warm, wet walls wrapped around him instead, and he was coming hard, painting his stomach with streaks of warm, wet goo. He sat there, breathing heavy, as a twitch of shame rolled over him. He shouldn’t be jerking it to the remembered image of a resident’s pussy, a woman at least 15 years younger than him, if not more.
But it was harder than he’d thought it would be to put that photo behind him. It was all he could think about as soon as he saw you that first morning, the image looping in an endless projection in his mind. It was completely unprofessional, and frankly dishonest. He’d told you that you could both pretend it had never happened, but he wasn’t so sure that was possible anymore.
And it was clear you hadn’t forgotten either. You were jumpy around him, the easy quips you used swap in the morning abandoned for stuttered greetings and awkward silences. He’d also caught you looking at his lips on more than one occasion and stealing glances at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. He wasn’t sure if it was true attraction, or just some morbid curiosity that was sparked by the unusual situation you two found yourselves in, but Jack wasn’t about to get his hopes up for the former.
As difficult as it was to keep his head on straight after seeing that photo, the more troubling part was that he’d lost the 10 to 15 minutes he spent every morning talking to you, a small ritual he looked forward to every shift. He hadn’t realized how much those moments meant to him until they were gone. Even the worst nights were magically better when he was able to make you laugh at handoff, your smile making his chest swell with pride and head fuzzy with feelings he had no business feeling.
Jack knew he had to do something to ease the tension, to get things back to normal. Or maybe a new normal, if he had anything to do with it.
The days passed in a similar fashion to that first day. Jack would greet you politely and attempt your typical banter, and you would awkwardly stutter out an adequate reply before making your escape as quickly as possible. You weren’t sure why you weren’t able to be a fucking adult and put it behind you, but you just couldn’t. Every time you thought you had the courage to revert back to your typical routine with Abbot, you chickened out almost immediately, bumbling your wall through some moronic excuse.
To make matters worse, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. It was worse than it ever had been before; what used to be an errant thought that would arise only in the throes of pleasure were now occurring during the most mundane tasks. You thought about what his full, silver curls would look like buried between your thighs while you were doing laundry; what his mouth would feel like on your breasts, teeth pulling at the pebbled skin of your nipples while you cooked dinner; how he would fuck you–would it be soft and slow, or hard and punishing?–while you cleaned the bathroom.
Your luck ran out about a month after the incident, as you were calling it. For the most part, you were able to keep your interactions with Abbot brief, albeit awkward. But today he was scheduled on day shift, covering for Al-Hashimi while she was home sick with her son. You’d only found out when you walked in, seeing his name on the board despite the fact that he was off last night.
You felt a wave of nausea wash over you; how were you supposed to go a whole day avoiding him? You managed pretty well for the first half of your shift, presenting exclusively to Robby, which wasn’t all that different from your normal routine. You avoided the traumas Abbot was running, hiding in exam rooms under the guise of checking vitals or reviewing scans. It was working fairly well until midday, when you were unfortunately in the vicinity of the ambulance bay when paramedics burst through.
“Santos, Mohan,” Abbot paused, eyes flitting over to where you stood before calling your name as well, “with me!” he said, already moving into the trauma room and gowning up. You reluctantly followed, slipping on your own trauma gown. He was behind you before you could secure your gown, fingers brushing against the nape of your neck as he tied the strings for you. It shouldn’t have sent a thrill down your spine, but it did. You stuttered out a thank you as you moved to assess the patient.
The paramedic was halfway through the bullet when you arrived at the bedside, hands moving to transfer them from the stretcher to the bed. “– multiple lacerations, bruises to the face, chest, and abdomen. Possible tib-fib and facial fracture.” You looked down at the patient, a teenage boy who couldn’t have been older than 15.
“BP’s low, 70 palp; pulse ox is 85,” Princess called out.
You slid the chestpiece of your stethoscope over the patient's chest, listening to the lungs. Unfortunately, your brain went blank when Abbot sidled up next to you, arm pressed tight against yours in the cramped trauma room.
“What do you think, Doc?” he asked, listening with his own stethoscope now.
You blinked, brain lagging as you tried to compose yourself; to try and save this boy’s life.
“Uh-um good breath sounds?” you said, a question more than an answer, though you were certain about the breath sounds. “Airway is patent, no tracheal deviation, no blood in the canal,” you finished, regaining a bit of confidence as you averted your gaze from his.
“Good,” he said, hand grasping your elbow and moving you down to the end of the bed. “What do we need to order?”
Santos, blessedly, answered before you could embarrass yourself further, “C-spine, chest and head CT.”
“BP is down to 60!”
“Alright people! What are we dealing with?” Abbot called out, eyebrow quirked at you.
Every differential evaporated from your mind. “He’s bleeding from somewhere,” was all you could come up with, though that was obvious. Instead of dwelling on that, you turned your attention to the boy, your eyes examining his body, searching for the source of bleeding. With Samira’s help you flipped the boy over, desperate to find a stab wound or gash, but coming up empty.
“Must be the belly,” Santos said.
“Alright, lavage kit please!” Abbot said, turning to you, “you ever done one of these?”
You shook your head.
“Well, today’s your lucky day, then,” he said, handing you an 11-blade.
Despite your best efforts, your hand shook as you pressed the blade against the skin.
“I-I can’t,” you whispered, low enough that only he could hear.
“You can,” he said, stepping behind you to steady your hand, guiding as you made the incision. He handed you the tubing next. “Make sure you’re into the peritoneum,” he whispered, lips right next to your ear. His hand was still on top of yours as you slid the tubing in, “I’m in, hook up the saline and extension tubing,” you said, breathing a sigh of relief.
Your relief was short-lived. The results of the lavage came back–negative. “Shit, nothing. It’s not the belly,” you said, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
“What the fuck? Where the hell is this kid bleeding from?” Abbot cursed, pacing around the bed to see if anything was forgotten. “You check his back?” he asked.
“Yes, nothing there. Maybe it’s a faulty blood pressure cuff?” you said, grasping at straws, but moving to flip the boy over and recheck his back again anyway.
Abbot was next to you, eyes raking over systematically to find the source when suddenly Mohan pointed out a tiny mark on the boy’s lower right side, “What is that?” she asked.
“That is a very small puncture wound. Probably an ice pick, if I had to guess,” Abbot answered.
Fuck. You should have caught that. You were standing right there, staring at the lower quadrant of the boy's back. You’d even seen the small mark, but dismissed it as a mole. You felt sick to your stomach, fear and shame welling up in you. You had never had a reaction like this in a trauma, not even on your first day as a med student.
Garcia burst through the door just as Abbot was getting the patient ready to head up to the O.R. “Puncture wound, probably hit the kidney or renal artery,” he said, passing off the patient. She nodded, taking over from there.
“Good pickup,” you congratulated Mohan weakly as you walked out of the trauma bay, hoping you could make it to the bathroom and wallow in self-pity for a few moments.
You heard him call your name shortly after you exited the trauma bay. Heart sinking, you turned to face him. “Yes, Dr. Abbot?” you asked, fidgeting with the hem of your scrub top. You weren’t sure you could handle being yelled at by him today. You’d never been one for tears at being reprimanded, but you could already feel the tell-tale prickling behind your eyes, and you were almost positive that the dam would burst at a harsh word from Abbot.
“A word, please?” he asked, gesturing you to the stairwell, the only place with a semblance of privacy in the ED. You sullenly followed after him, bracing yourself for impact.
You leaned back against the wall, fully expecting him to start yelling as soon as you were situated under the staircase, hidden well enough from passersby, but all you felt was a warm, heavy weight on your shoulder.
“You have to settle down, okay?” he said, one hand planted firmly on your shoulder and the other grasping your chin between his fingers to direct your gaze to his. “Look, I know what you sent me was embarrassing, and we probably should’ve talked about it, but you can’t get this worked up over it when I’m on shift as your attending. It can’t affect your work, you're too good of a doctor to let something like this throw you,” he said earnestly, eyes sincere when you looked into them.
You stood there, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. Your mind still hadn’t fully caught up. “I… you didn’t bring me out here to yell at me?” you asked, voice coming out weaker than you intended it to.
He shook his head, confused, “What? No, of course not. I barely noticed that puncture wound myself,” he said, alleviating your anxiety somewhat.
“What I’m concerned about is how wound tight you are around me. I’m not saying you have to like me or anything, but you have to be comfortable working with me. You didn’t make an error in this trauma, but you could have. And I know it would eat you up if something like that happened,” he said, thumb gently sweeping over your chin.
“I can’t let you jeopardize your education because you’re embarrassed about mistakenly sending me a revealing photo. It would kill me if you didn’t reach your full potential because of something like that, if I had any part of it,” he shook his head, a pained look on his face.
Oh. You couldn’t breathe, your cheeks surely inflamed at this point. You were suddenly very aware of how close he’d gotten–and of his hand on your face. His fingers were warm against your face, skin rough, providing delicious friction as his hand repositioned, thumb stroking along your jaw as he subtly tilted your head back. He smelled like clean laundry and coffee, with a slight tang of antiseptic.
Your lips parted, ragged breaths falling from your lips.
“Dr. Abbot–”
“Jack. Call me Jack,” he murmured, so close that you could feel the heat radiating from his body. If you tipped your head up just a fraction, it would close the distance between you; would bring your lips flush together. Your eyes fluttered shut at the thought.
“Jack, I don’t know why I can’t stop thinking about that picture,” you admitted quietly.
“Can I tell you a secret?” he asked, tongue darting out to wet his lips, “I can’t stop thinking about it, either.”
“Really?” you looked up at him from under your eyelashes.
He nodded, moving impossibly closer, lips ghosting against yours. He hesitated briefly, a look of doubt flashing across his face before his gaze steadied–a decision made; a line ready to be crossed. His grip tightened against your jaw, “I can’t stop thinking about you spreading that pretty little pussy open, or about the prick who wanted you to shave before he’d think about going down on you,” he said, shaking his head in disgust.
“You know how many times I fucked my fist to the memory of that photo? How much I’ve thought about how you taste, what sounds you’d make when you cum?” he asked.
A strangled moan escaped your lips at his words. You’d never seen this side of Jack Abbot before, and it was intoxicating. “I-i think about you when I touch myself too,” you whimpered, your admission seeming tame compared to his vulgar words, but you wanted him to know you were also going crazy over him; that this wasn’t one-sided.
“Yeah, pretty girl? You think about me when you stuff that little cunt with your fingers? Wish it was my cock instead?” he asked, his other hand snaking down to your hip, fingers inching their way under your scrub top to caress the skin there.
You nodded, the proximity and dirty talk stealing your breath and leaving you unable to form an intelligible sentence.
“Did he eat your pussy, sugar? You got all dolled up for him, did he at least treat you right?” he asked, breath fanning over your lips, stubble just barely grazing your sensitive skin.
You shook your head, dazed. “I didn’t send it to him,” you said, a little bashful, “was too embarrassed after I sent it to you.”
He groaned, forehead falling against yours, “poor baby, put in all that effort and didn’t even get to cum, did you?” he asked, just the slightest bit condescending.
You let out a pathetic whine, shaking your head ‘no’ at his question. Heat pooled deep in your belly and you felt your panties quickly dampening.
He tsked, “we’ll have to rectify that,” he said, “You shave again? Or you let her grow back natural?” he asked.
You bit your lip, still a bit shy despite all the filthy words that he’d spoken in the last 5 minutes. “I’m au naturelle,” you whispered, a slight smirk tugging at your lips.
“Good fucking girl,” he growled before his mouth was on yours. His lips moved against yours with a ferocity you’d never experienced before. There was nothing uncertain about the kiss, his lips firm as he devoured you, tongue licking into your mouth and sliding against yours deliciously. One of your hands slid up the side of his neck to play with the curls at his nape while the other fisted in the fabric of his scrub top.
His spit tasted like the stale breakroom coffee and the spearmint of his gum, and you couldn’t get enough. You suckled at his tongue, trying to keep up with his relentless pace, but eventually let him take the reins and kiss you silly.
You were both panting when you pulled away, a string of spit drawn taut between your lips before snapping. Jack held your head between his hands, thumbs brushing softly over the apples of your cheeks.
“Talk with me. Tonight. Come have dinner or a drink with me, and we can talk about it all,” he said, a borderline pleading look on his face.
You nodded, still a little dumb from the kiss. “Yeah, yeah, sure. Okay,” you said, slowly extricating your hand from his scrub top.
He let you go with a final squeeze to your jaw, moving to re-enter the ED before you.
You stood there a moment longer, wiping your lips to get rid of your combined saliva and to lessen the kiss bitten look you were sure you were sporting before getting back to work.
The rest of the shift was painfully slow, the hours passing by like molasses. You couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss, the way his lips molded against yours like it was their rightful place. You did make a concentrated effort not to let it impact your work, though. Jack was right about that; nothing could come between you and finishing your residency.
It was just after 7:30 when you exited the hospital, and you immediately spotted Jack leaning against his truck waiting for you. You smiled as you approached him, nervous butterflies erupting in your stomach. Despite that breathtaking kiss, you still didn’t know where you stood. Was he just satisfying a sexual curiosity? Or was it possible that he also had feelings for you?
He cleared his throat, “So I was thinking we could order something to my place and talk there. Unless you want to go somewhere else, to a restaurant or your place,” he rambled, nerves undercutting his typically confident energy.
“Your place sounds good,” you nod, still a bit shy.
His hand was warm on the small of your back as he guided you to the passenger side, opening the door for you and helping you step up into the cab. The ride to his house was quiet, but not uncomfortably so. Some 90s alternative rock playlist hummed quietly in the background while you ordered pizza for the two of you–on his phone, with his card, he insisted. His hand rested lightly on your knee, the heat of his palm burning through the fabric of your scrubs.
You arrived at a beautifully manicured house in a suburb far enough from the city to be peacefully quiet. It’s different from what you pictured, you realize as you walk in. You assumed that a man who worked as much as he did wouldn’t have the time or energy to put into making a house a home; you pictured a sterile kitchen and minimalist fixtures, white walls with abstract art.
But it was homey. The walls were painted, photos scattered across them. The couch looked comfy, something picked out with intention, not the first option plucked from a furniture catalog. There were plants, beautiful, well taken care of ferns and pothos littered about. Warm light filtered through the kitchen, the island topped with butcher block and bracketed by two upholstered stools.
“Do you want anything to drink? Water, wine, beer?” he asked, opening the fridge and grabbing a beer for himself.
You focused your attention back on him, abandoning your pseudo-psychoanalysis of his house and drifting over to perch on a stool. “Wine would be nice,” you said, grateful for something to occupy your hands. He nods, pours you a modest glass of red–something French that probably costs ten times the amount of your shitty grocery store wine.
The pizza arrives soon thereafter, and you sit down at the island to eat. Conversation is easy, and you feel more at ease with him now than you ever had before, a drastic 180 from this morning. You talk about your day, life, post-residency plans; he lets loose a few embarrassing stories from his own residency days, one featuring a very unfortunate Robby being pantsed by a 6 year old in the middle of the ED. Eventually, though, plates are cleared and glasses are downed, a natural lull falling over the conversation.
“So,” he starts, head resting against his palm, arm propped up on the counter, “that photo…” He’s got that sly smirk on his face now, comfortable now to tease you about it.
You groan, burying your head in your arms. He laughed, “you don’t have to explain yourself, but I am curious what series of events led to me receiving that photo,” he said… “a series of events for which I am very thankful for, by the way.”
You turned, resting your head sideways on your arms, and started explaining all about James and his preferences, how he was your only real option for some skin-to-skin contact. Jack, for his part, listened quietly, offering little commentary until you finished your great tale.
“So you’re telling me that this kid can’t even fuck you right, yet he demands you shave before he’ll go down on you?” he asks, a horrified look on his face.
“Welcome to the joys of modern dating,” you joke, shooting him a halfhearted smile.
He shook his head, “unacceptable,” he said before hooking his leg around your stool and pulling you closer. You gasp, steadying yourself with a hand on his thigh as you fight not to topple onto him completely. He was close now, one hand coming up to rest on the hollow of your neck while the other slid up your top, thumb strumming over your ribs.
Jack didn’t hesitate this time. This kiss was different–no less searing, but a little more leisurely–like he wasn’t worried about scarcity anymore, confident that he had the time to take you apart and put you back together again before the night was over. His mouth was molten against yours, tongue delving deep in your mouth and swallowing up the steady stream of desperate whines escaping you.
The hand on your neck coasted upward, tangling in your hair and angling your head back to deepen the kiss. Your hands slid under his shirt, groaning as they came to rest on his tummy. He was warm, the muscle firm under your hands as you lightly scraped your nails over his flesh. His chest rumbled under your touch, the hand in your hair tightening, the twinge of pain a welcome contrast to the overwhelming pleasure of his lips against yours.
He barely broke the kiss to whisper into your mouth, “let me show you what its like to have a real man fuck you. Please, sugar,” he pulled away finally, resting his forehead against yours.
“Please fuck me, Jack,” you said, eyes hooded with lust. A moment later you were being scooped up from the stool and carried toward his bedroom. While Jack focused on not running into anything, you trailed open-mouthed kisses along the length of his neck, sucking the skin between your teeth before soothing it over with your tongue. You nipped gently at his adam’s apple, smiling when he yelped at the contact.
“You’re trouble, you know that?” he chuckled before dropping you down onto his bed, your body bouncing slightly before settling. He stood between your legs, face cradled between his meaty hands. “I want you to listen to me, okay?” he asked, waiting for you to nod before continuing, “I want to do so many filthy, obscene things to you tonight; want to fuck you into oblivion as many times as you’ll let me, but I want you to know that if you want to stop, at any point, you just say the word and we’re done. No questions asked. Understand?”
You nodded once more, but that was insufficient for Jack. “need you to use your big girl words, okay, pretty? Tell me you understand,” he said.
“I understand, Jack. If I want to stop, I’ll tell you,” you replied seriously, even though you knew there was no chance you’d want to stop.
“Good. Now, I want you to take off your scrubs, scoot up to the headboard, and get comfortable while I take care of my leg, okay?”
You did as he bade you, left only in a pair of pink cotton panties and bra. You hadn’t planned on being in this situation, but you were glad they were a matching set at the very least. Settling against his pillows, you watched as he shucked his pants off, the sleek metal of his prosthesis glinting in the low lamplight.
He sat down at the edge of the bed, fingers undoing the mechanism with practiced motions, twisting the appendage off and setting it to the side. The skin looked a little chapped, but not raw, which was a good sign.
“Is there anything I could do to make things more comfortable for you?” you asked. You wanted to make sure he knew you weren’t put off by his leg, wanted to make sure he didn’t feel like he had to overcompensate because of it.
“No, thank you, sugar. You’re doin’ plenty already,” he assured, turning around to face you. His eyes darkened as he took you in, his gaze hungrily raking over your newly exposed skin. He moved to hover over you, forearms braced next to your head as kisses you again, this time a sweet press of his lips against yours before he began trailing his mouth along your jaw and down your neck, laving hot kisses all across your neck and collarbone.
A gasp punches out of you when he sucks harshly at the spot just below the ear, the spot that turns your insides to putty. He grins against you, focusing his attention there until you’re a writhing, moaning mess under him. A hand reaches behind you to make quick work of your bra clasp, the flimsy material soon thrown across the room, forgotten immediately. His hands are on you in a flash, thumbs teasing along the underside of your tits.
Whining, you claw at his shirt, desperately wanting to feel his bare chest against your nipples, and he obliges, one-handedly throwing the thing off. The fine silver hair on his chest scrapes against you, your nails digging into his back as you pull him flush to you. Jack groans, hips involuntarily rutting against you, his hard cock a delicious pressure against your aching cunt. Your hips cant up, chasing the friction and grinding yourself against him.
“Careful, you keep doin’ that and this’ll be over before it even starts,” Jack warns, nipping at your bottom lip before continuing his maddening descent, mouth exploring your breasts–conveniently ignoring your painfully hard nipples. “Jaaaack,” you whine, thrusting your chest upward. He takes the hint, lips suctioning against a nipple and using his tongue to flick the pebbled flesh. Your hand fists in his curls, holding him there as his hand moves to tug at your other nipple. When he decides he’s given enough attention to one nipple, he switches sides, giving the other the same treatment. By the time he moves on, your tits are sure to be sore and red tomorrow, but you could not care less about that right now.
He kissed down your stomach, lips lingering at your navel before pulling back, eyes travelling down between your legs. “Fuck sweetheart, is all this just from me playin’ with your pretty tits?” he asked, eyes fixated on the wet spot on your panties. You whimper in response, mind too fuzzy to form words. His fingers skate over your waistband, your tummy contracting in anticipation. Ever so slowly, he drags your panties down your legs, discarding them over his shoulder as he settles between your legs.
His pupils were blown wide, utterly entranced by your pussy. The attention made you want to shrink in on yourself, your legs subconsciously moving to close, but his wide shoulders and firm grip on your thighs stopped you. “Fuck, sugar, this is what she looks like with some curls on ‘er? And you let some boy convince you she needed to be bald?” He shook his head, a genuinely pained look on his face.
He moved to spread you open for him, thumbs stroking up and down your lips as he took you in. Without warning, he surged forward, pressing a chase kiss against your clit before sitting back and continuing to admire your pussy. You squealed, hips twitching forward in search of more friction, the brief contact making you dizzy with need. It was slightly embarrassing, being watched like this, but you were growing impossibly wetter anyway.
Jack’s hands moved back to your thighs as you squirmed, grip tightening, fingers sinking into your soft flesh just enough to ache, and spread you further open. “Don’t hide from me, pretty girl,” he said, pressing hot kisses from your knee to your inner thigh, stopping right at the crease between your pussy and thigh, breath fanning over your puffy folds. Your clit was throbbing, your hips subtly shifting against nothing.
“‘m gonna show you just how pretty this pussy is, not gonna stop until you feel it,” he said, looking directly into your eyes, “you okay with that?”
No sooner had you nodded than he was on you. He didn’t waste any time, swiping the flat of his tongue through your folds from entrance to clit in one long stroke. His tongue was hot against your cunt, the muscle firm as it lapped hungrily at your folds, exploring every inch of you. He groaned, nuzzling his face deeper into your pussy. “Fuck, you taste better than I could have ever imagined,” he moaned, tongue dipping into your hole to collect the slick gathering there.
He didn’t surface for air, mouth working against you relentlessly; like he’d been deprived of something vital that had been restored to him, and he wasn’t about to let it go again. It was primal, almost animalistic the way he licked, sucked, and nipped at your cunt. Your back arched almost painfully off the bed, hands fisted in the sheets and moans slipping from your lips unbidden.
He alternated between circling your clit in tight little circles with the tip of his tongue, and suckling on it, lips wrapped snug around the bundle of nerves. Your body was hot, your legs trembling as the coil in your core wound tighter. One hand moved to grip his curls, the hair soft between your fingers as you tugged at it. He moaned into your pussy, the vibrations bringing you right to the edge.
“Fuck, right there, Jack,” you gasped, “I’m so close, so–”
“Cum for me, sugar, let me taste you,” he said quickly, head bowing back down to suck your clit harshly, teeth grazing it just the littlest bit.
And you did, white hot pleasure coursing through you, body contorting, legs squeezing his head between your thighs as you rode out your orgasm. You felt like a live wire, your nerves firing on all cylinders while Jack kept gentle pressure on your clit, drawing out your release as long as possible. Jack lapped up all your spend, not letting a drop go to waste. Boneless, you weakly pushed his head away, the overstimulation too much.
He sat back a fraction, face dripping with your juices and his saliva. There was a gleam in his eye as his thumb replaced his mouth, rubbing soft circles against your clit. A high-pitched whine escaped you, your sensitive nub begging for reprieve.
“You can give me another one, can’t you pretty girl?” he asked, voice brooking no argument.
“I d-don’t–fuck–I don’t know,” you blabbered, the painful overstimulation quickly giving way to pleasure, your hips canting forward against his thumb.
“I think you can,” he murmured, swiping a thick finger through your folds before sinking it in and curling lazily against that sweet spot on your front wall. “Fuck, Jack, feels so good,” you moaned, moving you hips in time with his finger. Before you knew it he was adding another finger, a slight sting accompanying the stretch. All you could do was whimper, his fingers switching between slow and deep, and fast and hard strokes.
Your second orgasm hit you without warning, pleasure reverberating through your body from the top of your head to the soles of your feet, your toes curling as you came harder than you ever had in your life. Jack’s fingers kept moving, wringing every last after shock from your body. You were panting now, trying to catch your breath but failing miserably.
And yet, Jack’s fingers were still moving, scissoring you open now. It was too much, the sensations bordered more on pain than pleasure. “I can’t–can’t do a-another one like this,” you stuttered out.
Jack looked at you, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Tell me you have the prettiest pussy,” he said, fingers slowing a fraction as he waited for you to answer, gaze leveled directly at you.
You whined, face heating at the order, “J-Jack, please, just wanna cum on your cock,” you said, hoping it would break his resolve.
“I’ll fuck you as soon as you say it, sugar. Say you have the prettiest pussy.”
You squirmed, cheeks hot as you whimpered, “I can’t–I’m not–” was all you managed to get out before a sharp slap landed on your pussy. You gasped, the pain shocking but not unwelcome.
“If you want to cum on my cock, you have to be a good girl,” he said, face severe as he continued curling his fingers against your sweet spot. “and good girls do what they’re told. So, I want you to say, ‘Jack, I have the prettiest, sweetest pussy’ okay? Can you do that for me, pretty girl?” he asked, thumb circling your clit.
You huffed, trying to catch your breath. “Ja-aack, fuck, I-I have, hng, I have the p-prettiest, sweet–ah–sweetest pussy,” you stammered out.
“Knew you could do it for me,” he praised, fingers leaving your cunt to pull off his boxers. His cock sprang out, curving slightly and resting against his abdomen. It stole the breath from your lungs–It was obnoxiously thick and decently lengthy, tip flushed red and leaking precum steadily. Your hand reached out to feel him, maybe jerk him off a little before he fucked you, but Jack stopped you, pinning your wrist down on the bed. You whined, lip jutting out in a not-so-faux pout.
“I’m trying not to cum in 5 seconds like a teenager, sugar, and if you put your soft hands on me right now I’m not gonna be able to last,” he said, reaching over to his bedside table to grab a condom. He stroked his cock a few times before rolling the condom on and lining himself up with your entrance, neither one of you interested in teasing anymore.
He eased the tip in, your walls fluttering around him to accommodate his girth. Your legs spread open wider for him as he settled between your hips, pushing the rest of his length in slowly until he was flush against your hips, his pelvic bone rubbing your clit just right. The stretch was intense, your walls fluttering and clenching harshly at the intrusion. Your hips wiggled slightly, trying to get used to the twinge of pain from the sheer size of him.
Jack hovered over you, one arm resting next to your head while the other gripped your hip tight. His face was twisted, almost painful looking. “You gotta relax for me, sugar, you’re gripping me like a fuckin’ vise,” he grit out, head falling into the crook of your neck, placing chaste kisses there, trying to loosen you up. You tried, willing your muscles to relax around him.
A few moments passed before Jack was able to move, pulling out to the tip before thrusting back in harshly, setting a brutal pace. You moaned, Jack’s hips snapping hard against you, cock dragging through your walls exquisitely. You tried to keep up with his pace, your hips meeting each thrust, cunt greedily sucking him back in each time.
Your back was arched, hair splayed out across the pillow as you took what Jack gave you.
“So pretty for me, sweetheart,” he said, sitting back on his haunches, “my perfect little pussy.” He grabbed at your thighs, pushing them up toward your chest, knees nearly at your ears. The new angle forced him deeper than before, his thrusts fucking you into the mattress. You were entranced by the view of him fucking you, curls dripping and chest glistening with sweat as he pounded into your pussy.
The room sounded obscene between the slapping skin, your combined moans, and your squelching cunt. Moans were falling from your lips at a near constant rate, and Jack was louder than you’d expected, throaty groans and grunts reverberating like music to your ears.
You’re honestly not sure you’ve ever come more than twice in a night, but it didn’t take as long as you thought for your third orgasm to build, the waves cresting fast. The only thing you could think about was Jack’s cock hammering into your pussy.
“I think I’m gonna, gonna cum again,” you breathed, “don’t stop, Jack, pleasepleasepleasepleeeeeeease,” you keened.
Jack’s hand found your jaw, tilting your face up to kiss him sloppily, “cum for me, baby, let me feel you milk my cock,” he said, thrusts growing more uncoordinated as he neared his orgasm.
It only took a few more deep, punishing trusts before you were coming undone around his cock. You held eye contact with Jack as your orgasm washed over you, your mouth parted wide, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes at the overwhelming sensations. You felt so full, your walls pulsing mercilessly around him.
Jack gripped your hips in both hands, his trusts faster and harder than before as he chased his release. “wanna feel you cum in me Jack,” you croaked, throat raw, hands reaching out to paw at any skin you could.
Jack groaned, hips stuttering a few more times before thrusting deep into you once last time and cumming. He ground his hips into yours, milking every last drop from his cock. You felt the warmth of his cum through the condom, your cunt clenching again at the feeling, your mind already flashing forward to imagine him fucking you raw–you let about another garbled moan at the thought.
Spent, Jack collapsed into you, cock softening inside your still pulsing cunt. His weight on top of you was comforting, grounding you back to earth. You were content to lay there, coming down and catching your breath.
Eventually Jack rolled off of you, disposing of the condom and grabbing a few wet wipes from his nightstand to clean you both up.
He pulled you against his side, big hand petting your hair, “You okay, sugar? Was that too much?” he asked, voice hoarse.
“no, was so good, Jackie,” you mumbled, feeling floaty and sated.
“Good,” he whispered, pressing soft kisses onto your hairline.
You sat in comfortable silence for a while, head resting on his bare chest, his heartbeat a comforting thrum in your ear. One large hand ran up and down the smooth expanse of your back while the other held your hand against his chest, fingers intertwined together.
“I hope you know this isn’t just a one time thing,” he said suddenly, his arm tightening its hold around you.
“No?” you asked, trying to keep the hopeful edge out of your voice.
“Uh-uh, you’re mine,” he says possessively, hand snaking down to cup your sensitive mound, “this is my pussy now.”
You want to be offended, want to point out that you’re more than your cunt. But you know Jack knows that, and more than anything your head grows warm and fuzzy at the thought of being someone’s. Of being Jack’s.
“Yeah, ‘s all yours, Jackie,” you mumble, falling asleep against the gentle rise and fall of his chest, happier than you’ve been in a long time.
a/n: whew that was a lot!! thank you if you made it all the way through!!
i think Abbot would enjoy a little puppy girl. a pretty and hyper thing that mouths his dick with her ass in the air, eagerly rides his cock bouncing on his old bones. kisses him slobbery and messily in a way he learns to love. should i do smt with this?
@kinned-the-evil don’t hide from meeee this is so good!!
greeting him at nine am running over from the kitchen to jump on him, almost making him fall back with a groan as he catches you. “sweetie—” “hi jackie hi jackie hi jackie!” you’re practically squirming on him as he takes you inside, bag on one shoulder with you on his hip, licking up on his cheek and crowd feet.
“hello sweetie, you can’t keep doin that,” with sunken eyes he gives you a little smile and kiss, lowering you to the ground. “why not? you’re so big n strong n i missed you,” you take his bag for him, letting him trudge to the couch as you run around the house.
the second he sits back you’re at his feet, slipping his shoes and prosthetic off, purring when you hear him sigh loudly in relief. “thank you baby, had such a long night..” you kiss up his legs, thighs twitching as you make your way to his bulge. “did you see my texts? i missed you so much..did you like my pictures?” you’re shoving your nose into his crotch as you paw at his thighs, a low rumble leaving his throat.
“yes i did baby, looked so pretty,” he snakes his hand under your chin, playing with your collar and shimmery dog tag. “y’smell so good..worked up a sweat :3” you tongue over his growing clad cock, getting another groan from him. “definitely did,” he speaks casually as if he’s not receiving a mouth off from you. “had me..ripping and running. glad to be home with my girl. you havin’ fun down there?”
you’re moaning and whimpering and slobbering all over his scrubs, dusting at the fabric greedily. “mhm..” you lay your tongue out against his balls, a pornographic display, “can i get on top? please?” he can barely hum a yes before you’re jumping over top of him, pulling his pants to his knees and letting his cock spring against you.
“no panties? must’ve been touchin’ yourself,” he watches as you sink onto him with a loud moan, not wasting time and rutting against him hungrily. “yeah..been up all night..couldn’t sleep thinkin’ about you..” your arms wrap around his head, bare tits in his face as he hugs your hips. “s’ok pup..m’here m’right here..” this is your daily routine.
summary: after a risqué encounter with you at the bar, jack abbot can’t get you out of his head. and then you show up in one of his lectures as his student. and then you two navigate an interesting 'casual' relationship, until your emotionally avoidant asses get, well... attached.
wc: 13k words
warnings: 18+, dom!jack & sub!reader, switching pov, lots of fingering, rubbing over underwear, premature ejaculation (coming in pants), mentions of oral (fem!receiving), guiding through a blowjob, loss of virginity, sex on a table, calling him dr abbot, sir + brief daddy kink, light choking, all of the sexy stuff happens in his office. jack is a widow, brief angst in the middle but love confessions later (!!), hurt/comfort, jack is jealous and possessive but has an #ethicaldilemma: the fic
a/n: i tried to be vague with the backstory, but reader craves academic validation, doesn’t have many friends, has implied familial issues and is introverted and avoidant. seeing the pics of him literally sent me into heat i fear i’ll never recover and so naturally i churned out this incredibly self indulgent fic during my finals aha can u tell i'm suffering from academic stress? #anyways have fun pls be nice. not beta read. | divider credits: @strangergraphics | soundtrack: fuck it i love you by lana del ray
Jack Abbot had always been a man of remarkable composure, the sort of composure that had been his armour, carefully built after the death of his wife, reinforced brick by brick through routine, discipline, and relentless work.
While other men sought comfort in distractions, Jack prided himself in the fact that he buried himself in academia. Entire nights disappeared beneath journal articles, lecture plans, and grading sociology essays, until the loneliness that waited for him at home was little more than a dull ache he could almost ignore.
Last week at the bar, well, that had been a mistake. A brief lapse in judgement, that's all. One too many whiskeys after a particularly long week and a pretty young thing asking him for help with some creep who wouldn't leave her alone - what exactly had he been supposed to do? Ignore her? Tell her she was on her own? Any decent man would've stepped in, at least that's what Jack keeps telling himself.
The problem is that a week later, he still can't get you out of his head.
He remembers the dress first. God, that dress. The dark fabric had clung to your figure, hugging every curve, and he'd spent the entire evening irritated with himself for noticing at all.
He remembers the way the dip of your waist had fit beneath his palm when he'd guided you behind him, the startling softness of you, the instinctive way you'd moved closer when the man started getting aggressive. The tiny stutter in your breathing as he'd told the asshole to ‘fuck off and stop bothering his girl’ in a gruff voice, the way you'd looked up at him with those wide eyes, somewhere between embarrassed and grateful, as though he had done something remarkable when all he'd really done was the bare minimum.
Worst of all, he hates that he remembers the warmth of your body as he pinned you against the wall of the men's bathroom, mouths hovering over each other, not kissing, but breathing in wine-tinted lips.
God, the way your warm walls stretched around his fingers, your clit under his thumb, still made him achingly hard. Jerking off in the shower had been futile ever since that night, ever since he felt your soft fingers around his cock, your moans spilling into his mouth. And your soft whines when he called you a good girl, fuck. He’s hard, again, in the middle of reading through the PHD proposals sent his way. He sighs, pulling his cock out his pants.
It was becoming ridiculous. Which is precisely why he is looking forward to the start of semester.
But the universe has a fucked up way of derailing his plans. By the time he arrives at the lecture hall the next morning, coffee balanced in one hand and laptop tucked beneath his arm, he's almost managed to convince himself that the entire thing was behind him.
Then he walks through the door. The lecture hall blurs into meaningless shapes and colours, and in the centre of it sits you.
The girl he couldn’t take out of his brain for the past seven days.
Jack forces his legs forward, somehow making it to the front of the room without visibly embarrassing himself. He places his coffee on the desk. Sets down his laptop. Connects the HDMI cable twice because he misses the port the first time. His fingers feel too clammy, his pulse too fast.
Jack opens his mouth to introduce himself.
"My name is-"
But the words die there. Because he makes the mistake of looking back at you, again.
Those same eyes he'd spent an entire week trying to unsuccessfully forget are fixed directly on his, wide with disbelief.
For a fraction of a second his mind goes entirely blank. Then your eyebrows lift. Just slightly.
And he realises with a jolt of horror that you've noticed the way his words catch. Jesus Christ.
He clears his throat and looks away, pretending to adjust something on his laptop despite the fact that absolutely nothing needs adjusting, acutely aware of the warmth crawling up the back of his neck, and onto his cheeks. It's ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.
He's a respected academic pushing fifty years old, not some nervous graduate tutor fumbling his way through his first class.
"My name is Dr Jack Abbot," he says again, his voice steadier this time, lower too, the words settling more naturally now that he's managed to regain some semblance of control. "I'm the lead lecturer for the sociology department.”
His eyes catch yours.
“It'll be my greatest pleasure to work with all of you this semester."
You’re this close to fucking shitting your pants.
The sexy old man that had fucked the shit out of you with his fingers, while you could barely wrap your hands around his girthy cock in the corner of a dingy bathroom, was your professor. He was in front of you speaking in a voice too gravelly for his own good, and donned in what you’d deem an outfit way too slutty.
Tweed blazer that somehow actually showed how broad he was, how fat and juicy his biceps were. A soft wool polo underneath that stretched around his fat pecs.
And those brown pants, for fucks sake, those pants should be an abobination. You could see the bulge of his dick, the print, as he moved around the room.
What’s worse though? His fat fucking fingers. As he gesticulates while talking about the content, which you don’t give a fuck about, all you can think about is how they felt inside of you, curling up to reach that sweet spot, and making you come faster and harder than your vibrator.
As the flashbacks of him pounding into you fade, and you focus, you see something black and shiny glinting as it catches the overhead lights. You blink. Adorning one of those delicious fingers, is a ring. Fuck. It’s a wedding ring.
You stare at it for a second too long before immediately snapping your gaze back to your laptop. Heat floods your face. You rack your brain trying to remember whether he'd been wearing it that night. You don't think so, you're almost certain he wasn't. Yeah, he definitely didn’t have it on that night in the bar, you would’ve felt it against your pussy, that fucking slut.
You clench your jaw and look away, typing away to start making notes. You’d hooked up with an older married geratric. Yeah, maybe you should just drop out. Hurl yourself off the chair and out the door and withdraw from your course and fade into the abyss and die in a hole.
But what's worse is the way your cunt is clenching around nothing at the thought of this older man fucking you with his fingers while he had a wife at home- no, stop. How deeply unfeminist of you. You cunt.
Yet still, when you look up and accidentally make eye contact with Jack Abbot, it feels like a punch to the vagina.
By the time the lecture ends, Jack has spent nearly two hours forcing himself not to look at you. It has been a miserable failure. Not an obvious one, nobody in the room would have noticed. Years of teaching and having to discreetly catch students on their phones have made him an expert at disguising where his attention is actually resting.
But every time his gaze swept across the theatre, every time a student asked a question, every time laughter rippled through the room, some part of him remained acutely aware of where you were sitting.
Which is precisely why, as students begin packing their bags and filtering towards the exits, he decides to do something incredibly stupid.
He tells himself it isn't stupid. He tells himself it's necessary. Professional, even.
After all, the two of you know each other in some capacity. There was the bar, there was what occurred inside of that bar, that lapse in judgement. There is now the unfortunate reality that you are one of his students. A conversation needs to happen. Boundaries need to be established, expectations clarified.
At least that's the excuse he gives himself. The truth is considerably less flattering. The truth is that he wants an excuse to speak to you.
He calls out your name. The words leave his mouth before he can reconsider them.
You freeze halfway through sliding your laptop into your bag. For a second you look almost startled that he's addressed you directly. Then your eyes meet his, startled.
"Could you stay for a moment?"
Several students glance between the two of you before continuing out the door. Jack immediately regrets saying it publicly. Excellent start, Abbot.
By the time the last student leaves, you're making your way slowly towards the front of the room, one loop of your backpack slung on your shoulder.
As you slow to a stop in front of him, his eyes map your face. Your wide eyes, your slightly messy hair, the shape of your lips- Stop. Jesus Christ.
He forcibly redirects his gaze towards his laptop on the podium. Professional. Remember, professional.
"You wanted to see me?" you ask softly.
Jack clears his throat.
"Right. Yes."
Very articulate.
"I just thought it would be best if we acknowledged..." He gestures vaguely between the two of you. "The situation."
You blink.
"The situation?"
"The fact that we've met before."
"Oh."
You glance down at the strap of your bag, fingers tightening around it.
"Yeah. I noticed."
The dry response catches him completely off guard. A smile threatens at the corner of his mouth.
"Um, sorry, Dr Abbot," you add quickly, stumbling over the words. "I didn't mean to make things weird."
Jack immediately shakes his head.
"No, it's okay. You're good."
Dr Abbot. Dr Abbot. His brain plays your lips wrapping around his name again and again, perhaps in more precarious positions. He rubs his neck, looking away, willing for his cock to stop fucking stiffening.
"I just wanted to clarify," he starts carefully, "I'd appreciate it if what happened stayed private."
Your eyes immediately narrow, apparently offended.
"Dr Abbot, I'm not stupid."
His eyebrows lift at your sudden confidence. He puts his hands out in front of him in defence.
"I wasn't suggesting-"
"No, I know," you interrupt. Then your eyes widen, immediately looking mortified for interrupting him. "Sorry. I just mean... I'm not exactly planning on standing up in tutorials and announcing that I fu- I met my professor in a bar."
Jack closes his mouth. Fair point. And suddenly he becomes aware of how ridiculous he sounds.
You aren't the problem here. You haven't done anything. If anything, you're handling this better than he is. This sort of “casualness” is probably the usual for someone as beautiful as you, as young and brilliant.
"Right," he says finally.
A silence settles between you as he continues staring you down.
You shift your weight awkwardly beneath his gaze, looking everywhere except directly at him now, and suddenly he's struck by how young you seem standing there.
Then, before he can stop himself, in some hope to keep you standing there in front of him, he hears himself say, "If you ever need help with coursework, though, my office hours are listed on the syllabus."
The second the words leave his mouth, he knows they weren't necessary. Your eyes flicker up to his face in shock, before immediately dropping back down again. Interesting.
For someone who'd managed to argue with him thirty seconds ago, you seem remarkably incapable of holding eye contact for more than a few moments.
Then you nod, still staring at the floor.
"Okay."
"Okay. Yeah, good."
Another silence. Neither of you moves, seems entirely unsure on how to end the conversation. Eventually you shift your bag higher up, and take a small step backwards.
"I should go."
"Yes, thank you for staying back."
You hesitate for a second, then whisper as you turn and walk away from him.
“Goodbye, Dr Abbot.”
Jack stares at your ass through your jeans as you depart, he can’t help it. You sick, sick old man, Abbot.
The second you're gone, he drops his head down, groans, rubs a hand over his scruff.
That conversation was supposed to make things better, supposed to reassure him that whatever happened at that bar was firmly in the past.
Instead, all it has accomplished is proving that being around you is a nightmare.
It's been four weeks since that conversation and you cannot get him out of your head. Every time you enter those lectures where he stands in the front of the room with another blazer, another pair of form fitting pants, twice a week, you leave with a pool of slick.
You refuse to acknowledge the way he looked at you when you let your attitude slip, his furrowed brows, hazel eyes narrowing. He looked… mad almost. Like he wanted to tame you. Of course you're being delusional, he has a wife for fucks sake.
And weeks of observing him has made you realise that he has an immense proclivity for eye contact, with everyone. Basically, you’re not special.
And, so your avoidant ass refuses to take him up on that offer to see him at his office. You’re doing well academically, you presume, in all your subjects. Which is not surprising given it's the only thing you’ve got going for you, being an antisocial chud, but these days, rather than studying, a lot of your time is spent replaying that night in the bar. The sense of comfort you felt pinned against the wall by him, the way he’d protected you against that creep. Nobody had done that for you before.
God you sound fucking pathetic.
And specifically, his suggestive line of “my office hours are listed on the syllabus” reverberates around your skull, like the start of those Wattpad stories you used to read as a teen. And so, you and your vibrator have the time of your life at all odd hours of the day, imagining him and you in those situations.
In hindsight, being overtaken by lust to distract from your crippling loneliness was a poor decision to make, that much you clock when you receive one of your midterms back today. With a big fat fucking 60% written on the front. In Dr Abbot’s class at that too.
Humiliation takes over you, cheeks warm as he walks by to return the paper, refusing to look at him but feeling his gaze on your face.
Around you, students are already discussing their marks, complaining about feedback, celebrating distinctions, debating whether certain deductions were fair, while you're busy boring holes into the godforsaken paper with your eyes as though sheer hatred might cause it to burst into flames.
As someone who quite literally had nothing going on for them other than academic success, it's a stab to the heart to realise you’ve fallen off in any capacity. For your wretched brain, one poor mark isn't just a mark, it's indicative of you falling behind, lacking in the one thing that defines you.
Academics have always been your thing, the one area of your life you've been able to control through sheer stubbornness and hard work, the one thing you've quietly built your entire sense of self around. You aren't particularly outgoing. You don't have a huge social circle. You don't possess some secret hidden talent waiting to be discovered.
And now a bright red sixty is staring back at you from the top of the page like a personal attack.
The feedback only makes it worse.
Critical analysis underdeveloped.
Needs greater engagement with course material.
More depth required.
Each comment feels less like academic criticism and more like somebody taking a hammer to your ribcage.
Especially because you've spent the last month thinking about fuckass Jack Abbot far more than you've spent thinking about sociology. You've replayed conversations that lasted less than five minutes. Analysed glances that probably meant absolutely nothing, and constructed entire fictional narratives from harmless comments that any reasonable person would've forgotten weeks ago.
Meanwhile half your readings have been sitting untouched in a browser tab.
You stare down at the paper again, jaw tightening.
Perhaps this is the universe intervening. Perhaps this is your sign to get a grip. Perhaps this is your sign to finally take him up on that offer he'd made four weeks ago.
Not because you're harbouring some pathetic crush. Absolutely not.
Purely for academic reasons. You need to know what went wrong and you need to know how to fix it before your anxiety makes this into something worse and you have another one of your depressive episodes.
And if that means sitting in Dr Jack Abbot's office while he explains why your argument was underdeveloped and your analysis lacked depth, then so be it.
The thought alone makes your stomach perform an alarming little flip, which is deeply unfortunate.
Because that's probably another sign that you're not thinking nearly enough about sociology.
After stalking the stupid university website you’ve discovered that Dr Jack Abbot apparently remains on campus until after five o'clock most evenings, like some sort of psycho freak.
Doesn’t he have a wife to go home to? Surely no sane person voluntarily spends that much time at a university.
Still, at 5:17 PM, you're standing outside his office clutching your assignment paper so tightly it's beginning to crumple around the edges.
You knock on the door and hear his gruff voice let out a “come in”. You walk in.
Fuck your life.
His blazer is off, sleeves of his beige shirt rolled up to show veiny forearms, as he types away on his laptop.
“Oh it's you. Hello sweetheart.” He winces at the slip of the pet name.
“Sorry Miss-” he pauses. “Um, just have a seat, please.”
You hope to God that he can't hear the beating of your heart as you step in, closing the door shut behind you, avoiding eye contact as you sit on the seat opposite him.
You set your paper on his desk and mumble.
“I just wanted to review the feedback I got on this.”
“Yeah of course, what’d you want to ask?”
You hesitate, his soft tone suddenly making you want to spill everything.
"I just..." You stare at the desk. "I thought I'd done better than this. So I wanted more clarity on all the comments you made."
He nods and picks up the paper, starts reading through it, then squints.
He sighs.
“Wait, let me get my readers on.”
You sneak a glance up.
Oh fuck.
He puts his readers on. Some fucking high prescription glasses that enunciate the size of his stupid hazel boba eyes and delicious eye wrinkles.
Yeah, pussy exploded.
You look back down on the table, and inhale to calm your heart.
When Jack finally finishes, he sets the paper on the desk.
"You know," he says carefully, tapping one section of the essay, "the reason this stood out to me wasn't because the writing is bad."
Your eyes lift despite yourself. He slides the paper slightly closer.
"It's actually the opposite."
“What?"
"The writing is strong, and your arguments are quite clear. You've obviously got the ability."
The knot in your chest loosens slightly. Only slightly.
"But?" you whisper.
His mouth twitches.
"But I don't think you pushed yourself."
Jack studies your expression for a moment before leaning back slightly in his chair.
"You understand the material," he continues. "I don't have concerns about that. What I'm seeing is somebody who's engaging with the content at a surface level when they're capable of going much deeper.”
Right, so you’re failing. You ridden with lust, and doing god knows what in hopes to distract yourself from the sheer loneliness and mundanity of your life and now you can’t even understand the content the way you want to understand it and-
“Hey sweetheart, are you feelin’ okay?”
You look up at him in confusion and realise your breaths are heavy, uneven. Your hands are trembling slightly where they're resting on your lap.
Fuck, the beginnings of a panic attack.
“I’m so sorry Dr Abbot, I just- I’ve never done poorly in a test really, and so this is all so…” your voice cracks. “I don't even know what I’m saying I just-”
He gets up and walks over to you as you break off, letting out a shaky laugh that sounds suspiciously close to a sob.
He leans against his desk, in front of you, bending to reach your eyes.
“Hey, it's okay angel, breathe for me.”
He inhales.
“Look, follow my breathing.”
You try to, but it comes out stuttered.
"Fuck, I'm sorry."
"Nothin’ to apologise for, sweetheart, just keep trying. C’mon, take a deep breath in, and out."
He holds your hand and brings it to his chest. You feel his heart beat steadily under your palm. He exaggerates his breathing to help you.
“In, and out, just like that.”
It seems nice to just let go. To have someone else take over your brain, follow their instructions and shut the noise, the anxieties and the worries.
Once your breathing slows, he moves your hand away from his chest.
“You breathin’ better now?”
You nod slowly, still feeling shaky, still mortified by the fact that you've just had what can only be described as a minor psychological collapse in your professor's office.
“I’m so, so sorry you saw me like that Dr Abbot, I didn’t mean to-”
“Hey, it’s okay, sweet girl.”
He pauses, seems occupied gathering his thoughts.
You busy yourself staring at the floor. Then he exhales softly through his nose and settles back against the edge of his desk.
"After my wife passed away, I used to get them all the time."
The words are so unexpected that your head lifts immediately.
Jack's gaze remains fixed somewhere over your shoulder rather than directly on you, his expression thoughtful.
"My therapist taught me a few tricks," he says with a small shrug. "Matching breathing patterns was one of them."
Your heart races again, for different reasons this time. The ring, the fucking black ring. He’s a widower. You don’t know whether to laugh or scream at the fact that he’s not married, and you aren’t a homewrecker. But then you feel real fucking horrible for different reasons, youre brain sabotaging again.
“I’m sorry about your wife. I’m sorry if that reminded you of back then, or whenever it happened I don’t know, I don't want to assume-”
“Shh, take a deep breath for me. You’re good, sweetheart.
He brings a palm to your cheek, engulfing it.
“Yeah? It’s okay. Don’t worry ‘bout it. It was a long time ago.”
You breathe in slowly for the fucking hundredth time that night, calming down.
“You feelin’ better now?” He asks gently.
You nod, biting your tongue to stop from apologising again.
“Yes, thank you.”
It slips out before he can stop it.
“Good girl.”
Your thighs instinctively clench, and you see him stiffen as he notices. You both stare at each other, feeling tension coil in the air between you. A moment passes.
“I could help you, you know.”
You blink, confused.
He rubs your cheek gently, eyes boring into yours. His expression is blank, neutral.
“I could help you relax, get out of your brain for a little.”
He pauses.
“Like that night in the bar. You liked that, didn't you? Somebody taking control.”
Your breath hitches, and you mumble a “yes.”
“Louder, sweetheart. If we’re gonna do this, you need to speak clearly.”
His voice is stern, gravelly. And your brain is calm for the first time in weeks, since that night. The validation you crave so desperately, the sense of comfort that would help with escaping your brain, perhaps it is held in the palm of Jack Abbot’s hands.
Slowly, you nod.
“Yes Dr Abbot, I’d like you to help me.”
He smirks, the edges of lips pulling up.
“Atta girl. C’mon then, get up for me.”
You follow his lead, mind hazy as he holds your hands and guides you to his chair.
“I’m gonna sit, then you're gonna sit right here, on my lap. And then I’ll help you, yeah?”
You nod again.
“Words, sweetheart.”
“Yes, Dr Abbot.”
He smiles, proudly. Your brain turns to mush again, pussy fluttering.
He’s so handsome.
Pulling you onto his lap sideways, your legs draping over his thighs, he caresses your hair. Fuck, it feels so good. You nuzzle your head into his neck, whimpering softly as he coos, "such a good girl, my smart girl, yeah? smartest in the whole damn class.”
Then he brings his fat fingers to your skirt, tracing circles on yout thighs near the hem. Inching close, but never slipping under.
“Please, please Dr Abbot, touch me.”
“Yeah, you want me to touch that little pussy? Want me to make you feel good? So you can rest your pretty brain?”
He taps your head.
You whine ‘yes, yes please sir.’
You feel his cock jerk up under you. He groans.
“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart. Say that again.”
“Please, Sir, please touch me.”
“Whatever you want, pretty girl.”
Then he finally flips your skirt up, and starts rubbing slowly over your panties. On your lips, your folds, through your soaked underwear. You wrap your arms around his neck, begging him, please.
He brings a finger to your clit, mutters lowly, “right here sweetheart?” and you nod, whining.
He rubs gentle circles on your clit, your slick helping his finger move smoothly even over your panties. Buries his face in your hair as he continues rubbing. He breathily exhales, as if simply your pleasure was turning him on .
“That’s it, just let go sweetheart. Let me take care of you, yeah?”
“Fuck- right there.”
You buck up in his hold.
And he stops, a hand splaying over your thighs to stop you from squirming.
“Fuckin’ stop that, or this is going to be over a lot quicker thank you’d like.”
You feel the hardness of his cock under you, prodding below your ass. Your brain is mush, the words slipping by themself.
You nod tucking your head in his neck, “Yeah, yeah sir I’ll stop, please- fuck. Please keep going.”
“That’s my good girl.”
And he starts rubbing over your clit again, kissing down your cheeks, down your neck, murmuring “yeah? yeah” as he inhaled your musk.
You whimper, arching your neck as you get closer to your release, feeling it build up low in your stomach the faster his circles get.
“Fuck I’m going to come! Pl- please let me come sir.”
“Yeah? Is my good girl gonna come? You gonna come for Dr Abbot?” He groans, low and husky.
And fuck, that gets you. You close your eyes as your orgasm hits you, pleasure washing over.
You mutter whimpers of his name as you come, squirming as much as he lets you, clenching your thighs in his palm.
In the haze of your orgasm, you hear him, moaning. He jerks up, moaning in your ear, face pressed against your hair, babbling.
“Fuck- sweetheart, did so good for me, fucking coming all over my fingers, fuck!”
The last word comes out as something resembling a whine. His hips buck up once, twice, before you feel warmth spreading under you.
Did he just… orgasm?
Both of you pant harshly, him into your hair, forehead pressed against your head. And you look down, seeing your soaking panties, his hands splayed over your thighs. A smile overtakes your face, god, you felt alive.
And he came. In his pants. God, you love old men. But as a giggle bubbles up in your throat, he stiffens.
You see his hands leave you, and before you can even process what's happening, he's gently but firmly moving you off his lap, tugging your skirt back into place.
"Fuck."
The curse leaves him under his breath, as he immediately turns away in his chair, one hand dragging through his curls.
You stand there, still dazed as he refuses to look at you.
“Fuck, um. You should leave and I- I think-”
The words die halfway through. You watch him struggle to find them.
“Yeah, you should leave,” he awkwardly mutters as he covers the wet patch on his pants. You're still breathing heavily, and furrow your brows.
What the fuck?
You’re so utterly mortified. Still in the post orgasmic haze, standing there feeling horribly exposed, your brain sluggish and foggy and vulnerable.
And through that stupid fog you pick your bag up from the seat, smooth out your skirt. Avoiding eye contact, you wobble out of the room, tears pooling in your eyes.
Fuck old men. You hate old men.
After hours of sobbing into your pillow, and spiralling about how people will use you for your body, and nobody will be able to save you, and you’re going to die alone, you reached a conclusion. Probably a delusional conclusion, but a conclusion nonetheless.
He was embarrassed, that’s all. The man had simply come in his pants. Which, admittedly, would be humiliating for anyone. You’re so young and sexy that he was embarrassed he came in his pants. He definitely still wants you.
The thought soothed you enough to stop crying, enough to prevent you from throwing yourself dramatically into the nearest body of water.
It's when you’re holed up in your dorm room, buried under the blankets reading a fic, when your spiral begins again.
Because you get a text from an unknown number.
Hi. I wanted to apologise for yesterday.
That was incredibly impolite of me, I got way in over my head.
Then two minutes later.
And I wanted to check in.
Are you feeling better?
Chat, what if you fucking killed yourself?
The perfect grammar and punctuation made your stomach churn in lust. The way you could hear him grumble that out in his husky voice, gravelly warmth beneath every syllable.
Stop.
Objectively speaking, this man had sent you into an emotional crisis less than twenty-four hours ago. He basically kicked you out after giving you another toe curling orgasm.
And yet somehow all it takes is three perfectly punctuated texts and you're smiling into your pillow like an idiot. Whatever, stay nonchalant.
So you ignore his apology and reply to the latter half.
Hey, i’m okay thanks
Wow, look at you go.
His reply is almost immediate.
Good.
Good girl.
You take a deep breath in, pull your blanket over your head. Fuck. Fuck this stupid old man and his ability to make your pussy throb with two words.
You genuinely have no clue what to reply, stupid. Stupid woman who can’t even formulate a reply and be flirtatious.
You type something.
Delete it.
Type something else.
Delete that too.
Your chest develops a familiar buzzing anxiety. This, by the way, is exactly why maintaining relationships has always felt so difficult. Everyone else seems to possess some innate understanding of social interaction that you're missing entirely.
What are you supposed to say?
Thanks for checking on me after kicking me out?
Sorry for crying in your office?
Please stop being unexpectedly kind after making me come so hard because it's making this significantly harder?
After two minutes of spiralling, or five, or ten, you don’t even fucking know at this point, your phone buzzes again.
Can I see you?
Please.
Your breath stutters.
yeah sure
When do your classes finish today?
At 3pm
Okay. I’ll meet you at Sapphos.
Fuck, you hate how he doesn’t ask you. Just makes a statement, tells you what to do. You hate how that turns you on, and even worse, how good it feels to not have to make decisions for yourself, for once.
But also, that cafe was off campus. Realistically, should you be potentially jeopardising your academic career with this emotionally unavailable older man, who will definitely be using you for your body if this continues? No, but are you lonely and so fucking bored with the stangancy of your life? Well, yes.
And so unfortunately, rational thought has never stood much of a chance against loneliness. Against the quiet ache that follows you home every evening, and the possibility of spending a few hours with somebody who sees you.
Sitting and staring out the window of some cafe he randomly picked, Jack doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. He doesn't know how many times a man can call something a lapse in judgement before it stops being a ‘lapse’ and starts becoming a conscious choice.
He got in way over his head after making you come on his lap, spiralling. Yes, it was the sheer humiliation of coming in his pants (which was a nightmare to clean off, by the way) but also, there was the humiliation of losing control of himself after years of carefully maintaining it, the mortifying reality of having to go home and sit alone with the consequences of it all.
What was worse was somewhere along the way you'd managed to reach inside him and pull loose something from his heart he'd thought had calcified years ago, something he'd buried beneath research papers, lecture halls, and the endless routines he'd constructed around himself after his wife died.
And he knows, he knows, you deserve someone better. He was a widow for Christ's sake, probably three decades or somewhere very close to that, older than you. And you’re young. Thoughtful. Young enough that your entire life still seems stretched out in front of you. Even your anxieties, the things that weigh you down, feel temporary in a way his never will.
You still have time to become whoever you're meant to be.
Jack feels as though he's already become whoever he's going to be.
He thinks about the way you looked during your panic attack, how hard you'd been trying to keep it together even as everything was falling apart. He thinks about how quickly you apologised for taking up space, for having feelings, for being overwhelmed.
And he didn't pity you, God, no. It wasn't that. He understood it. The loneliness. The exhaustion. The feeling that if you stopped holding yourself together for even a second, everything might collapse.
But he also saw the way your brain shut down, the way you trusted him. It made something ache inside his chest, a warm ache, the sort that spread through his ribs and settled somewhere dangerously close to hope.
And hope was precisely the problem. Because he couldn't give you anything. Not with the grief and sense of routine buried in him before his teaching, in the chasm of his heart, since his time in the godforsaken military where half his limb was gone.
He can't offer you anything but his fingers, or his mouth, between your legs, and you deserve someone better than that.
But if that was the only way he’d be able to get you out of his head, then so be it.
And so despite all of that, despite every logical argument he could construct, despite every fucking university regulation he was violating right now, his eyes keep drifting towards the café entrance every few seconds.
Jack exhales heavily and rubs a hand across his jaw.
And then you enter. Looking around with an adorably confused look before you spot him, and dare he say, your eyes light up.
Abbot, no.
But the words slip out as you reach him.
“Hey sweetheart.”
“Hi Dr Abbot.”
You sit opposite him, glancing up at him briefly before staring back down at the table. He hates how endearing he finds it, how he wants to reach across the sticky table and pull your jaw, hold it, and force you to look at him. He wants to see your eyes glaze over the way they did the day prior.
He chooses instead to slide the menu across to you, and once you order, he leans back.
“Did you have a nice morning?”
He withholds a wince at the awkwardness.
“Um, yes. Classes were okay. Thank you?”
The end of the sentence rises almost into a question, as though you're unsure whether that's the correct answer, and something about it makes his chest tighten.
“Good, that’s good.”
Then an awkward pause. Jack sits there like a complete fucking idiot.
For Christ's sake he’d called you here. And now that you're sitting in front of him, he can't seem to form a coherent sentence.
Get your shit together, Abbot.
"Look," he begins, rubbing a hand across his jaw. "I wanted to apologise for yesterday."
Your eyes finally lift from the table.
“It was wrong of me to let you go like that. Quite frankly I don’t even have an excuse I just…”
He trails off, looking behind you out the window for a second. What exactly is he supposed to say?
That the sight of you crying made me feel physically sick? That for one terrifying second I’d felt something dangerously close to happiness sitting in that office with you? That after years of carefully maintaining the same dull routine I’d somehow started structuring entire days around whether I’d see you?
None of those seem particularly appropriate, too intense.
"See, no man my age enjoys being reminded that he's still capable of behaving like a teenager."
That makes you smirk a little. His heart warms.
“You mean, you.. coming in your pants?”
Jack groans softly and drags a hand down his face.
“I didn't want to put it so crudely, but well... yes."
"I thought so."
You giggle. And the sound catches him off guard enough that he finds himself smiling despite the mortification currently trying to consume him.
"To be honest," you continue, "I think I understood once I calmed down."
His shoulders loosen slightly.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
You shrug.
"But I'm not going to lie, it didn't feel very good. You kicking me out like that."
The honesty makes him wince.
"And that's exactly why I wanted to apologise, sweetheart." His gaze settles on you properly. Giving you a look that he hoped was earnest. "That was real shitty of me. I’m truly very sorry.”
You look at him for a few moments in silence, mapping his face. Then once seemingly finding what you were looking for, you reply.
“Apology accepted.”
The waitress arrives then, setting down your coffee, some monstrosity involving whipped cream and probably enough sugar to send him into cardiac arrest.
Jack eyes it suspiciously, humorously.
"What?" you question.
"That isn't coffee."
"It literally is."
"Sweetheart, that looks like it barely has any caffeine."
You let out a giggle, again. God, you’ve got to fucking stop that if you want his heart to survive.
"It has espresso."
"Buried beneath, what? Three inches of whipped cream."
"Whatever, you’re just old and grumpy."
You grin. The grin grows wider when he continues staring at the drink with visible disappointment.
For some reason that finally breaks whatever lingering awkwardness remains between the two of you. The conversation begins flowing after that.
He makes a witty remark, you giggle. And you manage to make him laugh as well, coming out of your shell.
Then the conversation shifts to that night at the bar.
“Yeah so if he wasn't that buff and scary, I wouldn't even have called you over. I would've told him to suck my strap and choke.”
Jack nearly chokes on his coffee, coughing violently. You immediately burst into soft laughter. He wipes his lips with a napkin, grinning.
"Sweetheart."
"What?"
"Please give me some warning before you say things like that."
Your grin grows, eyes sparkling.
"Why?"
"Because I'm fifty."
That seems to make your eyes widen imperceptibly, and you look down towards the coffee you ordered, chugging it.
Interesting.
Neither of you acknowledge the elephant in the room, instead you continue talking, skirting around the edges. Circling the obvious without ever touching it.
And eventually your drinks are empty. People around you start leaving.
Yet neither of you seems particularly eager to end the conversation.
Jack glances at his watch. Then back at you. He really, really shouldn't. But he wants to give you a way out. While still offering you a choice.
"I don't have any classes after tomorrow's lecture."
The words leave his mouth casually.
Your eyes flicker up.
"Oh."
A pause.
"I could come see you."
"In my office?"
You immediately look embarrassed.
"Only if that's okay."
God. There it is again, that instinct you have to ask permission for existing.
"Sweetheart."
Your eyes lift.
"It's okay."
The relief that flashes across your face is so immediate it almost hurts to look at.
"Okay."
"Okay."
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
When the bill eventually arrives, he picks it up before you can.
"Dr Abbot-"
"No."
"I can pay for myself."
"I know."
"Then-"
"I know, I know you’re a self sufficient woman. You’re brilliant. But let me. I’ll pay for it."
Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Jack watches the entire internal battle play across your face.
Then you nod softly, muttering an “okay, thank you”.
Jack's heart clenches again. Genuinely fuck his life.
So you think you’ve somehow ended up in a situationship or whatever the fuck with your fifty year old professor.
Over the course of the past five weeks, you show up in his office after the lectures, and even a few times throughout the week, and he sets you on his lap, or on his desk while he laps at your cunt.
Occasionally, he lets you pull out his cock and suck it. Sometimes under his desk, riding his boot as he's grading papers, God, his fucking whimpers when he comes.
Unsurprisingly, he also does help you with understanding the content and doing your assignments. Has his own unique methods of doing so.
Jack had you sitting on his lap, back to his chest, completely clothed while you were naked, bare.
He hooked his face on your shoulder, whispering filth in your ears, telling you to “focus” as he rubbed slow circles over your pussy. Smearing the slick oozing out your cunt over your folds, avoiding your clit.
You whined and tried to clench your thighs, whispering against his stubbled cheek.
“Please, pl- touch me, Dr Abbot.”
But he'd splayed one wide palm, tightly, over your thigh.
“No. Type out the rest of the essay, c’mon. Then you can come, pretty girl,” he’d muttered in a low voice.
And once you did, he'd shoved his fat fingers inside of you, thrusting fast, the other hand alternating between your neck and your nipples, pinching, squeezing.
You’d squirted that day, for the first time, creating a mess of his pants, some landing on his desk.
He’d made you lick it off.
Surprisingly, however, you hadn’t kissed, not even once. Nor had you fucked, in the penetrative sense.
The latter you’re grateful for, because you were a virgin. It was too humiliating of a thought to ever bring up in your twenties now, but thankfully he never brings it up either. You suspect he knows though, from the little details you've unveiled to him over the course of the past few weeks.
Talking about your feelings has always been.. difficult. The words choke up and clog the back of your throat when you go to speak. Entire relationships - well, lack of relationships - have been built around your inability to say what you need.
But it's easy, sometimes, with Jack. When your brain shuts off in a post orgasmic haze, and you sit in other's company, his hand resting in your hair, or his head buried in your chest, the words bubble out of you.
Snippets of memories of your family that you left behind, of the few friends back home, the lack of romance. When you stop speaking halfway through a sentence because you've forgotten how to explain yourself, he simply waits.
Surely he's put two and two together.
And you think he has some avoidant issues of his own, the old fuck.
He'll spend forty minutes analysing a political institution and somehow avoid answering a direct question about his own feelings.
Yet occasionally things slip through the cracks.
A memory about his wife. An offhand comment about the military that lingers in your mind long after he's moved on to another topic.
You'd had a lengthy conversation one day about that, your radical opinions spilling out before you could stop them, about systemic exploitation and imperialism, about how much you despised the military as an institution. You’d accuse institutions of manipulating vulnerable people; He agreed more than you'd expected him to. Told you about his journey of basically being forced into it to help his family, about the machinery of poverty and patriotism that pushed kids toward enlistment before they were old enough to understand what they were signing away.
He takes your ideas seriously, but he also looks genuinely delighted when you disagree with him.
And god, that’s what you were starting to like most about him. The intellect. Yes he has a girthy cock that would probably annihilate you in the best way when (if) the time came, and incredible arms, and his fat pecs. But his brain. Wow.
Intelligence has always been your love language, whether you've admitted it or not. And Jack speaks it fluently. There’s a sense of strange intimacy and letting others hear your thoughts and opinions. And the ability to be able to talk and have someone just listen, or banter with you – it was rare. Especially for someone as reclusive as you.
Unfortunately, you're also smart enough to recognise reality. Whatever this is, it isn't heading anywhere permanent. Because Jack never talks about the future, never makes promises, or gives any indication that he's looking for something lasting.
And honestly? You aren't sure he can. Not after everything he's lost, not with the gap of decades between you. So you tell yourself you're enjoying things exactly as they are. You tell yourself that spending time with him is enough.
And for now, maybe it is.
The problem is that every time he looks at you like you've said something brilliant, every time he remembers some tiny detail about your life, every time his face softens when you walk into a room – this lie gets a little harder to believe.
Five weeks. Jack’s ‘brief’ lapse in judgement has lasted five fucking weeks.
Every time he sees you enter the lecture, you exchange a secret look, your eyes fluttering, him blushing. He feels like he’s twenty again. It's exhilarating.
But the ‘ethical dilemma’ of it all sat permanently in the back of his mind, festering like an untreated wound.
He knows that every time he let himself enjoy your company, every time he answered one of your messages, every time he found himself smiling at something you'd said hours after the conversation had ended, he was stepping further into territory he had absolutely no business occupying.
The way you trusted him, allowing him to lick into your cunt or set you on his lap and caress you, felt nice. It felt real fucking good to be wanted and desired in some capacity, especially after being touch starved for nearly a decade since his wife.
And seeing you under him sucking his cock, fuck.
“Dr Abbot….” you whined in a teasing tone, laced with humour.
He groaned, placing his forehead on your back from where you sat on his lap. You definitely wanted something.
“What?” he huffed out.
Still facing your laptop, you breathed out your next words.
“When are you going to let me suck your cock?”
He jolted, hips thrusting up.
“Jesus Christ sweetheart, warn a guy.”
You said his name again, more firmly.
“Stop dodging the question.”
He paused.
“This whole… us. It's about you, about helping you relax so you can focus on studying. It’s not about me or my pleasure or-”
“Jack.”
He lifted his head from your back, stilling. You’d never said his first name before.
“What if doing it would give me pleasure, hm? What then?”
He stayed silent.
You twisted in his lap, neck twisting to face him.
“I want to taste you, please.”
Widening your eyes, and pouting, you all but begged him. Brought a hand to his stubbled cheek.
“Please, Dr Abbot. Let me do it.”
He sighed. Jack Abbot was a weak, pathetic man when it came to you.
“Fine,” he grumbled.
“Get off, c’mon.”
Yeah, it was worth it for the blinding smile you gave him, kissing his cheek.
He gently lifted you off his lap, and pulled his chair back to give you some room.
Jack nodded, glancing down pointedly.
“If you want it, you gotta do it yourself.”
You kneeled immediately, settling yourself in the gap between his desk, between his open thighs.
Unbuckling his belt, staring at his bulge with those doe eyes the entire time, you slowly pulled his cock out.
It was hard, leaking, tip red and aching. Your soft hands wrapping around his dick made a drop of precum roll down. He moaned, a low sound emanating from deep in his chest.
You slowly twisted your hand up and down his cock, fingers barely stretching around.
Jack couldn’t wait. He gripped your hair, not too hard, but enough to lift your head up to face him.
“You gonna put your mouth on it or do I need to shove it in?”
You smirked, you vixen.
“Shove it in, I dare you.”
He groaned, muttering “you fuckin’ brat” as he pushed your hands off his cock.
“Open up, sweetheart.”
You did, tongue lolling out. A drop of drool dripped onto his thighs, and he moaned under his breath.
He couldn’t wait any longer. Gripping his cock, he fed it into your mouth. Inch by inch.
Until you gagged.
Feeling your soft throat close around him, he couldn't help but groan your name.
“Fuckin’ hell.”
Your hands came up to stroke whatever didn't fit in - which truth be told, was more than half his cock, but it's okay, he'd train you eventually.
“Can I help you, sweetheart? Teach you how to take your professor's cock down your throat?”
You nodded quickly, moaning, his cock still in your mouth.
Then he guided you through it, holding your head as you sucked him. Muttered praises, filth, to guide you.
“Just like that, sweetheart”.
“Yeah, grip it harder”.
“Suck the tip, just like that.”
And right before he came, he ripped you off him and wrapped a hand around himself. He whimpered as jerked off furiously over you, until drops of his pearly cum splattered over your tongue.
He had never come that hard in his life.
Panting harshly, he patted your head.
“Swallow.”
Other than the sex, there were also the days where you'd walk into his office and start talking about some article you'd read, your entire face lighting up with excitement, and everything in him would melt. He’d pull you onto his lap, or set you in front of him, on his desk, and let you talk, feeling the softness of your thighs under his palm as he traced small circles. It was nice to let someone in, fill the void and the silence in his life.
There wasn’t a label on what you two were, if you even were anything.
While at first he’d thought it was common for you to be used to this sort of ‘causalness’ or a friends-with-benefit type situation (or whatever the fuck somebody born two generations after him would call it), he'd come to realise you were actually the opposite. Not that he’d have any issue with either.
But from the scattered stories you'd told him about your past, the way you spoke about relationships, and the cautious vulnerability that appeared whenever the subject drifted too close to ‘feelings’, he'd begun piecing together a picture of someone who felt things deeply and trusted people slowly.
He could calculate you were likely a virgin. And so he never pressurised you, never made the first move to initiate sex, kept his cock to himself, waiting for you. No matter how much he wanted to feel the tightness of your pussy around him.
However, his patience is wearing thin, growing precarious with every instance of you bringing another small thing that wedges itself beneath his ribs and refuses to leave.
Now he's left with the deeply inconvenient problem of wanting things he really shouldn’t want. Not just a warm body near him, but wanting your company, your attention. He wants those afternoons in his office where you do nothing but talk to last a little longer.
All of this wanting, this yearning, is quite frankly, far more than he has any right to want.
Which is exactly why today is proving so unbearable.
He often feels a pit of something bitter bubble in his chest when you interact with someone other than him. Not that it happens frequently - you're quite reserved. But not today. Today, specifically, you seem to be chatting up a boy.
When he enters the lecture this morning, you aren’t sitting alone like usual, but instead, there’s some boy next to you. Some boy your age. Dressed in some sort of hideous baggy outfit that hangs off his lanky frame. Is that fashion now? God that fucking punk.
Why was he sitting next to you? Distracting you?
As he sets up his laptop on the podium, seething under his breath, he hears a giggle. Your breathy giggle, the one he thought only came out with him.
His jaw tightens. The lecture hasn't even started, for Christ's sake.
Jack spends the next five minutes attempting to focus on setting up his stupid slides while simultaneously becoming aware of every interaction occurring in your vicinity.
Looking up, he realises it's a grave mistake. Because now you're touching. Touching that punk’s arm.
Fuck.
Something ugly immediately twists in Jack's stomach, his brows furrowing. Anger bubbles up in his chest.
But he can’t do anything but continue on, beginning his lecture, as if he isn’t seething with jealousy.
Halfway through the lecture, he catches himself directing a question towards your side of the room and immediately wants to launch himself into the sun.
Because you answer, of course, brilliantly as usual. But the boy next to you looks at you with stars in his eyes.
Yeah, Jack wants him expelled.
After a torturous two hours, students begin filing out of the room. Normally, this is the part where he'd catch your eye, maybe exchange some silent look that promised you'd be appearing in his office within the next ten minutes.
Instead, you're still standing beside that boy. And the little prick is making you laugh now. Then you reach out and lightly smack his arm, again.
Jack immediately decides prison might be worth it.
He shoves his laptop into his satchel with considerably more force than necessary, and effectively storms out of the room without giving you a second glance.
If you wanted to fuck about with some kid your age, then fine, Jack was not going to stop you.
By the time he reaches his office he's practically fuming, throwing his bag onto his desk and immediately hating himself for it.
Because what exactly are you guilty of?
Making a friend? Talking to somebody?
The answer is nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Yet that doesn't stop the ugly feeling sitting beneath his ribs. Yeah, he’s going to commit a fucking crime tonight.
Jack Abbot has managed to elicit yet another strange emotion in you. You're staring at the doorway he'd just disappeared through, confused as fuck.
He'd packed up and left so quickly you'd barely had time to process it, when usually, you walk to his office together.
Once James - the man you were talking to - leaves with your Instagram to “organise a study session”, a strange sinking feeling begins to settle in your stomach.
You gather your things slowly, trying not to overthink it but failing spectacularly.
The thing is, you had actually been excited, embarrassingly excited. Somehow, after weeks of mostly keeping to yourself, after spending the majority of your university experience drifting between classes and then disappearing home, you'd accidentally made a friend today randomly. For the first time somebody actually came and fucking sat next you and talked to you.
And the first person you'd wanted to tell was Jack. Which was probably concerning. You know how ridiculous it is that every interesting thing that happens in your day somehow circles back to him.
You'd actually spent the last ten minutes of class thinking about it, thinking about walking into his office and saying, "I made a friend today." And hearing whatever sarcastic response he'd inevitably come up with as he pulled you into his lap. Maybe teasing you about finally socialising - a topic he often teased you about - or maybe pretending to be shocked.
Instead he'd practically fled the room.
By the time you reach his office, the excitement has mostly dissolved into uncertainty, and a sick, sick feeling. Your brain convinces you he hates you, he’s sick of you. The affair with the pretty young thing is over.
Your hand hovers over the door, then knocks.
A gruff voice immediately answers.
"Come in."
You push the door open, and there he is standing beside his desk.
His jaw is clenched, his shoulders rigid.
And suddenly you're no longer excited to tell him anything. Instead you're left standing there wondering what exactly you did wrong.
He stalks up to you, and shuts the door behind you with enough force to make you jump. For a moment he simply stands there, broad chest rising and falling, staring at you as though he's trying to decide whether to throttle you or kiss you.
“Who the fuck was that boy?”
You’re confused.
“Who?”
“Don't play games with me, sweetheart.”
“James?” you ask, tilting your head. “Oh he’s just a… friend I made. We decided to share notes for the course.”
His jaw visibly tenses.
“The fuck you mean you ‘share notes’?” He exaggerates the last two words, mocking the phrase in a deliberately high-pitched voice. “Don’t I give you enough notes to go off? I'm not teachin’ you well enough, so now you gotta go to some punk to share notes?
“Jack, it’s not like that, I just-”
“Dr Abbot.” He interrupts.
The correction slices straight through you.
“What?”
He walks up closer to you, until your back hits the door and you’re pinned against it. He tilts his head down to peer at you.
“It’s Dr Abbot when you’re in my office, sweetheart,” His voice drops lower. “I’m still your professor.”
You scoff at that, hurt. It’s not hot to you, no. In that moment your brain forces you to think about how every moment you've spent together has happened in this room, only in this room. And maybe that's all there is, and maybe that's all there ever was. You convince you that you guys can’t exist out of this space, this dynamic that exists between the two of you.
Can he just not have a civil conversation? Why is pretending to act jealous? If he wanted to fuck you he could just ask.
You swallow hard.
“Right,” you say lowly. “My professor.”
The words taste bitter.
“The one who only seems to want me when we're in here.”
His brows furrow immediately.
“That's not what-”
“No, it’s okay. Let me finish. The one who shoves his face between my thighs when he feels lonely to cure whatever fucked up grief he keeps bottled up inside of him. The one who refuses to see me outside the four walls of this godforsaken office-”
“Enough.”
You see something that resembles hurt flash across his face, his brows creasing. The lines around his eyes deepen.
“Is that really what you think of me?” He whispers, staring at you.
You twitch uncomfortably under him, looking at the floor, confidence evaporating now that you've actually said out loud what you’ve been spiralling over ever since this began.
“I just...” Your voice cracks slightly. “Look, you don't have to act possessive, okay? Whatever we have this- this thing. I know it doesn’t mean much to you.”
Jack immediately opens his mouth, but you keep rambling.
“Which is fine. Seriously. I'm okay with that.” Your hands shake slightly at your sides. “But just don’t give me false hope. I’m happy with you being my professor, or my dom, or whatever the fuck. And I like that you help me study and talk and get out of my head and feel good, but there’s no need to act like you- like you care. I can't handle feeling like you care one minute and then being reminded none of this is real the next.”
You're panting hard by the end of your rant, still refusing to look at him.
“Sweetheart, look at me.”
You shake your head, tears of frustration welling up at letting yourself be seen like this, vulnerable. You promised yourself you wouldn’t ever tell him. Stupid.
Sex, that’s easy. It’s the meshing of two bodies, it’s clinical - you orgasm, your brain feels hazy and good while he drives you there. But this, talking, about feelings of all things, fuck. You can’t let anyone see you like that. Because then, they get sick of you, and then they leave.
“C’mon, look at me,” he pleads.
You wipe your eyes, about to tell him to move back so you can leave, but then he says your name. Softly. Not sweetheart. Not pretty girl. But your actual name.
“Please.”
You look up then, tears pooling in your eyes. And your breath catches.
Because Jack looks devastated. His eyes are red around the edges, and his mouth is pulled into a frown.
His hand rises slowly, cupping your cheek. He gently swipes a thumb under your eye.
“Hey, I need you to know - this is real. To me.”
His voice cracks.
“I’m not using you as some sort of placeholder or whatever self sabotaging bullshit you’ve created in your head okay?”
Then he inhales deeply.
“You've become the best part of my day. I wake up and mentally map my days around you. Hearing you talk loosens the constant ache I feel.”
Jack closes his eyes briefly.
Then opens them again. His hand tightens against your cheek.
“Sweetheart, I love you.”
You still.
Your lip quivers as you stare at him.
You bring your own hand up to cup his, and look up through your lashes.
The words get stuck in your throat. God. He loves you. Somebody loves you. Somebody saw through rot and the cage around your heart, and said he fucking loves you.
“I do. Too. That thing,” you wince at your awkwardness. “I just, I want to say it but I-"
“Hey pretty girl, it’s okay.”
Jack smiles sadly. He leans his forehead down to yours.
“I do,” you whisper desperately. “I do. I just-”
“Shh.”
His mouth nearly presses against you as he whispers again.
“I love you. And I’ll wait however long you need me to say it back, okay?”
Your breath shudders as he says that, a sob catching in your throat. Because for the first time in a very long time, nobody leaves.
Your eyes squeeze shut. Tears roll down your cheek, overwhelmed.
You barely register them before you feel Jack’s lips against your skin, kissing your tears. He mutters soft, ‘I love you’s as he presses kisses all over your face, cradling it. He presses one last one on your forehead before he tucks you into him.
Your cheek rests on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
You wrap your arms around his waist. And you genuinely think you can control it, for about ten seconds at most, then you sob. Uncontrollably, for the first time in years in front of another human.
Because God. You have spent so much of your life believing that love was something you had to earn, something you had to perform correctly for your family, the people around you, to accept you. Something that disappeared the second you became too much, too emotional, too difficult, too needy.
But he stayed. And he saw you.
You stand there, wrapped in each other's embrace until the tears slow. Jack gently wipes your cheeks with both hands.
“Sorry for making you cry, princess,” he pouts, lip jutting out exaggerately.
A watery laugh leaves you at that, and you cup his cheek. Jack immediately leans into your palm.
Jack watches you with an expression so openly adoring it nearly steals the breath from your lungs. As though he's still struggling to believe you're real.
Your thumb traces the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, mapped with years lived longer than you.
Then your hand drifts lower, brushing against the silver-grey scruff along his jaw, littered with specks of auburn, and you rub it gently, feeling the coarseness between your fingertips.
That was it, was it not? The stark difference between you, the thing that made all this so exhilarating.
Jack had lived a life that existed before you. And somehow, impossibly, it had still found its way to yours. As though he's spent years wandering through darkness and has suddenly found something worth staying for.
And perhaps, you realise, so have you.
That’s when you know.
“I’m ready,” you breathe out.
Jack's eyes widen, his hand coming to hold yours where it rests on his jaw.
“Are you sure? I don’t want you to feel pressured into it.”
“Jack. I’m sure. I want this, I want you.”
He shudders, exhaling hard, bringing his face down to yours.
“Yeah?” He whispers against your lips, brushing them.
“Yeah.”
Then his lips slam down onto yours, for the first time.
And God, its everything you fucking imagined.
His mouth presses against yours and soft whimpers escape the both of you. There’s a certain desperation in the way his mouth moves against yours, in the way your tongues immediately find each other.
After a few brutal minutes of grinding against each other, moaning, Jack succumbs. He lifts you into his hands, your thighs wrapping around his waist, as he carries you to his desk and sets you on it.
Mouth still pressed against yours, he rips your shirt off, pulls your jeans and panties off, shoving them to the floor.
He whines as you detach your lips from his to pull his blazer off. Looking up at him, naked on his desk, you unbutton his shirt. Trail your fingers down the dusting of salt and pepper chest hair, down, over his pecs, slightly raking your nails over his nipples.
“Fuck yeah, use your nails on my chest,” he grunts out as he unzips his pants.
You moan, pressing against him harder.
“I can’t wait any longer, fuck. Please, sweetheart, let me fuck you.”
You nod.
“I’m ready, Dr Abbot.”
He groans mutters ‘you fucking minx’ as he pulls his pants and boxers down, standing bare in front of you.
His cock hits his soft stomach, curving to the left, precum coating the tip, the way you love.
You glance down at his prosthetic.
“You sure you want to do this here, Jack? We can go on the sofa if you want.”
He looks at you with so much adoration, a soft smile gracing his face.
“No sweetheart, I'll keep it on for now. Wanna fuck you on my desk. ”
Then he pinches your nipples as he leans in.
“And I still need to fuck the brat out of you.”
You whine.
“What are you waiting for then?”
He brings a hand down your stomach, fingers pressing up against you.
“Gonna finger you a little bit, yeah? Get you ready for your professor's cock, s’not gonna fit in this tight pussy otherwise.”
A whimper escapes you at his crude words, god can this old man dirty talk.
He slowly slips two fingers inside of you, thrusting, then three once you’re ready. Circles your clit softly, the way he’s learnt after many nights on this same desk.
Whispers filth against your lips, kissing you, desperate now that he knows what your lips taste like after many weeks.
Once you come, he finally presses his cock against you. Rubs the tip over your folds, coating it in your slick.
“Yeah? You ready sweetheart?”
You nod, whisper a soft ‘please’ against his lips.
Then he pushes his tip into you. And oh fuck. He’s just so fucking thick.
He immediately brings a hand up to hold his base to stave off his orgasm, puts his head on your shoulder. Breathing harshly.
It hurts a little but you want more, you crave the feeling of him pressed up against you. So you buck your hips.
“Please, Jack, fuck. Put it in,” you whine.
“Oh- oh shit. Fucking stop that.”
He lays a hand flat on your thigh. Breathes deeply.
“I’m trying not to blow my load here, sweetheart, gimme a sec.”
You giggle softly, pleased. Having this old man at your mercy, your dreams come true.
“Take your time, old man.”
He stills at that, grips your waist harshly.
Looks up at you, his eyes darkening.
“Fuck you,” he snarls.
Then he presses into you, inch by inch, until all of him is buried inside. His thighs shake with the effort of not coming, and you breathe deeply through the pinch of pain.
“Fuck princess, so tight for me, my good fucking girl,” he babbles in your ear.
You whimper against him, waiting for the pain to subside.
Then you nod. And he begins thrusting, slowly. And it's so fucking euphoric, the feeling of sex. It makes sense why they call orgasms ‘a little death’ in French, because god, you know your body will leave your soul once he starts properly fucking you.
With every deep thrust of his cock into you, his grey pubes brush against your clit. You both moan softly. He grips your waist, shoving faster, harder.
“Only man that’s ever gonna be in this pussy yeah? Yeah?”
You’re half gone drooling against his neck, letting out high pitched whines.
“Nod for me, c’mon. I haven’t fucked the brains outta you yet.”
Jack grips your hair tight, pulling your head away from where it was buried against his neck.
You nod, slurring your words.
“Yeah Dr Abbot, s’only your pussy.”
“That’s it, good fucking girl.”
Then he starts thrusting, faster. Your hands rest on his shoulders, his face buried in your neck. His body slamming into yours is so hard it makes the table squeak under you.
When he brings a hand to your clit, you whimper loudly. He covers your mouth with his palm, and stops immediately.
“Quiet, you don’t want anyone to hear right?”
He roughly pants, trailing a line of kisses up your neck.
“Don’t want them to know your professor’s fucking you, right?”
You shake your head, words muffled under his palm.
“I’ll be quiet please, fuck please!”
He starts thrusting against faster, the table shaking. You toss your head back in pleasure, his cock reaching a spot deep inside you. He stares at you, at your face twisted in pleasure, the way your tits bounce as he thrusts into you.
“Yeah that is it, baby, good fucking girl.”
God it feels so good, and you’re there, you're nearly there, egged on by his rough groans and whimpers in your ear. You bring a hand down to your clit, starting to rub it to reach your orgasm but he shoves it off. Pushes you onto the table, your back hitting the desk.
“That’s my job sweetheart. This pussy is mine.”
Then he hovers over you, eyes boring into yours as he fucks you harder, rubbing circles on your clit. The pleasure is so, so overwhelming and you close your eyes.
He pulls your head towards him, gripping your jaw.
“C’mon, look at me sweetheart.”
You open your eyes, moaning.
“Say it,” he grunts. “Say you’re mine. Say it.”
“Fuck- Dr Abbot, I’m yours.”
He moans gutturally then pushes his lips onto yours again. You both moan into each other's mouths, sloppily kissing as you build towards your peak.
“Fuck yeah sweetheart, just like that- good girl, so fucking tight.”
He continues to mutter filth against you while all you can do is softly moan. Your brain is mush, filled with thoughts of him, jackjackjack.
You clench tightly around him when he bites your bottom lip.
“C’mon tell me how good you feel,” he pants, nearing his own orgasm.
“Fuck, Daddy, feels so good.”
His hips buck once, harshly, then he stills.
“What’d you just call me?”
Your eyes come into focus. The fog clearing a bit.
You stammer, “Um nothing, sir, I was just-”
“No. Repeat it.”
He trails a hand to your neck, squeezing gently once, then more harshly
“What did you call me?”
“Daddy,” you whisper out.
He pouts mockingly.
“Yeah? Daddy makin’ you feel good, baby? That’s why you're grippin’ this cock so tight, right?”
And then he starts thrusting, harder than before.
“Just. Let. Daddy. Take Care. Of. You,” He harshly thrusts between each word, one hand covering your mouth as your moans get louder.
Then you feel your orgasm approaching, the flutter building up again, clenching around him.
He looks into your eyes, only a thin ring of hazel left, his pupils so dilated.
“You gonna come for your Daddy? Yeah?”
You nod, whining, then you bite his palm. Hard.
His hips stutter and you feel the warmth of his spend pooling in your cunt. He whimpers and babbles your name as he comes, “fuck, fuck I love you. I love you so fucking much.”
You moan at his words. But you still have to come.
“Jack please, please keep going.”
He groans gutterly as his cock begins to soften, overstimulated but he continues thrusting jerkily.
He grips your chin in his palm.
“Fuckin’ come for me. Now,” he grunts out, pinching your clit roughly.
And then it happens. You write, moaning under his hands as the coil of pleasure snaps, closing your eyes.
He whimpers soft praises and coos of “I love you, did so good for me” as his cock spurts out more cum, twitching.
You pant against each other's mouths for a few long moments, his scruff tickling your chin, his forehead resting against yours, both of you trying and failing to steady your breathing.
“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart,” he murmurs, a breathless laugh escaping him. “That live up to your expectations?”
You laugh softly nodding.
“Mhm.”
He leans his head back to look at you properly once he’s cooled down, and holds your face in his palms.
After a few long seconds of just staring, something grave passed over his face.
“Don’t think I got a lot of years left, sweetheart.”
Your brows immediately furrow.
“Jack-”
He presses a finger to your lips when you go to interrupt, shushing you.
“Let me speak.”
You sigh, but nod.
“I've spent most of my life thinkin' there'd only ever be one great love for me,” he says quietly, his thumb brushing beneath your eye. “And after I lost her, I figured that was it. Figured whatever part of me knew how to belong to somebody had gone with her.”
Your breath stutters.
“Then you came along. In that fucking bar, wearing that tiny dress, asking me to help you. ”
A watery laugh escapes you.
“And whatever years I have left, I wanna spend them with you. I wanna hear every thought that gets trapped in that head of yours. I wanna know what articles you're reading, what you're writing, what you're dreamin’ about at three in the morning.”
He pauses.
“I wanna be the person you come home to.”
Your breath catches.
“As your other. If you’d want.”
You breathe out, seeing his face dimly lit by the lamp in his office. Mapping out his wrinkles near his eyes, the silver threaded in his slight beard and his soft smile. And suddenly it comes spilling out of you before anxiety can stop it.
“I love you.”
Jack stills completely. His eyes pool with tears.
“Yeah?” He whispers, half surprised, half in awe.
You nod, leaning up and brushing your nose against his.
“And I’d love to be yours.”
Relief washes over his face so intensely it almost hurts to witness. His eyes glisten as he kisses you softly, a slow, reverent press of his lips against yours for a few quiet moments.
Then he moves back to start cleaning up, cock still inside you.
As he leans up, his back cracks, loudly.
You both still. Before you burst out laughing.
“You’re so fucking old… yeah you’re not making it very long, I can’t lie.”
He groans dramatically, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.
“Fuck you, shut up.”
You bite your lip. His gaze travels there.
“Make me, Dr Abbot,” you say, exaggerating a whimper, only half serious.
His eyes darken, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumps beneath the skin. Yet despite the stern look he's trying to give you, a pink flush begins creeping across his cheeks, spreading over the tops of them and disappearing beneath the scruff along his jaw.
“Yeah sweetheart, about that… I’m not gonna be able to get it up for a while.”
You break, laughing harder as he laments. He’s so fucking old.
Once you calm down, he slowly pulls his cock out of you, both of you moaning, you at the loss of the fullness, him at your shared cum oozing out.
“But my mouth still works,” he smirks.
Your breath hitches as he plugs you with his fingers to stop more of your cum from spilling out. Leans in close, and whispers.
“My leg’s killing me, sweetheart,” he begins, breath fanning over your face. “But I'm going to lie on that sofa right there. And you're gonna ride my face till you come. Again. And again.”
You whimper softly against his mouth.
“Okay.”
“Okay, who, pretty girl?”
“Okay, Daddy.”
He grins.
“Good girl.”
omg hi u made it ! guys when i tell you this is so personal to me, from the dialgoue to the experimental (?) writing style. i need this man to be my father figure SO FUCKING BAD i have had such a week.
anyways per usual thank you to @tempestfawn for perving out with me and tolerating me, and salima for being horny over this man among other things #fullhomo
summary: Hooking up with Jack, but there's love blooming. Also, a lot of Mckay in this lol.
Warnings: Sexual explicit content
a/n: I like this one, it's so cute...
Any ideas or requests, don't be shy to let me know!
Thanks for all the love,
you guys are the best <3
────────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹────────
“I need to get fucking laid,” Mckay sighs as she’s in the middle of what seems like an endless amount of charting she has to do.
“Huh?” you turn your head, stopping yourself from typing away on the computer.
“I need sex,” Cassie tells you, fully turning on her stool so she faces you. “It’s been too damn long.”
“Oh.. yeah,” you give her a quick nod. “Me too.”
That's a lie.
You’ve been having sex nearly every day for the last few months. Not regular old sex.. great, mind-blowing, hot, steamy sex. That with no other than the attending of the night shift, Jack Abbot.
A flashback of the two of you from last night pops into your head.
Jack is holding onto your legs, pushing them back against your chest as he’s thrusting inside of you, balls deep. His grunting mixes together with your whimpering, the only other sound to be heard is the soft creaking of the bed.
“You’re taking me so well, sweetheart.” Jack praises you, hips moving faster against you as your nails dig into his shoulders where you’re holding onto him. “Such a good girl for me.”
“Feels.. so.. fuck-” you cry out softly, back arching as he keeps hitting that sweet spot inside of you.
“Yeah?” Jack leans down to brush his lips against yours. “That good, huh?” he whispers and watches you nod at him before capturing your lips in a heated kiss.
Mckay smacks her hand down on the desk you’re seated at, snapping you back to reality. You look over at Cassie and watch a scoff leave her mouth as she shakes her head softly.
“You’re so full of shit,” she says.
“What?” you furrow your brows, not following.
“You lied,” Cassie states. “You’re lying to me.”
It’s not like you want to lie to Mckay, besides being your colleague she has also become one of your best friends. The two of you share everything with one another, you’ve never not told her about the men you were sharing a bed with.
However.. this time, it’s more complicated.
Jack is a colleague, more than that.. he technically is one of your superiors. You and him have therefore decided that it’s best to keep things quiet, not tell anybody about what’s going on between the two of you.
“You are having sex.” Mckay states, crossing her arms over her chest. “Why haven’t you told me about it?”
“M’not having sex..” you shake your head softly.
“Liar!” she calls you out once more, a shocked look on her face as she can’t believe you just lied to her again.
You look down at your hands in your lap and sigh. It’s an internal struggle, there’s nothing more that you want than to be able to talk to Cassie about what’s going on between you and Jack. It’s just that.. you promised Jack that you wouldn’t tell anybody about it.
“What are we talking about?” Santos wheels her desk chair over to the two of you, in need of a break from her charting.
Mckay turns her head to look at the brunette. “Sex.”
“Oh..” Trinity looks from Cassie back to you before sighing out. “It’s honestly something so good yet it can curse you at the same time.” she says. “I can’t even function around Garcia anymore.”
“Yeah.. well, that’s what happens when you hook up with a co-worker.” Mckay tells her. “Always a bad idea, makes you unable to focus on work anymore.”
She’s not wrong.
You’re lucky that Jack is working on the night shift so you don’t need to treat patients with him. Whenever you see the man during shift changes, you are a mess. Just a look of him is enough to make you weak in the knees. You find yourself a real capable doctor but whenever he’s around, you turn into a lovesick fool.
“Oh my god.. that’s it,” Mckay’s words bring you back to the moment. “That’s why you’re not telling me,” she realizes. “You’re sleeping with a co-worker.”
Color drains out of your face as you hear her words. Santos is all ears, loving the hot gossip, but you can’t get yourself out of this situation fast enough.
“That’s not what it is.” you tell Cassie before getting up. “Excuse me, I need to check up on a patient.” you announce before walking away.
Mckay is quick to stand up and follow you, not believing you one bit. You can hear her walking behind you but choose to ignore it, not knowing how much longer you can keep up with all the lying.
Cassie calls out to you as she notices how you’re pretending not to hear her follow you. There’s no patient for you to go and check up on so you decide to walk straight into the break room, not knowing where else to go.
Mckay walks inside and closes the door behind her by leaning against it. The break room is occupied by only the two of you.
Cassie crosses her arms over her chest and watches you run your hands through your hair, trying to stay strong but easily breaking once you lock eyes with her.
“I’m sleeping with Abbot.” you spill out the truth.
Cassie’s lips part slightly as she takes in your words, still shocked by your admission even though she knew she was right about her hunch.
“Doctor, Jack Abbot?” she questions.
“You know any other Abbot’s that work here?” you glare at her.
“Oh my..” she mumbles, still in shock.
A sigh leaves your lips as you let yourself fall down on one of the chairs around the table. You move a hand over your face, feeling the disappointment settle in as you realize you broke your promise to Jack.
Mckay moves closer towards the table you’re sitting at and ends up placing herself on a chair as well. A loaded silence fills up the room, making the both of you sit back and just give one another a look.
“M’sorry for dragging it out of you,” Cassie is the first to speak up. “Couldn’t help myself,”
“I’d do the same to you,” you tell her, a soft smile spreading on your lips which she mirrors onto hers.
The silence moves back in, your mind racing with a sort of panic. You know Mckay won’t tell a soul but still.. It's somebody who knows, a person that can easily make a mistake and tell someone by accident.
“Didn’t know you liked 'em’ that old.” Cassie says, holding back a smirk as you lock eyes with her again.
“Yeah.. got a thing for older, authority figures with issues.” you tell her. “So, it was either gonna be him or Robby.”
A chuckle leaves her at your words, causing you to laugh as well.
“How is the sex?” Mckay asks, ever so curious.
You look over at her and hold back a smirk. “Amazing.” you tell her. “Like mind-blowing each time.” Your words get Cassie all excited for you. “He makes me come multiple times, every time we have sex.”
“Oh my god,” Mckay’s eyes widen in shock before she starts smirking. “Damn, grandpa still’s got it.”
Laughter leaves your lips at her words before giving her arm a nudge. “Don’t be mean.”
“M’not,” she’s quick to say. “I’m really happy for you.” Cassie sends you a smile. “You deserve to have great sex.”
“Thank you,” you give her a smile back.
Silence falls back over the two of you and that’s when your phone buzzes, you furrow your brows before reaching into the pocket of your scrubs. When your eyes land on the screen, you see how it’s Jack who texted you.
Talk about the devil..
Jack: Can’t sleep.
Jack: How’s your shift going?
This is what’s been happening more and more lately, it’s becoming less about the sex. Not that the two of you are any less physical, but he’s not only reaching out anymore to be intimate. Yesterday, you actually went on a date. He took you out to dinner in a fancy restaurant before you ended up in his bed.
“Is that him?” Cassie speaks up, seeing how you’re smiling bright as you’re staring down at your phone.
“Oh,” you put your phone down and focus back on her. “Uhm.. yeah,”
Mckay gives you a look, a knowing smirk tugging on her lips. It’s like she can see it escaping your body in a cloud of pink smoke, you’re in love.
“It’s not just about sex anymore.. is it?” she asks you.
“Well,” you give her a soft shake of your head before smiling. “I really like him.”
“That’s adorable,” Cassie smiles back at you before growing more serious. “Jack better treats you right.. I don’t care if he's an old vet, I’ll kick his ass.”
Her words make you chuckle out before standing up so you could get closer to Mckay and pull her up into a hug. She’s surprised at first but quick to wrap her arms around you, giving you a good squeeze.
“You’re a really good friend,” you say softly. “M’feeling like I don’t tell you that enough.”
Cassie smiles brightly and holds onto you a little tighter. “I love you, weirdo.”
“Love you too,” you smile before pulling back and looking into her eyes.
“I won’t tell anyone about the Abbot thing,” she is quick to say. “Promise.”
“I know,” you smile even brighter. “And I promise to make it my personal mission to get you laid.”
A chuckle leaves Mckay. “Thanks,” she gives your shoulder a squeeze. “Maybe one of Abbot’s friends?”
“The only real friend he has is Robby,” you say, which makes Cassie pull up her nose in disgust.
“And be one of his many residents on the list he slept with? No thanks.” she is quick to say. “I won’t be one of ‘run-through Robby’s’ women.”
Laughter leaves your lips at his words, leaning into her a bit which makes her chuckle as well as she holds onto you. God.. you’ve missed this, missed being able to talk shit with her.
Like you’ve summoned the man, the door of the break room is being opened and reveals Dr. Robby in the door opening. You and Mckay are quick to stop your laughter, giving one another a look before moving your gaze back to Robby.
“Are you two just hiding in here to chat and giggle?” Robby questions, one hand on the door to keep it open as the other settles on his hip. “We don’t have time for any of this. Patients are pouring in and awaiting care.”
“It was a short break, we had to talk about something.” Cassie says.
“Talk after your shift,” Robby is quick to fire back. “Now, I need you with me in central eleven.” he says while looking at you, this before turning to look at Mckay. “You are needed in north five to supervise Javadi who’s about to get a nail out of a patient’s thumb.”
“Aye, Aye captain.” Cassie salutes Robby but it doesn’t make him laugh, he sends her a glare before letting go of the door and walking away.
“No matter how much he gets laid, it won’t solve any of his problems.” you say which makes Mckay break into laughter.
⊱✫⊰
Another buzz on your phone makes you stop in your tracks. First, you catch the time as you look down at your screen.. seeing how there are only two hours left on your shift. You’ve been non-stop working after Robby caught you and Mckay, the two of you didn’t dare to take another quick break.
Jack: Ignoring me?
Jack: That’s not how you usually are..
Jack: Are you alright? Shift that heavy?
You feel your heart drop as you realize how you haven’t answered Jack’s earlier texts. Cassie distracted you with her questions.
You: Sorry..
You: Things have been really busy around here
You: See you at shift change?
Before you can put your phone back in your pocket, you feel it buzz again. He answered you immediately, probably awaiting your answer.
Jack: You know it.
A smile tugs on your lips as you read his words. You put your phone away and turn around to find Dana calling out to you, holding onto a tablet.
“Lab report on your patient’s bloodwork is back.” she tells you.
“Thanks,” you take the tablet out of her hand and send the charge nurse a smile before switching your brain back into work mode. Yet.. Jack stays on your mind, he always does.
⊱✫⊰
Once your shift is over, you go and find Jack where he usually awaits you.
The roof.
You open the door that leads outside and feel the cold air of the night blow in your face. Jack’s standing on the edge, leaning against the railing as he looks out to the city.
As you close in to where he’s standing, you let your eyes travel over his broad shoulders and back. Even his silhouette from behind is attractive.. uhg, the man was truly sculpted by the gods.
“Dr. Abbot,” you say as you come to stand besides him.
A soft smile tugs on Jack’s lips as he hears your voice, feels your arm brush against his. Your proximity makes his heart flutter. He turns his head and locks eyes with you.
“My favorite resident,” Jack says.
“Careful,” a soft smirk tugs on your lips. “You’re not supposed to have a favorite as an attending.” you tell him.
Jack shakes his head softly, lips curling into a small smirk. “I don’t give a damn.” he says. “You're by far my favorite,” he turns to face you some more as you feel your heart beating fast in your chest. “I think you’re my favorite person, ever.”
Now that makes your heart skip a beat, a blush growing on your cheeks.
“You mean that?” you ask him, so soft as you hardly believe he just told you that.
“Do I?” Jack takes a step closer and moves his hand up to brush a strand of hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. “M’crazy about you..” he admits.
A smile grows onto your lips as your cheeks burn an even deeper shade of red. “Really?”
“Yeah,” Jack chuckles softly before he wraps his arms around your waist, like he has done so many times before. “Does that surprise you?”
“I-” a soft shrug leaves you. “I just thought you liked me most for my body.”
“Well.. I do really like your body,” he tells you, teasing lightly. “But that’s not the only thing I like about you.”
“It’s not?” a smile tugs on your lips.
“No..” Jack chuckles and shakes his head. “I like how you remember the little things I tell you. I like the way you get soft around animals, old people, children..” a smile grows onto his lips. “I like how you have to bake something whenever you’re sad and how you dance around to music like nobody’s watching even if they are.” he tells you. “I like how you can make me smile with just a glance and I like how cuddly you get after sex.”
“I just.. I like you,” he says, moving a hand up to cup your cheek. “I like everything about you.”
Your heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest as he speaks, his words making you weak in the knees. You’ve never had someone talk about you like that before..
“However, it frightens me as well." Jack speaks up again, making you look back in his eyes. “You’re young.. I’m old,” he says. “You’ve got your whole life still ahead of you and I lived most of mine.”
“Jack-”
“No.. I,” he let his thumb brush against your cheek. “It’s true,” he says. “I’m an old vet with one leg, lots of trauma and a dead wife.” Jack sighs for a moment. “I’m not a catch, sweetheart.”
Instead of saying anything, you lean in and press your lips against his. A surprised hum leaves him before he melts into your touch, hand moving to the back of your head so he could keep you in place.
You pull back to catch some air and look into his eyes, his breathing heavier from kissing you.
“I’ve never felt so alive before.” you tell him. “You make me feel alive,” your words make something soften in his eyes. “It doesn’t matter to me that you’re older.. that you got baggage, I’ve got baggage too.” you say.
A smile grows on Jack’s lips as he leans in and rests his forehead against yours, holding onto your cheek again.
“I won’t force you into anything.. I know you haven’t dated anyone since losing your wife,” you tell him. “I don’t want to overstep.”
“No,” he’s quick to speak up. “You’re not.”
Jack pulls you into him, your head resting in the crook of his neck as he holds you close. “It feels right.. it does,” he says. “I want nothing else than you to be mine.. only mine,” he presses a kiss against the side of your head.
“I’m yours,” you tell him before leaning back to look in his eyes again. “Been yours since the start.”
A smile grows on Jack’s lips before he leans back in for a kiss. Your eyes flutter close, arms wrapping around his neck as you let yourself melt away under his touch. He kisses you softly, tenderly.. It's like he wants to show through his actions as well that he’s serious about this, about you.
As you pull back, looking into his eyes, a smile is resting on your lips. “Does this mean I’m your girlfriend now?” you ask.
“Hell yeah, you are.” Jack answers, pulling you a bit closer to him as he holds onto your hips.
“Alright.. just so we start this relationship off without any secrets. I need to tell you something.” you tell him which makes the smile on his face fade away.
“What?” he asks, suddenly concerned you’re about to drop a bomb of new information on him.
“I told Mckay.. that we’re hooking up,” you admit, pulling a guilty face as you look at him.
Jack feels a weight lift off his shoulders, the smile growing back on his face. “Thought you were about to tell me something way worse,” he chuckles.
“You’re not mad?” you ask, relieved to see him smile.
“No.. ‘course not,” he tells you. “I told Robby.”
“Robby?!” you nudge him on his chest and send him a shocked look. “As in my attending, Robby?”
“I- well.. yeah,” Jack says. “The guy noticed I was way happier lately and when I didn’t want to tell him the source of my happiness, he thought I was on drugs.”
A chuckle escapes your lips at his words, both finding it endearing that he seemed happier to his friend as terrifying that your superior knows you’re getting down and dirty with Jack.
“God.. he’ll never look at me the same,” you sigh, pulling a face that makes Jack laugh.
“Probably not.. but hey,” he shrugs. “You’ll be seeing him a lot more anyways now that we’re together.” Jack explains. “The man is like a virus I can’t get rid off.”
A laugh escapes your lips at his choice of words, shaking your head softly before looking back into his eyes.
“Like you don’t absolutely adore, Robby.” you give him a look.
“Not as much as I adore you,” he’s quick to say, leaning in some more as your heart skips a beat in your chest.
“You’re really scoring points here,” you tease lightly, looking up into his eyes.
“Am I?” he smirks.
“Yeah..” you say softly before a smile grows back onto your lips. “Who knew Jack Abbot was such a romantic, huh?”
It makes a chuckle escape him before he leans in and presses a soft kiss against your lips. Your hands rest against his chest as your eyes flutter close, humming before kissing him back.
The sound of his work phone going off makes the two of you pull back. Jack curses under his breath before picking up, telling Lena who’s on the other side of the line that he’s on his way.
“They need you,” you say and give a small pout.
“Unfortunately..” Jack nods softly, putting his phone back in his pocket. “Tomorrow’s your day off, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” you give him a soft nod, a spark in your chest as you realize he memorized your schedule.
“Why don’t you sleep at mine?” Jack asks you while reaching into his back pocket. “That way when I get home tomorrow morning, I can come home to you.” he smiles as he dangles the key in front of your face.
A smile grows onto your lips and you’re quick to nod, taking the key out of his hand. “Alright,”
“It’s the spare key,” Jack adds. “Keep it.” he says, moving his hands in his pockets and taking on a nonchalant facade, to hide the fact that on the inside he’s dying with nerves about the move he just made.
A blush forms back on your cheeks as your heart is nearly beating out of your chest. This is serious. It makes you realize once more how serious he’s being about this relationship with you.
“Alright,” you tell him again. “I will be putting the most ridiculous keychain on it, just so you know..” you tease, knowing how he always makes fun of your keychains.
“No,” Jack groans out playfully. “Definitely not the pink fluffy heart with googly eyes, that thing creeps me out.”
“Oh Gary?” you arch a brow. “Oh.. he’ll definitely be the one.”
“Fuck..” Jack sighs out, playfully, which makes you chuckle.
The sound of your laughter makes his eyes light up with amusement. He gives you a playful poke in your stomach before taking hold of you again, pulling you closer and pressing kisses onto your cheek and into your neck. It leaves you in an even worse fit of chuckles as you hold onto his arms.
The playful moment is once again interrupted by his phone going off, making Jack groan out. “I need to go.. Lena’s going to kill me otherwise,” he tells you, pressing a quick kiss onto your lips before walking over towards the exit of the roof.
“See you when I get home,” Jack tells you, eyeing you for a moment as he holds onto the metal door.
“Yeah,” you give him a soft smile as your heart is full of love. “See you.”