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Synopsis: Reader gets assaulted by an aggressive patient.
Warnings: Assault. age gap, reader is mid to late 20s, readers nickname is Starling girl, sunshine reader, shy reader, anxious reader, no use of y/n, slightly ooc character (readers family is mentioned), reader is imagined to be plus sized but not mentioned, eventual smut, smut, 18+, MDNI, angst, fighting, slow burn, co-workers to enemies, enemies to lovers, blood, gore, medical inaccuracies, pittfest, panic attacks, mentions of suicide, PTSD, grief, widower jack, mentions of past military trauma, robby x reader platonic, violence against medical staff, reader is described to be shorter than Jack, reader has hair past shoulders.
Masterlist
Her first night back on night shift felt strange in a way she had not quite expected. The Pitt looked exactly the same as it always did at the start of the night, loud and alive with the controlled chaos that never really stopped inside the emergency department. Monitors chimed from half a dozen rooms, stretchers rolled through the ambulance bay doors, and the waiting room board kept updating faster than anyone could clear it. Normally that rhythm settled her. The constant movement gave her something to focus on, something that kept her brain busy enough that she did not have to sit still with whatever she was feeling.
Tonight she leaned into it deliberately. The thought of having to see Jack filled her with dread. She was humiliated. She talked with everyone. Lena was complaining about the vending machine again near the medication room, and she laughed when he kicked the side of it in frustration. Kelly was restocking gauze in one of the trauma carts and she helped without being asked, handing her fresh packs while Bridget teased them both about reorganizing the same drawer three times. Shen wandered through with a cup of coffee and started telling a story about a resident who had once tried to place a central line backwards during his intern year, and she laughed openly along with the group clustered near the nurses' station.
From the outside, nothing about her looked different. She was smiling. Talking. Moving easily through the department the way she always had. But the moment Jack Abbot stepped anywhere near her, the change was immediate. It happened the first time about thirty minutes into the shift. She had been leaning against the counter while Shen finished the story, her head tipped back slightly as she laughed at the punchline. Jack stepped up to the board behind them to review the incoming patients and the sound cut off in her throat mid breath. She didn't even look at him. Instead she turned toward the computer beside her like she had suddenly remembered something urgent in a chart and began typing with quiet focus.
Shen noticed it immediately. So did Kelly. Neither of them said anything. Jack noticed too. He said nothing while he reviewed the board, but the silence behind him sat heavy in the air. A moment earlier she had been talking animatedly with the group, smiling and leaning casually against the counter. Now she stood with her shoulders squared toward the workstation, her voice completely gone from the conversation. When Jack finished scanning the board and walked down the hall toward triage, the conversation slowly picked up again behind him.
The second time happened during a trauma intake not long after. An ambulance had brought in a middle aged man who had laid down his motorcycle on the highway, and the room filled quickly with the practiced rhythm of a trauma team falling into place. She moved the way she always did during cases like this, focused and efficient, grabbing the pressure bag before anyone had to ask and handing Shen a saline flush when he reached for one. She called out vitals from the monitor while Kelly wheeled the ultrasound machine into position, and she adjusted the suction line at the head of the bed while Shen assessed the airway.
"BP's holding," she said, glancing at the monitor. "One ten over seventy."
"Good," Shen replied. "Let's keep fluids going."
She nodded and reached for the IV tubing. Then Jack stepped into the trauma bay. The shift was almost imperceptible. She didn't stop working. She simply moved to the opposite side of the stretcher and continued assisting from there without addressing him directly. When he asked for gauze she placed it on the tray beside the patient instead of handing it to him. When he requested suction she adjusted the tubing without looking up. Jack noticed the difference immediately.
He said nothing. After the patient stabilized and the room cleared, the distance remained. Later in the shift she sat near the medication room with Kelly and Bridget while they reset the crash cart drawers. Lena wandered over again and started complaining about the vending machine stealing another dollar, and she laughed when she kicked the side of it dramatically.
"You're going to break it," she told him, shaking her head.
"It deserves it," Lena muttered.
Jack walked past them on his way back from triage. The conversation stopped instantly. She lowered her eyes toward the drawer she had been organizing and quietly counted out the syringes in the tray, her voice disappearing from the group like someone had turned off a switch. Jack kept walking.
By midnight the pattern was impossible to ignore. She worked well with everyone else. She joked with Shen between cases, and stayed with a nervous elderly patient longer than she technically had time for because he looked scared to be alone. The warmth in her personality never disappeared. It simply vanished whenever Jack entered the room. When she spoke to him at all, her voice was quiet and strictly professional.
"Yes, Dr. Abbot."
"I updated the chart."
"Vitals are stable."
Nothing more. No eye contact longer than necessary. No casual conversation. No lingering in the trauma room after a case ended the way she used to. The absence of it sat like a weight in Jack's chest.
Shen leaned against the counter beside him while reviewing a chart on the workstation. After a moment he glanced across the nurses' station where she was laughing quietly with Kelly about something on a tablet.
"Did you piss her off or something?" Shen asked under his breath.
Jack didn't answer right away. Across the room she glanced up briefly and noticed him watching. The smile on her face faded almost immediately and she turned back toward Kelly like the moment had never happened. Shen followed the exchange and then looked back at Jack.
"She goes silent every time you walk in the room," he said.
Jack's jaw tightened slightly as he watched her across the station.
"I noticed."
Shen studied him for another second before asking the obvious question. "You going to fix that?"
Jack didn't respond. Across the department she continued talking with the others, her laughter returning easily as if the tension that existed between the two of them occupied a completely separate world from the rest of the floor. But the distance between them felt wider than the entire Pitt.
-
5 am
By the time the clock crept toward 5 in the morning, the Pitt had settled into that strange, exhausted rhythm that always came just before shift change. The overnight rush had slowed slightly, but the department was still full enough that no one was standing still. The waiting room board glowed red with names that had been sitting there longer than anyone liked, and the nurses' station hummed quietly with the tired focus of people finishing charts while keeping one eye on the next patient rolling through triage.
She had been on her feet for most of the night. The fatigue sat heavy in her shoulders, but she moved through the motions the way she always did, checking vitals, updating charts, and clearing one room before the next patient could be brought back. The last thing she needed was someone difficult at this hour, but the moment she saw the man sitting in room twelve she knew that was exactly what she had.
He was already irritated. The patient sat on the edge of the bed with his arms crossed over his chest, his foot bouncing impatiently against the tile floor. Mid forties, maybe. Thick build. Work boots still on his feet and a grease stained jacket draped across the chair beside him. The moment she stepped through the doorway his eyes snapped toward her with the kind of immediate hostility that made the back of her neck tighten instinctively. She kept her voice calm anyway.
"Good morning," she said gently as she stepped toward the computer on the wall. "I'm going to get your vitals and ask you a few questions while we wait for the doctor."
The man let out a sharp laugh that held no humor in it. "About damn time someone showed up."
She ignored the tone and reached for the blood pressure cuff. "Can you tell me what brought you in today?"
He leaned back slightly, watching her with open irritation. "I've been sitting in this room for two hours."
"Yes, sir," she said calmly. "I'm sorry about the wait. We've had a few trauma cases tonight."
"That's not my problem."
She wrapped the cuff around his arm, keeping her movements steady even as his voice rose. "I just need to check your blood pressure first."
"You nurses think you run the whole place," he muttered.
She didn't respond. The cuff inflated, squeezing his arm while she watched the monitor.
"Have you been having chest pain?" she asked.
"No."
"Shortness of breath?"
"No."
"What kind of pain are you having tonight?"
He scoffed. "My hand's busted."
She glanced down and saw the swelling around his knuckles now that he mentioned it. The skin was scraped across the back of his fingers, the kind of injury that usually came from hitting something harder than bone.
"Did you fall?"
He looked at her like the question annoyed him. "No."
She made a note in the chart. "Did you hit something?"
His expression darkened. "Why are you asking so many damn questions?"
"Because it helps us figure out how to treat the injury," she replied evenly.
The blood pressure reading finished and she reached for the pulse oximeter. "Can I see your hand?"
He shoved it toward her with a rough motion.
"You people are useless," he muttered under his breath. "Two hours and all you do is stand around asking stupid questions."
She gently rotated his wrist, checking for deformity while ignoring the comment. The knuckles were swollen badly, but nothing looked obviously displaced.
"I'm going to have the doctor come take a look and we'll probably get an X ray," she said calmly.
"That's it?" he snapped. "That's all you're doing?"
"We start with an exam."
"Unbelievable."
She straightened slightly, trying to move the conversation forward. "On a scale of one to ten-"
"I already told you what's wrong with it," he cut in loudly. "You women never listen."
The word women came out with a particular kind of disdain that made the room feel suddenly smaller. She kept her tone neutral.
"I am listening to your Sir."
"No you're not."
"I just need to finish the intake so the doctor has the information."
His voice rose another notch. "I've been sitting here while you idiots take your sweet time and now you want to play twenty questions."
Across the nurses' station Jack looked up from the computer. The raised voice carried easily down the hallway. He glanced toward the room where the yelling was coming from, his jaw tightening slightly when he realized which room it was. Inside room twelve the man had leaned forward on the bed now, clearly working himself into a louder rhythm.
"You think you're helping?" he continued. "You're wasting my time."
"I'm trying to help you," she said calmly.
"Well you're doing a terrible job."
Jack stood up. By the time he reached the doorway the man's voice was echoing down the hall.
"What kind of hospital lets nurses like this run around pretending they know what they're doing?"
Jack stepped into the room.
"Everything okay in here?" he asked calmly.
The man turned toward him immediately.
"Finally," he snapped. "Someone who actually knows what he's doing."
Jack's eyes flicked briefly toward her. She stood beside the bed with the chart tablet in her hand, her posture straight but her expression carefully neutral. Then he looked back at the patient.
"I could hear the yelling from the nurses' station," Jack said evenly. "What seems to be the problem?"
The man gestured toward her. "She's the problem."
Jack didn't react.
"She's been in here wasting my time asking stupid questions," the man continued. "I told her what's wrong with my hand and she just keeps asking questions when all I need is it wrapped and some fucking drugs to get out of here."
Jack folded his arms. "She's doing her job."
"Well she's doing it wrong."
Jack's voice sharpened slightly. "No."
The man blinked. "No?"
"No," Jack repeated calmly. "She's doing exactly what she's supposed to do."
The patient scoffed. "She doesn't listen."
Jack stepped closer to the bed. "She asked you appropriate intake questions so we can treat you correctly."
The man leaned back again, clearly annoyed. "She doesn't know what she's doing."
Jack's expression didn't change.
"I can step in and take over if necessary, but I can promise you it won't be pleasent." he said evenly. "But if you can't show her basic respect while she's trying to help you, then we're going to have a different conversation."
The man muttered something under his breath. Jack tilted his head slightly. "Speak up."
The patient rolled his eyes. "I said whatever."
Jack held his gaze for another second before turning slightly toward her. "You mind stepping out for a moment?"
She nodded quietly. "Okay."
They stepped into the hallway together. Jack glanced back toward the room before speaking.
"Are you okay?" He asks softly.
"He's just a dick, no big deal I'm used to it."
He nods knowing that the comment was well deserved, he'd take a million more just to have her look at him in the eyes.
"If he continues with that behavior, tell me immediately," he said quietly. "I'll handle it."
She nodded. "Okay."
He waited a second like he expected her to say more, but she didn't.
-
5:45 am
The digital clock at the nurses' station rolled over to 5:45 a.m. the pale glow of early morning beginning to filter through the ambulance bay windows at the far end of the department. Room twelve had been a problem for the better part of an hour. She had already charted the patient's vitals, documented the initial assessment, and sent off the blood samples earlier in the visit. The man had come in complaining of severe hand pain after "hitting something," though he had been vague about what that something was. When she first evaluated the injury, the swelling across the knuckles and abrasions along the back of his hand had made the cause fairly obvious. The mechanism of injury suggested a classic boxer's fracture, but they still needed imaging to confirm it.
The blood work had come back a few minutes earlier. His blood alcohol level was significantly elevated, high enough that it was clearly influencing both his coordination and his mood. She stepped back into the room with the chart tablet tucked against her hip, already preparing herself to manage the conversation carefully. The patient was no longer sitting on the bed. Instead, he paced the narrow space between the counter and the exam table, his boots scraping across the tile floor in uneven steps. His breathing was loud enough that she could hear it the moment she stepped through the doorway.
"Sir," she said gently, keeping her voice calm and professional the way she had been trained to do. "I need you to stay seated while we finish the evaluation."
He turned immediately, irritation already written across his face. "I've been sitting in here for an hour."
"It's been about forty five minutes," she said, keeping her tone neutral as she stepped toward the computer on the wall to update the chart. "We had multiple ambulance arrivals come in at the same time."
"That's not my problem."
"No," she said quietly. "But we're working through patients as quickly as possible."
He scoffed loudly and leaned against the counter. "What now?"
"I'm going to review your labs with you," she explained, glancing down at the chart while she spoke. "Your vitals were stable earlier, but your blood work did show an elevated blood alcohol level, which can sometimes make swelling worse in injuries like this."
The shift in his expression was immediate. "You tested me for alcohol?"
"Yes," she said calmly. "It's part of the routine labs we run when we're evaluating injuries and pain levels."
"I didn't agree to that."
"It's part of the standard intake panel," she explained gently. "It helps us make sure there aren't any complications or interactions with medications we might give you."
His jaw tightened. "You're saying I'm drunk."
"I'm saying the lab result shows alcohol in your system."
"That's bullshit."
She kept her posture relaxed, though she could smell the alcohol on his breath now that he had stepped closer.
"We're also ordering an X-ray of your hand," she continued, trying to redirect the conversation toward the actual treatment plan. "Based on the swelling and tenderness along the fifth metacarpal, Dr. Abbot wants to rule out a fracture."
"My hand's busted because I punched a wall," he snapped. "You don't need an X-ray to tell you that."
"That mechanism can definitely cause a fracture," she said. "Which is why we check, we can't properly treat you until we see whats going on."
His voice grew louder. "You people think you know everything, fuck this is such a waste of time."
"I'm explaining the next step in the exam, it'll be a quick process I can assure you."
"You're accusing me of being drunk and trying to get expensive tests done so you can get as much out of me as possible."
"I'm explaining the lab result."
He pushed himself off the counter and stepped toward her. "You got a real attitude."
She kept her voice even. "I apologize if it's coming off that way, I am in no way trying to upset you."
"You're talking down to me."
"No," she said gently. "I'm trying to explain the process."
He moved closer again, the space between them shrinking enough that she instinctively took a small step backward.
"Look," she said carefully, raising her hands slightly in a calming gesture that nurses were trained to use during escalating interactions. "I understand you're frustrated about the wait. That's completely fair. But raising your voice isn't going to move things faster."
His eyes narrowed. "You telling me to calm down?"
"I'm asking you to lower your voice."
"Don't tell me what to do."
His hand slammed down on the counter beside her. The noise echoed sharply in the small room. She felt the tension spike immediately.
"Sir," she said quietly, "if you can take a seat on the bed, I'll get the doctor in here to finish the exam."
"You're treating me like I'm a child!"
"I'm trying to help you."
The man's breathing had become heavier now, the agitation clearly feeding on itself.
"You women always do this."
She ignored the comment. "Let's focus on getting your hand taken care of."
She took another small step backward toward the doorway, intending to grab Jack from the nurses' station.
"Okay," she said calmly. "I'll get Dr. Abbot now, hang tight."
She had just turned slightly toward the hall when the man moved suddenly. The first blow came without warning. The impact struck the side of her face with enough force to send her staggering backward before her brain even had time to process what had happened. Pain exploded across her cheekbone as her head snapped sideways, the room tilting violently around her. Her shoulder collided with the counter.
The edge of the laminate surface caught the side of her skull as she fell, the sharp corner striking hard enough that a burst of white light flashed behind her eyes. For a moment everything went silent except for the ringing in her ears.
She tried to steady herself against the counter, one hand gripping the edge while the floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet. Warm blood poured from her nose immediately, dripping down across her lip and onto the front of her scrubs as she struggled to regain her balance.
"Sir-" she managed weakly.
The word barely left her mouth. His fist struck her again. The second impact landed squarely across her face, snapping her head back as pain detonated behind her eye. The world spun violently around her as the force of the blow sent her body crashing sideways against the counter again. Her vision blurred instantly. Her knees gave out beneath her. The last thing she saw before the darkness closed in was the bright fluorescent lights above her spinning out of focus as her body collapsed toward the floor.
Jack had worked in emergency medicine long enough that his brain categorized noise automatically. Monitors, metal trays, stretchers hitting doorframes, oxygen tanks rolling across tile. The Pitt had a language of sound that every doctor and nurse learned without realizing it. The crash from room twelve was not one of those sounds.
It was sharp and heavy, followed by a second dull impact that echoed down the hallway. Jack's head snapped up from the computer immediately. For half a second the department was still moving around him, the quiet exhaustion of six in the morning settling into everyone finishing charts before shift change. Then his brain finished processing what he had heard.
Something had hit the floor. He was already moving before anyone else reacted. The hallway blurred past him as he ran toward room twelve, the adrenaline hitting his chest so fast it felt like his heart skipped a beat. The patient stepped into the hallway at the same moment Jack reached the doorway.
The man looked agitated, breathing heavily, his injured hand hanging awkwardly at his side while he tried to move toward the exit. His eyes flicked toward Jack for a fraction of a second. Jack barely saw him. His attention had already shifted past the man into the room. And the world seemed to drop out from under him. She was on the floor. Her body lay crumpled beside the counter where she had fallen, blood streaked across the tile beneath her head in a dark smear that ran from the corner of the counter. Her nose was bleeding heavily, the red already soaking through the front of her scrubs and dripping onto the floor beside her.
One side of her face was swelling rapidly. Her eyes were closed. She was not moving. For a moment Jack could not breathe. The image slammed into his brain with the kind of clarity that burned itself into memory forever. The blood on the floor. The angle of her body. The unnatural stillness of someone who had just been hurt badly. It was the exact kind of scene that haunted trauma surgeons in their sleep. And this time it was her.
"Security," Jack roared down the hallway.
The patient tried to move past him. Jack grabbed the front of the man's shirt and shoved him hard enough that his back slammed into the wall beside the doorway.
"Do not move," Jack said, his voice low and dangerous.
The man started protesting immediately but two nurses had already grabbed the phone at the station. Security was running. Jack let go of him the moment he saw the officers rounding the corner. Then he turned back into the room. Up close the sight was worse. Blood had matted into the hair along the back of her head where she had struck the counter. The swelling across her cheekbone was already deepening beneath the skin, spreading quickly toward her eye. Jack dropped to his knees beside her so fast the movement sent the stool near the bed sliding across the floor.
"Hey," he said urgently, one hand already moving to stabilize her head. "Hey. Sweetheart can you hear me."
She did not respond. The quiet terrified him more than anything else. After hearing the commotion Shen ran into the room and froze for half a second when he saw the blood on the floor.
"Shen," Jack called sharply toward the hall without even looking up. "Get me the collar."
"Jesus what happened?"
"Collar," Jack repeated.
Shen moved immediately. Another nurse grabbed gauze from the counter and handed it to Jack. He pressed it gently beneath her nose to slow the bleeding, his other hand steady against the side of her head to keep her neck from moving. His fingers slid carefully through her hair to check the back of her skull. When they came away red his jaw tightened.
"BP cuff," Shen said quietly from the side of the bed.
A nurse passed it across. Jack barely registered the others moving around him. He could hear them but they felt far away, like the entire room had narrowed down to the girl lying motionless in front of him.
"Help me lift," he said quietly when Shen returned with the collar.
They secured her neck carefully before Jack slid one arm beneath her shoulders.
"Easy," he murmured.
Together they lifted her from the floor and placed her gently onto the exam bed. Jack adjusted the pillow beneath her head himself before anyone else could move. The pulse oximeter beeped softly as it connected to her finger. Her eyelids fluttered weakly. Jack leaned closer immediately.
"Hey," he said quietly, his voice dropping into something softer than anyone in the room had ever heard from him.
Her brow tightened slightly. Slowly her eyes opened. They were unfocused at first, drifting across the ceiling as her brain tried to catch up with what had happened.
"Jack," she whispered.
The sound of his name nearly broke him.
"Yeah," he said softly. "I'm here."
She tried to move. Pain hit her instantly and she gasped.
"My head."
"I know," he murmured.
Her hand lifted weakly toward her face before she realized how much it hurt.
"Easy," he said gently, steadying her shoulder. "Don't move yet."
Her eyes darted around the room as awareness returned. Several people were standing nearby. Monitors were beeping softly beside the bed. The overhead lights were painfully bright. Fear crept into her expression.
"What happened," she asked weakly.
Her breathing started to quicken. Jack saw the shift instantly. The room was suddenly too loud. Too many people. Too many eyes on her. He turned toward the others.
"Everyone give us a minute."
They hesitated. Jack's voice sharpened slightly.
"Please."
One by one they stepped back toward the door. Within seconds the room was quiet again. Jack turned back to her immediately, brushing a blood streaked strand of hair away from her face.
"You're safe," he said quietly.
Her eyes locked onto his. "Jack."
"I'm right here."
Her voice trembled. "I'm scared."
The words hit him harder than the blood on the floor had. He kept one hand steady against her shoulder.
"I know," he said gently. "Okay sweetheart. Just hold still for me. I'm going to make it better."
Outside the room the staff lingered in the hallway, speaking quietly among themselves. Because none of them had ever seen Jack Abbot look like that before. Not the guarded attending who kept everyone at arm's length. The man who would joke and laugh but never let it get deeper than that. The man inside that room looked terrified.
She blinked slowly, trying to orient herself. The fluorescent lights above her felt painfully bright and every small movement sent a wave of pressure through the side of her skull. Her nose was still bleeding slightly despite the gauze Jack had pressed beneath it, and the swelling along her cheekbone had begun to throb in slow, steady pulses. Her eyes found him again.
Jack was standing close beside the bed, one hand braced against the mattress near her shoulder while the other gently adjusted the gauze beneath her nose. His posture was tight, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away. She had never seen him like this. Jack Abbot was always composed. Even during the worst traumas he moved with quiet precision, calm and methodical while the rest of the room rushed around him. Right now he looked shaken. The realization made something inside her chest tighten.
"What happened?" she asked again softly.
Jack glanced down at her, his expression softening immediately when he saw the confusion in her eyes.
"You hit your head," he said quietly.
Her hand lifted instinctively toward the side of her face and she winced the moment her fingers brushed the swelling.
"Oh my god."
"I know," he murmured gently, guiding her hand back down to the blanket. "Don't touch it."
The memory began to come back slowly. The man stepping toward her. The smell of alcohol on his breath. The sudden movement she had not seen coming. Her throat tightened. Her breathing started to shake.
"I was trying to get out of the room to grab you, but he wouldn't let me," she whispered.
Jack's jaw tightened.
"You don't need to think about that right now, lets just focus on getting you taken care of."
Her eyes filled suddenly. The emotion came out of nowhere, a wave of delayed shock that hit her all at once now that the adrenaline had drained away. She had spent her entire career taking care of other people, stepping calmly into chaotic situations without hesitation. No one had ever hurt her like that before.
"I was just trying to help him." Her voice trembled.
Jack's hand moved automatically to her hand, his heart shattering at her weak small voice. The tears slipped out before she could stop them.
"I've never..." She swallowed hard. "I've never been hit before."
The admission made something twist painfully in Jack's chest. Her fear was written across her face now, her eyes glassy and overwhelmed as the reality of what had happened settled in.
"Hey," he said gently, leaning closer. "Look at me."
She did.
"You're safe," he said quietly. "He's gone."
Her breathing hitched again.
"It just... scared me."
Jack's voice softened even more. "I know."
She wiped weakly at her cheek with the back of her hand, embarrassed by the tears.
"You should just get Ellis," she said quietly. "I'm sure you'd rather be anywhere else than dealing with this."
Jack frowned slightly. "That's not true."
She looked up at him, still shaken.
"Just grab Ellis," she said again. "She can handle the rest."
Jack shook his head immediately.
"No."
Her brow furrowed slightly. "Jack-"
"I'm not leaving."
The firmness in his voice surprised her. He softened it a moment later when he saw the confusion on her face.
"I'm staying until I know you're okay."
She studied him quietly for a second. "Why?"
The question came out softly. Jack hesitated. "Because I..." he trails off. "I need to know you're okay for myself."
The answer was simple, but the way he said it made her chest tighten. Her head throbbed again and she squeezed her eyes shut briefly. Jack noticed immediately.
"Headache?"
"It's pounding."
"That's expected," he said calmly. "You took a hit and you lost consciousness."
Her eyes opened again. "I did?"
"For a minute."
That seemed to unsettle her even more. Jack reached for the light pen from the counter and checked her pupils again carefully.
"You're going to CT," he said.
She groaned softly.
"That wasn't a suggestion."
She sighed weakly. "My head hurts too much to move."
"I know," he said gently. "We're going take it slow."
He adjusted the pillow beneath her head and gave her a moment for the dizziness to settle before pressing the call button for transport. Her gaze stayed on him.
"You're really staying?"
"Yes."
"For the CT too?"
"Yes."
She blinked slowly, still trying to process the way he was hovering beside the bed like he refused to leave.
"You don't have to do all this."
Jack looked down at her.
"I know," he said quietly.
The words hung between them for a moment before he added softly,
"But I'm not leaving you."
-
Nearly an hour passed before they were finally able to leave radiology. The CT scan itself had only taken a few minutes. The hallway outside imaging had been crowded with stretchers waiting for scans, transport staff moving patients back and forth, and nurses juggling charts while trying to clear rooms before the day team fully took over. Through all of it, Jack had stayed exactly where he was.
He had not gone back to the Pitt. He had not handed her off to another physician. He stood beside her stretcher the entire time. The overhead lights in the radiology corridor were dimmer than the harsh fluorescents in the trauma bays, but even those felt painfully bright against the throbbing pressure building in her skull. Every small movement made the ache behind her eyes pulse harder, the concussion settling in with a dull heaviness that left her feeling disoriented and exhausted. Jack noticed every time she winced.
He kept one hand lightly resting against the rail of the stretcher while they waited for the scan results, his posture calm on the outside but tense in a way that made it clear he was still running on adrenaline.
"You doing okay?" he asked quietly after the technician rolled her back out into the hallway.
She blinked slowly up at him, trying to focus. "My head feels like someone dropped a brick on it."
"That's about right, as soon as we're done here I'm gonna get you some meds I promise." he said gently.
The radiologist's preliminary read came back quickly. No intracranial bleed. No skull fracture. Just a significant concussion and soft tissue trauma from the impact.
When they finally made their way back down, the Pitt had shifted into full morning chaos. Day shift nurses moved quickly between rooms, the waiting room had filled again, and the board had already turned over with a new list of patients.
Jack guided the stretcher toward a quiet hallway near the staff elevators where they could talk without the noise of the department swallowing the conversation. The last thing she wanted was to see everyone in this moment. She sat up slowly when he helped raise the head of the bed, wincing when the movement sent another wave of pressure through her temples. Jack held the chart in one hand, scanning the notes one last time before closing it.
"You have a concussion," he said.
She sighed softly. "I figured."
"No driving," he continued, his tone shifting into the calm authority of a physician giving discharge instructions. "No screens if you can avoid them. Hydrate, rest, If the headache gets worse or you start vomiting, you call me."
She nodded slowly. "Okay."
He studied her face for a moment, watching the way her eyes struggled to stay focused. "You shouldn't drive home."
She gave a small tired shrug. "It's fine. I can call an Uber."
Jack shook his head immediately. "No."
She blinked up at him. "Jack-"
"I'll take you."
"You don't have to do that."
"I know."
The answer came quickly and firmly.
"I can just get a ride," she insisted gently. "You've already done enough."
Jack was already unlocking the brakes on the stretcher. "I'm taking you."
There was something about the way he said it that made arguing feel pointless. She watched him for a moment before finally nodding.
"Okay."
Jack guided the stretcher toward the staff elevator, moving carefully so the motion would not jolt her head. The ride down to the parking level was quiet except for the low hum of the elevator motor and the distant sounds of the hospital waking up for the day.
When the doors opened, the cool air of the parking garage drifted in around them. Jack helped her sit up slowly at the edge of the stretcher before offering his hand.
"Easy," he said softly.
She took it. Her balance wavered the moment she stood and he immediately stepped closer, one hand steadying her at her elbow while she found her footing.
"Sorry," she murmured.
"Don't apologize."
They walked slowly through the garage, her steps careful and slightly uneven while the lingering dizziness from the concussion made the world feel just a little tilted. Jack's truck sat near the far row, a dark pickup that looked exactly like something he would drive. When they reached it, he moved ahead of her and opened the passenger door. She paused for a moment, looking up at the tall step with mild concern. Jack noticed immediately.
"Hold on."
He placed one hand lightly against her back and the other on the door frame while she carefully climbed up into the seat. Once she settled in, he gently helped guide her legs inside before closing the door. The simple gesture felt oddly intimate. She leaned back against the seat with a quiet sigh, the cool air from the vents brushing against her face.
"Thank you," she said softly.
He simply gave her a small nod, unable to exaplain to her in that moment why he needed this as much as she did. Jack walked around the front of the truck before climbing into the driver's seat. For a moment neither of them spoke. The engine started with a low rumble and he glanced over at her briefly to make sure she was settled.
She had leaned her head back against the seat, her eyes half closed as the exhaustion from the long night and the concussion finally began to pull her down. Jack adjusted the temperature slightly before pulling out of the parking spot.
"Try to keep your eyes closed," he said quietly. "It'll help with the headache."
She nodded faintly. The truck rolled out of the garage and into the early morning light. The city was just beginning to wake up. And for the first time since the assault, the tension in Jack's chest eased just a little now that she was safely sitting beside him. It didn't take long to pull up to her apartment building. They took the stairs as her elevator stopped working a month prior, and he helped her up every step, letting her rely on him to keep her steady. Her warm hand gripping his made his heart race faster than it should've.
The moment the door opened, a small gray cat appeared from the edge of the couch. The animal froze for a second when it noticed Jack standing behind her. Then it trotted forward and wrapped itself around her legs.
"Well hello to you too," she said softly, bending slightly to scratch behind its ears.
Jack watched the interaction quietly.
"This is Olive," she said.
The cat glanced up at him suspiciously. Jack crouched slightly and held out a hand. Olive sniffed his fingers cautiously before deciding he was acceptable enough to allow a brief head bump. Jack huffed a quiet laugh.
"She seems friendly."
"She thinks she runs the place," she replied.
She straightened slowly and gestured toward the couch. "You can come in, you don't have to stand by the door."
Jack stepped inside but stopped just a few feet from the door, clearly unsure how far he should go. The small apartment suddenly felt more personal than the hospital had ever been. He stayed near the entryway.
"Do you want any water?" she asked. "I don't have food here but I could order something if you're hungry."
Jack shook his head quickly. "No. No, stop."
She blinked in confusion.
"You just got assaulted and you're trying to host me," he said, his voice softening slightly. "Sit down."
The room was filled with color in a way that immediately made sense to him once he realized it belonged to her. A woven rug with warm reds and golds spread across the center of the floor. A small shelf near the window held a cluster of plants in mismatched ceramic pots, their leaves reaching toward the morning sunlight that filtered through the glass. Tiny glass sun catchers hung in the window and threw soft rainbows across the walls as the light shifted.
Books were everywhere. Stacked on the coffee table. Lined up in a small, overfilled bookcase beside the bed. A few piled on the floor next to the couch like she had been reading several at once and never quite put them back. A vase of fresh flowers sat on the kitchen counter, bright yellow and pink against the white tile backsplash.
Cat toys were scattered across the floor like tiny land mines. It was a little cluttered. A little messy. But it was warm and bright and unmistakably her. He could see her in every detail.
"Welcome to the place," she said quietly as she stepped inside ahead of him, leaning slightly against the wall to steady herself when the dizziness hit again. "It's not much, but it's all I can do right now."
Jack looked around the room again before answering.
"It's a nice place."
She scoffed softly. "You don't have to lie."
"I'm not, I like it, its very... you." He said it simply, like it was obvious.
"I'm not sure if that's a good thing."
"Its a very good thing." he assures her.
She glanced at him like she wasn't entirely convinced, but before she could say anything else the wave of dizziness returned and she swayed slightly on her feet. Jack reacted instantly. His hand came up to steady her before she could even finish losing her balance, fingers wrapping gently around her arm as he guided her toward the bed.
"Easy," he said quietly.
The physical boundary that had existed between them for months was gone now. He barely seemed aware of it anymore. His hands moved automatically when she wobbled, steadying her shoulders, guiding her carefully to the edge of the mattress. She sat down slowly with a soft exhale. Jack stayed right there. He crouched slightly in front of her, studying her face with the same focused intensity he had used in the exam room.
"You dizzy?"
"A little."
"That's expected."
He stood and moved around the small room with quiet efficiency, closing the curtains just enough to dim the bright morning light that was spilling through the window. Then he returned to the kitchenette and grabbed a clean towel from the counter, wrapping an ice pack from her freezer inside it before bringing it back to the bed.
"Here."
He handed it to her gently. She pressed it against her cheek with a small wince.
"Thank you."
Jack pulled the blankets back and helped guide her carefully onto the bed so she could lie down without jarring her head.
"There," he murmured softly once she settled.
She watched him for a moment.
"You need sleep too," she said quietly. "You have another shift tonight."
"I'm not leaving until I know you're okay."
His voice was calm but firm. She studied him for a second before giving up the argument.
"Okay."
The room was quiet for a moment. Olive jumped up onto the bed and curled near her legs like a tiny gray guardian. She looked up at him again, her eyes softer now despite the swelling forming along her cheekbone.
"Jack."
"Yeah."
"Thank you. For everything you did today."
He looked down at her for a long moment. "You don't need to thank me."
She shifted slightly under the blanket, exhaustion finally pulling at her. "Would you stay until I fall asleep?"
Jack didn't hesitate. "Of course."
He sat down carefully on the edge of the bed, his hands resting loosely on his knees while he watched her breathing slowly settle. The space between them was small enough that he could feel the warmth of her through the blanket. What he wanted to do was pull her closer.
He wanted to reach out and brush the hair away from her face again, to make sure the swelling hadn't gotten worse, to reassure himself that she was still here and safe. He couldn't. So he stayed exactly where he was, sitting quietly beside her while she drifted toward sleep. After a few minutes her voice came again, softer now.
"I'm glad it was you, Jack."
He looked down at her. A small smile touched his face despite everything that had happened that morning.
"Me too," he said quietly.
The apartment had gone quiet by the time he finally stood from the edge of the bed. The only sounds left in the room were the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchenette, the occasional soft jingle of Olive's collar when the cat shifted in her sleep, and the slow, even rhythm of her breathing beneath the blankets. Jack stayed where he was for a moment longer than he needed to, looking down at her in the dimmer light of the room. The ice pack had slipped slightly against her cheek, still wrapped in the dish towel he had found in her freezer, and one hand rested loosely over the blanket near her stomach. Even asleep, she looked exhausted. The swelling around her eye had worsened in the last half hour, the bruise along her cheekbone darkening into something ugly and deep, and there was still a faint trace of dried blood near her hairline despite how carefully he had cleaned her up at the hospital. The sight of it twisted something deep in his chest, because every time he looked at her now all he could see underneath the quiet of this room was the image of her on the floor in room twelve, blood on the tile, her body too still, her face already bruising while his entire world seemed to stop around him.
He turned away from the bed only because he knew if he kept standing there looking at her, he would never make himself leave. Her apartment felt softer now that she was asleep, and he found himself noticing details he had only half registered before. The place was small, yes, just one open studio with the bed tucked into the far corner and the kitchenette running along one wall, but it was unmistakably hers in a way that struck him all over again.
The colorful rug in the middle of the floor had been worn soft with use, books were stacked in little uneven towers on the coffee table and beside the couch, a vase of flowers brightened the counter near the sink, and the glass sun catchers hanging in the window scattered pale ribbons of morning light across the wall.
There were cat toys everywhere, tiny signs of life tucked into the corners of the room, and the whole place carried the same feeling she did, warm and bright and trying very hard to be gentle despite how much it had clearly survived. It felt lived in. Beautiful in that honest, unpolished way that made it feel more intimate than any large spotless apartment ever could. Standing there in the quiet, Jack thought that if someone had asked him to picture what it would look like inside her head, he might have imagined something very close to this.
He slipped a hand into the pocket of his jacket and felt the folded paper there immediately. He had carried it with him all the way from the hospital without really deciding he was going to do anything with it, but now that his fingers closed around it, the choice felt unavoidable. He pulled the paper free and unfolded it slowly, smoothing the creases with his palm as he looked down at the transfer request.
Robby's signature was already there near the bottom, dark ink settled in the line above the one Jack had left blank earlier. He could still hear his own voice in the trauma room when she had stood in front of him asking for this very thing, still see the hurt on her face when he refused to sign, still feel the shame of how badly he had handled it. For a long moment he simply stared at the form, jaw tight, chest heavy, his mind pulling between what he wanted and what he knew he had no right to force. Then he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulled out his pen, and signed his name in a single steady motion. Jack Abbot. The ink looked strangely final when he lifted the pen away.
He refolded the paper carefully and carried it over to the small counter by the sink, placing it where she would see it the moment she woke up. His hand lingered there for a second against the edge of the counter, fingers resting beside the form as though some part of him still resisted letting it go. When he finally turned back toward the bed, she had not moved.
Olive was curled tighter now against her legs, one paw thrown over the blanket, and the room had taken on that fragile stillness that only came when someone had finally fallen into real sleep after pain and fear. Jack looked at her one last time, and a hundred things rose in his throat all at once, apologies, confessions, promises he had no right to make, but none of them made it out. He crossed the room quietly, moving with the kind of care he usually reserved for trauma patients and the dying, and let himself stop at the side of the bed for one brief moment. He did not touch her again.
He wanted to, more than he wanted almost anything. He wanted to brush the hair back from her face, to smooth the blanket over her shoulder, to make sure she knew even in her sleep that she was not alone. But he had already crossed enough lines for one day, and if he let himself touch her now he was not entirely sure he would be able to make himself walk away.
So he stepped back instead, turned toward the door, and let himself out of the apartment as quietly as he could. The hallway beyond was cooler and dimmer, the sudden emptiness of it almost jarring after the warmth of her space. He pulled the door gently closed behind him and stood there until he heard the lock click automatically into place. Only then did he move, walking slowly down the hall toward the stairs with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket.
But even after he stepped outside into the pale morning light, even after the cool air hit his face and the city sounds began to rise around him, he could not shake the image that had burned itself into his mind. Every time he blinked he saw her the way he had first found her, crumpled on the floor, blood everywhere, not moving, and the horror of it followed him all the way down the block.
-
The apartment was quiet when she finally woke up. For a few seconds she didn't move, her mind still caught somewhere between sleep and the foggy heaviness that came with a concussion. The room was dim, the curtains still drawn the way Jack had left them, and the soft glow of afternoon light filtered through the edges of the fabric in warm streaks across the wall. Olive was curled against her hip, the cat lifting her head slightly the moment she felt movement. Then the headache hit.
A slow, crushing pressure bloomed behind her eyes and spread across the side of her skull where she had hit the counter. She groaned softly and pressed the heel of her hand against her temple before remembering the ice pack still resting near her pillow.
"Jesus," she murmured to the empty room.
Her throat felt dry. Her face ached. Every small shift made the room tilt just enough to remind her she definitely had a concussion. She blinked toward the bedside table and reached carefully for her phone. A message notification sat at the top of the screen. She opened it slowly, her vision still slightly unfocused.
Jack:
How are you feeling?
Despite the pounding in her head, the message made a small warmth settle in her chest. She typed back slowly.
Her:
My head is killing me.
The reply came almost immediately, like he had been watching the phone.
Jack:
That's expected. Did you take anything yet?
Her:
No.
A few seconds passed before the next message appeared.
Jack:
Take ibuprofen. Then go back to sleep.
She stared at the screen for a second before typing again.
Her:
I feel like I should probably get up.
Jack:
No.
Robby wants you home for the rest of the week.
Her eyebrows pulled together.
Her:
I can work.
Jack:
I know you could.
But that's absolutely not happening.
She huffed a quiet laugh despite herself.
Her:
You're going to be short.
Jack:
I don't care about that.
She stared at the screen for a moment, the firmness of the message making something soft twist in her chest again. Before she could respond, another text popped up.
Jack:
You should be expecting something delivered to your house in the next hour.
Her confusion immediately returned.
Her:
What?
Jack:
🙂
-
The knock at the door came a little sooner than she expected. She had been sitting on the edge of the couch with the ice pack balanced carefully against her cheek, trying to drink some water the way Jack told her to, when Olive's ears suddenly perked up and the cat trotted toward the door like a tiny gray alarm system.
"Hold on," she murmured to no one in particular, pushing herself carefully to her feet.
Her head throbbed immediately, the dull pressure behind her eyes reminding her she had absolutely no business moving around this much yet. She shuffled slowly toward the door anyway, one hand resting against the wall for balance as Olive circled impatiently around her legs. When she opened the door, she froze. There were grocery bags sitting neatly on the floor outside her apartment. A lot of them.
For a second she just stared down at them in confusion before bending slowly and lifting the first bag inside. Then the second. Then the third. By the time she finished carrying them into the kitchen, the small counter space was completely covered. Her fingers moved automatically as she peeked inside the nearest bag.
Prepared meals. Soup containers. Pasta dishes. Pre cooked chicken with vegetables in sealed trays that only needed to be reheated. Another bag held fruit, yogurt, electrolyte drinks, crackers, and bottled water. One bag was filled with pain medication, extra ice packs, gauze, and electrolyte powder. Her throat tightened instantly. She set the bag down slowly, her eyes burning as she looked over the counter full of food.
No one had ever done something like this for her before. Not like this. The tears came before she could stop them. She wiped at her face quickly and grabbed her phone, pressing Jack's name before she could overthink it. He answered almost immediately. His voice was low and steady, like he had been expecting the call.
"Are you okay?" he asked right away.
She swallowed. "You bought me a grocery store."
There was a quiet pause. Then his voice came back calm. "Did it get there already?"
"Yes." She looked down at the counter again, blinking hard. "Jack, I can't accept all of this."
"Yeah," he said gently. "You can."
"Jack-"
"You had no food in your place."
She rubbed at her eyes again. "I was going to go shopping."
"When?" he asked calmly.
She opened her mouth. Then closed it again. Jack continued before she could answer.
"You have a concussion," he said, his tone firm but not harsh. "You're not driving anywhere and you're definitely not standing in a grocery store trying to figure out what to cook."
Her voice softened. "It's too much."
"It's food."
"It's a lot of food."
"It's meals for the week," he corrected. "Things you don't have to cook."
She leaned back against the counter, overwhelmed by the quiet certainty in his voice.
"I'll pay you back."
"No."
"Jack."
"No," he repeated.
Her voice grew small. "I can't just let you do this."
There was a small pause before he spoke again, his voice softer now but still steady. "You're going to have to get used to someone taking care of you for once."
The words landed somewhere deep in her chest. She looked down at the counter again, her eyes filling despite her attempt to blink the tears away.
"I don't know how to do that."
"We'll figure it out," he said gently.
She smiled weakly through the tears. While she wiped her face with the sleeve of her hoodie, her eyes drifted across the counter again and finally noticed the folded piece of paper sitting near the sink. Her brow furrowed.
"Hold on a second."
She picked it up slowly and unfolded it. The moment she saw the signature at the bottom, she went completely still.
"Jack?"
"Yeah."
"You signed the transfer form?"
The silence on the other end of the line stretched for several seconds. Then he answered quietly.
"Yeah. I did."
She stared down at the paper in her hands.
"I should have done it the first time you asked."
Her fingers brushed lightly across the ink of his name.
"Thank you," she said softly.
Another small pause settled between them before he spoke again. "I've got to get ready for work."
"Okay."
"But if you need anything," he added, his voice firm again, "you call me."
"I will." She hesitated before speaking again. "And Jack?"
"Yeah."
"This really means a lot, you have no idea."
There was no hesitation in his answer. "Of course, sweetheart. Get some rest."
The word caught her completely off guard. Before she could respond, the line clicked and the call ended. She stood there in the middle of her tiny kitchen holding the phone in one hand and the signed transfer form in the other while tears rolled freely down her cheeks. Not because she was sad. Because for the first time in a very long time, someone had taken care of her.
Description: New city, new hospital, new job. You give yourself one last day to be free before your first shift, and happy hour ends with a stranger on your bed. The real problem starts the next morning, when he shows up in the same ER answering to “Dr. Abbot.”
Tags/warnings: second year resident fem!reader, smut, sleeping with the boss (?), porn with plot, Jack talk ‘em through it Abbot, clit stim, oral m receiving, p in v, hotel sex. ER cameos, mentions of a minor head injury, and banter.
Note: New man who disss 🤭 This one’s dedicated to my dear @nexxen24, who got me into The Pitt, and also gave me the idea for this lol. Enjoy! 🤍
Masterlist
And I could see you being my addiction
You can see me as a secret mission
Jack Abbot needed something sweet.
That was the excuse he gave himself today, anyway. The truth was, he found himself at the hotel bar a few blocks from the hospital more often than not, because it was quite dark, even in daytime. Dark enough that he could sit at the corner of the long counter and just exist for a couple of hours.
Sometimes he came for a beer. Sometimes a sandwich. Sometimes just to swap stories with the bartender until it was time to go back to real life and drown himself in someone else’s blood.
Today, he came for a very specific thing: Chocolate cake. A slice of expensive, moist, and obscenely sweet cake. He was sure his imminent descent to madness was the root cause of these…cravings. Whatever.
He slid onto his usual stool at the far end of the bar, in a black shirt, and some joggers, badge and scrubs stuffed away in his backpack.
He looked up at the bartender, but it wasn’t his usual guy. Instead, a girl with the darkest hair in a ponytail, walked up to him with a tired expression. There was a small white pin that said ‘Lisa– TRAINEE’ clipped to her uniform.
“Evening, sir,” she greeted.
“Afternoon, and just Jack, please,” he corrected with a small smile, glancing at the fancy clock on the wall. 4:43 pm. He still had a few hours off duty.
“Oh yeah–sorry! I get a little lost in here sometimes. Ugh, the only thing getting me through this shift is knowing I’m off tomorrow for the PittFest,” she said, making him chuckle.
“Trust me, I get it. I’m also looking for something to help me get through mine,” he shrugged. “Festivals are not my thing, though. I’ll leave that to the ones with healthy knees.”
“Mm, that’s fair,” she said, chuckling back. “So what can I get for you, ‘just Jack’? Gin? Old fashioned?”
“No drinks, but can I get a slice of that infamous chocolate cake?”
The girl looked at him like she wasn’t necessarily expecting that, but you know what? Hell yes, old guy.
“Sure.”
She walked round the bar, to a discreet door that led toward the kitchen, and asked for the cake to be served before stepping back to the bar again.
“Thank you, Lisa,” Jack smiled, finally letting his shoulders loosen.
You needed a stress reliever.
You weren’t stressed now, but you knew that in less than 24 hours it would become your new normal…again. You are meant to start your first shift at PTMC as a second year resident tomorrow.
New city, new program, and still…no apartment. But at least your hotel room was nice and ready for you to make it an early night, slightly tipsy and relaxed for your last blissful hours of freedom. Which is why at four something, you decide you’re going to treat yourself to be first in line for the hotel’s happy hour like the responsible adult you are.
The hotel lounge is large and dimly lit. A couple takes one of the single couches, curled into each other with matching martinis. The rest of the space is almost empty, aside from–
Wait. That man is cute. Wait again. You have to do a double take.
An attractive–no, very attractive man is sitting at the far corner of the long bar, waiting for his order. Simple outfit, camo backpack resting by his feet. He looks a little worn to be honest, but then again, don’t we all?
Huh. Guess someone beat you to happy hour.
You take the opposite corner, leaving about six empty stools between you, when the bartender approaches you.
“Afternoon, Miss.”
“Hi, Lisa,” you smile. “I don’t really know what cocktail to get. Can I just get whatever your favorite is?”
“Oh–yeah I can do that,” she shrugs with a smile, turning back to her inner counter to mix the drink.
Your phone vibrates in your pocket so you pull it out, checking the payment notification from the guy who’s buying the festival tickets you’re selling. You text him to confirm he has to pick them up at the hospital tomorrow, hoping you get a spare minute to walk out the ER, when someone walks out a hidden kitchen door and slides a plate in front of you.
“Chocolate cake,” the guy announces politely, but before you could even say that’s not yours, he turned around and disappeared into the kitchen again. You shrug, turning to the bartender who’s handing a drink to the man you saw when you came in.
“I didn’t order this,” you both say at the same time.
His head snaps toward your voice, and your eyes meet across the row of empty stools. He sees the generous slice in front of you, and with a not so subtle up and down look at you, a smirk lifts the corner of his mouth. Something flutters in your chest, so you break eye contact first, dropping your gaze to your phone and pretending to read another message.
Come on, play it cool.
“No drinks for me, Lisa. Remember?” you hear him say playfully, turning back to the counter.
“Oh my god, I’m sorry,” she rushes out, reaching for the drink in front of him. “I’ll switch them right now, I–”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, stopping her by wrapping his hand around the glass. “I got it.”
Your thumbs froze over your phone. He got it?
From the corner of your eye, you see him stand up, and duck down to scoop up his backpack. Your heartbeat does something very stupid as you try very hard not to stare while he walks in your direction. Okay. Okay. This is fine. Silver fox is walking toward you. You are not freaking out. You are a doctor, you have seen actual organs on tables. You can handle an older guy with pretty eyes.
He slides easily onto the stool right next to you, setting the glass down with a soft clink. Fuck. Of course he smells good. You have no choice but to look at him properly this time, and up close, he’s even more handsome. Fluffy, wavy grey hair, with matching stubble (makes you wonder if the carpet matches too) and a glint of humor in his eyes that you know is trouble.
“I believe this is yours,” he says, nudging the cocktail close to where you’re still holding your phone for dear life.
“Then I believe this is yours,” you say, setting your phone with a smile and sliding the plate toward him.
He narrows his eyes playfully, looking between you and the cake. “Tell you what.” He leans in, and nudges it closer so it sits between the both of you. “I don’t mind sharing…do you?”
Oh. Okay. So that’s where this is going.
“I don’t mind a lot of things,” you tilt your head, leaning one elbow on the bar, deciding to match that dangerous glint in his eyes with your own. His smirk grows before turning to the bartender again.
“Can we get another spoon, please?”
“Oh, sure. Here,” she says, handing it over.
He takes it with a quiet ‘thank you’, then holds it up in front of you like an offering.
“I’m Jack, by the way. Don’t think I heard your name.”
You let out a small chuckle as you take the spoon, the tension in your shoulders loosening a little under his charming gaze. You tell him your name, his smile softening when he repeats it back to you.
“Nice to meet you, thanks for sharing my cake,” he says, finally digging his spoon into it.
“Thanks for bringing me my drink,” you reply, reaching for the glass. You definitely need some buzz if you intend to survive this interaction. “I guess we’re even now, Jack.”
“Not yet,” he says, getting the first bite of cake. He hums in delight, wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “But we’re getting there.”
You divert your gaze to your phone once again, heat blooming your cheeks. He smiles triumphantly at your reaction, deciding to push you a little more.
“Well, aren’t you going to try it?”
You bite back a smile, nodding as you dig your spoon into the cake. He watches your every move like a hawk as you lift it towards your mouth. You mirror his hum when you taste it, instinctively running your tongue over your lips to get the sugary remains off.
Jack shifts in his seat.
“Great, isn’t it?” He says, “tried it once and never was the same.”
“Would’ve never thought to try it, to be honest,” you chuckle.
“Me neither, guess I just needed something sweet today,” he shrugs, still too calm and too smug, still making your heart rate go crazy without even trying. “Looks like I came to the right place, though,” he winks, digging his spoon again for another bite.
Yeah, no. He’s definitely trying.
“So, what brings you here to the land of cake instead of…I don’t know, a whiskey?” You ask, playing with the straw of your drink.
“No drinks for me,” he shrugs.
“Designated driver?”
“Designated something, I have to leave at seven,” he glances at the clock again. You follow his gaze, and see it’s just after five.
“What, you gotta catch a flight or something?”
“Yeah, something like that,” he grins.
His answers are vague, intentionally so. You recognize it instantly because you use that tone too about your own job, when you don’t feel like opening that door with a stranger.
“What about you? Are you celebrating something?” He asks, and you swear with every question he shifts a little closer to you.
“I’m making it an early night, tomorrow’s a big day,” you nod with a smile.
“Oh yeah? Festival?” he asks, you can feel the genuine curiosity under the smug tone.
“I wish,” you shrug. “I got tickets but something important came up, so…here I am, first in line for happy hour instead. Making the most of that hotel lifestyle,” you lift your glass, he lifts his spoon with a chuckle.
“You’re staying here?”
“Mmhm. It’s actually pretty great. Nice room, silk bed sheets, the works.”
“Decent cake, too,” he adds mocking seriousness. “Too bad someone stole it.”
“Excuse me,” you protest playfully, “If it wasn’t for me you’d still be looking sad and lonely at the end of the bar.”
He laughs, catching the attention of Lisa who’s clearly not trying to eavesdrop. “Yeah. I’m glad I’m not, then,” he says quietly. “Company’s good.”
From there, the conversation just flows.
At some point, you realize you’ve barely touched your cocktail, or the cake between you. You can feel the tension building with every shared look. The way his gaze dips to your mouth when you bring the spoon to your lips. The way your knee kept drifting closer to his, the faintest brush when either of you shifts on your stool.
And that warm, electric buzz in your veins has very little to do with sugar or alcohol.
Your eyes flick instinctively toward the clock on the wall when you laugh about something he said, and see it’s a few minutes past six already.
This is the moment where you could let him go, say goodnight and head upstairs alone. But you feel like you haven’t gotten your fix yet. That good moment of pure bliss before you go back into charts and monitors and reminding yourself you love the career you chose.
Some people do drugs or caffeine, or apparently, sugar as a stress reliever. The poison you chose today was supposed to be alcohol, but maybe you have something better sitting right next to you.
Huh. Sometimes dick does the trick too.
You turn your gaze back to him, lashes half lowered and innocent, catching him watching you already.
“It’s getting late,” you say casually, “but I think you still have time to walk me to my room.”
For a split second, the words just hang in the air. Clear and irreversible. His expression doesn’t change much, because he’s already been giving you bedroom eyes this whole time, but you notice the way his jaw tightens slightly, before that unmistakable smirk reappears.
“Yeah, I think I do,” he rasps.
Cake be damned. He’s got a sweeter dessert right in front of him.
He straightens on his stool and lifts a hand, catching Lisa's attention with a small wave, then reaches for his wallet. You press the button to pay with your phone, but he puts his hand over yours to stop you.
“Don’t worry, I got it,” he says, sliding his card over the counter before you can protest.
You’re not sure what exactly made your heart almost jump out of your chest again, the gesture or his electric touch on your skin. Maybe both.
You distract yourself by looking at your glass, still more than half full.
“Thank you. I didn’t even finish it…”
“I don’t think we’re going to miss it,” he looks at it, then back at you amused.
Your face warms–again–at the implication.
The girl gives him the receipt, and the way his arm flexes on the counter when he signs it with a quiet ‘thank you’, makes your thighs rub in anticipation. He slips a final twenty over the receipt as a tip, before turning fully toward you. He stands up first, grabbing his backpack with one hand, and helping you out of your stool with the other. His hand finds its way to your lower back, settling there as you walk.
“Lead the way, sweetheart.”
By 6:10 pm the door of your room clicks shut.
Jack drops his backpack somewhere to the side, one hand finds your waist, the other cups the back of your head before he pins you against the wall, and his mouth finds yours in an instant.
You gasp into the kiss, immediately grabbing him by his white shirt, dragging him impossibly closer. His gray stubble scrapes your skin in the best possible way, burning along your jaw as he tilts his head, deepening the kiss. You slide one hand up to his hair, it’s softer than it looks, and he makes a low sound when you tug it just enough to angle his mouth where you want it.
His hands slip under the hem of your shirt, rough palms spreading over your back. You can’t keep your hands to yourself either when you get past his shirt, running them through firm muscle and chest hair. Your hands can’t help but wander around his strong back, nails scraping against his skin when he starts kissing down the line of your jaw, scraping his beard along your throat in a delicious burn.
“Jack…” you breathe, tightening your grip in his hair.
He smiles against your skin, dragging his lips and stubble slowly across your neck, sending sparks all the way down to between your legs. When he sucks a particularly sensitive spot, the sound that slips out of you is embarrassingly close to a whimper.
“I got you,” he whispers, pulling back just enough to tug the hem of your shirt. “Is this okay?”
You nod quickly, and soon enough both of your shirts end up somewhere on the floor. You’re left in your bra, chest rising and falling as you try to catch your breath, but it’s hard when his gaze drops to your chest and lingers there.
So you ogle him too.
He’s built like a brick wall. Solid, toned chest dusted with hair, and framed by broad shoulders. And those arms? Oof. God, you can’t wait to feel all that strength he hides under those tired eyes and easy smiles.
He nudges you away from the wall steering you backwards, mouth never leaving yours, until the back of your legs bumps into the base of the bed. He gently guides you to sit on the edge of the mattress. You look up at him, already dazed. His hair is a mess from your fingers, chest rising and falling quickly, that cheeky smile of his still on his face. He reaches for your jeans next, and you lift your hips to help him slide them off. The cool air of the room kisses your skin as he throws them somewhere in the room.
“You’re still too dressed,” you chuckle, left only in your underwear.
“You’re still too desperate,” he jokes, laughing when you gasp and slap his chest weakly. “Hmm. Harder next time, sweetheart.”
You probably shouldn’t have liked that as much as you did, but he seems satisfied with your silence. His hands go to the waistband of his joggers, barely grabbing the elastic when his hands suddenly stop. If you weren’t watching his face, you would've probably missed the way his confident smile faltered for a second.
“Are you okay?,” you ask, straightening up on the bed.
“Yes,” he says quickly, but his hands are still frozen on his hips. “Yeah, I am. I just–”
You notice the way he shifts as if to step away from you, but your body reacts before you can think. “Hey, wait–”
You hook your feet around his calves to stop him from pulling away, but your left foot feels something different than you expected. It’s not the familiar firmness of muscle, but the unmistakable sensation of metal where skin should be. You don’t really need to see it to know what it is.
His camo backpack and the vagueness of his answers suddenly click to you, but Jack is frozen in place, trying to read the expression on your face.
“I’m sorry,” he starts, you figure it’s the script he probably hates having to say but feels obligated to in situations like this. “I should’ve told you before we came up, it’s okay if you don’t want to–”
“Jack,” you cut him off, quickly standing up so you’re pressed against him, before he decides to step back again. You tilt your head back a little, pressing a hand to his chest. “You don’t owe me anything, okay? If I didn’t want this, you’d already be standing shirtless in the hallway,” you chuckle, trying to lighten the mood.
“You don’t…mind?” His hazel eyes scan your face, still trying to find the desertion you’re not giving him.
You can feel his heart racing under your palm, and it almost makes you laugh how the doctor in you wants to inject him with something to fix his tachycardia. Opting for a less aggressive approach, you slide your arms over his shoulders to play with the hair on the back of his neck.
“I don’t mind,” you say, as reassuring as you can. You liked him the second he shared his stupid cake. This? This just adds more to it. “But if you do, we can stop,” you add, slowly pulling away from him but he slides his arm behind your back.
“I don’t want to stop,” he rasps, pressing you tighter to him. The bulge digging against your skin agrees with him.
“Hmm. Then you better hurry, we’re running out of time…” you sing-song, grinding yourself against him.
He breathes out a laugh. Oh, how I love this girl. He halts the movement of your hips, his hands become sure and steady once again as they settle on your waist. He forgets about his pants for a moment, innstead, he decides to focus on you.
“Turn around,” he says, but you don’t move an inch, just blink at the sudden change in his voice. He chuckles, loosening his grip just a little. “Turn around, sweetheart.”
Now you’re the one who needs help stabilizing their heartbeat.
You nod, then do as he says, shifting so your back is to him. He closes the gap immediately, one arm around your shoulder to hold you while the other settles just above the hem of your panties, but he doesn’t slip inside. His hand drifts lower and lower, stopping right over the slick leaking through the fabric, making you gasp.
“There she is,” his pleased voice while he drags teasing circles around your clit–but not really there–makes a chill run down your body. “Thought I lost you for a second there.”
You let your head tip back onto his shoulder, prompting him to apply more pressure, or find the right spot, but he keeps you pinned right where he wants you. He keeps rubbing slowly, still over the fabric, still teasing, coaxing the smallest sounds from you.
“I know you said to hurry, but I gotta take care of you first,” he whispers right in your ear. “Think I can do it this way? Without really touching you?” He barely grazes the base of your clit, dragging his finger back down immediately just to hear you whine again.
“Jack I–fuck.”
He chuckles when the faintest additional pressure makes you squirm, but that's no issue to him, he easily shifts you into the angle he wants. His fingers finally skim higher, now properly rubbing your clit. A moan escapes your lips, the friction of the cotton against your most sensitive spot has you feeling embarrassingly needy, moving your hips to chase more.
“That’s it, right there,” he coos, encouraging you. “How does that feel?”
You make another sound that’s not even close to a word. He chuckles onto your hair, shaking his head but still moving his fingers quicker.
“Talk to me, sweetheart. Feeling good?”
“Yes,” you manage to say between ragged breaths. “Really good.”
“Yeah?” He helps you move just a bit more, pressing his whole palm over your clit, before letting you take over. You start grinding his hand, clinging to his arm for support. “That’s it, just like that. You’re doing great.”
The praise lands harder than it should. You’re used to being talked at, ordered around on chaotic shifts, and occasionally complimented for a good job…but this is different.
You feel the pressure building in your stomach quickly with every buck of your hips, but what makes you see stars is feeling the outline of his hard cock rubbing against your ass with every grind.
“Shitshitshit I’m gonna–” you cry out mid sentence.
“It’s okay, sweetheart let go,” he coaxes, moving his hand faster.
When you finally break in a strangled moan, he stays wrapped around you, his firm body braced behind you so you can learn all your weight back, holding you together while you fall apart. He places a kiss on your shoulder when you shake under his grip, whispering praises you can’t make out as you ride your orgasm out. Jack finally takes his hand away when your clit twitches violently under him, squeezing your ass playfully.
“Breathe,” he reminds you, immediately inhaling and exhaling louder to show you just how. You instinctively match him, effectively grounding yourself. “Good girl.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuck–
“Easy,” he says when he feels you tense again. “It’s okay, you were doing so well. Just breathe.”
Still panting, you tap his arm so he lets you turn around to face him. You meet those devilish eyes again, hazel overtaken by dark pupils, a smirk on his lips as he takes in your flustered appearance.
“You’re really…really bossy, you know that?” You chuckle despite yourself.
“I’ve been told,” he smiles, bringing you in for a peck on your lips. “And I’m about to get more bossy so why don’t you turn around for me again?”
There it is. That fucking tone again. Your mouth falls open, but you can’t bring yourself to say no. If anything, you turn around before he even tells you twice, slapping his arm behind you when you hear him mutter “eager.”
He stirs you toward the bed again, until your knees bump the mattress. You hear the shuffle of his joggers, but it doesn’t sound like he’s taking the leg off, instead letting the fabric fall and pool at his feet. You don’t turn to look, giving him the moment.
The whole thing only makes him feel more devastatingly real.
He leans closer to you, his palm traveling up your spine to gently bend you forward. You follow his guidance, hands sinking into the mattress, ass on full display. You feel his foot nudge your left leg, parting you open for him.
“There,” he says, giving you another playful slap.
Heat rushes to your face again, feeling completely exposed to him even if you’re still covered in your underwear. So, Jack takes this as his chance to finally drag your soaked panties down, slowly, and lets them sit at your feet just like his pants, leaving you just in your bra. He groans at the sight, your soft, glistening pussy dripping and ready just for him.
“God, look at you,” he mutters under his breath, more to himself than to you.
The next thing to land over his pants are his boxers, freeing his heavy, swollen cock into his hand. He lines himself up, dragging just the tip across your wet folds, his pre cum mixing with your slick as he drags it up and down. After more whimpers from you, he pushes only the tip in, and you let out another moan that makes him groan.
“Deep breath for me,” he says, and at this point, you’d do anything he wants.
He makes sure to move with you, timing himself to your inhale. The first roll of his hips makes his cock slowly stretch you open, inch by inch. You gasp, fingers clutching the silk bed sheets. He groans as he watches himself disappear inside you, gripping your ass to help you find the angle he knows will have you seeing stars.
“Fuck me,” he hisses, skin meeting skin when he bottoms out.
“Please…” is all you whisper, he’s thick, hard, buried deep, and the stretch burns in the best way.
And you can’t wait for him to fuck all the stress out of you.
“Shhh, pretty girl. You’re okay,” he coos, slowly dragging out.
You clench around him before he leaves you completely empty, and he curses again, his hips jerking forward as yours slam back to meet him. He huffs a strangled laugh, stopping you by digging his fingers on your waist to take back control.
“There you go. Let me do the work, sweet girl,” he rasps.
The rhythm finds itself, fast and deep, skin slapping against skin, your moans echoing off your hotel room walls. You’re still too sensitive from your previous orgasm, and you can’t stop moaning every time his hips snap against your ass. The bed creaks under you, and the sound of his cock dragging in and out is loud and filthy.
“Relax–fuck, sweetheart. You’re doing so well.”
You try to “relax.” You really do. But the angle, the rough rhythm he coaxes you into, the praises, are a lot. Your legs start to tremble, the effort of holding yourself up becomes a harder task with the pleasure building inside you.
He notices, of course he does. He tightens his grip to hold you better, barely slowing his pace. “Hey, hey, talk to me.”
“My legs…” you choke out in a breathless laugh.
“Yeah, I can see that,” he huffs out a chuckle. “Hold onto the bed, for me,” he instructs. You obey brainlessly, fingers fisting in the covers.
His hand wraps around your right leg first, just behind your knee to lift it, throwing away your panties in the process to make it easier. He places that leg up on the bed, then does the same with the other. The new position pulls another weak sound from you, both knees now on the bed, opening you up to him in a way that makes you miss him inside you. He presses you back into the mattress, not wasting time in pushing himself back in with a harsh thrust.
“There you go, that’s better,” he says, setting his rhythm again. The new angle is more comfortable for him as well, leaning his legs on the bed for support while he pounds into you.
You let the sounds spill out of you, choked off gasps and desperate little sighs. Every one of them seems to go straight to his cock. You can hear it in the quiet curses he mumbles, the way his hands find all the familiar places, your hips, your waist, slipping under your stomach to push down the fabric of your bra so he can watch your boobs bounce with every thrust.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he groans when you start pushing back, chasing more and more. “There you go. Take what you need, sweetheart.”
When your legs start to shake again, this time it’s not from strain, it’s from how fucking close you are.
“Jack–” You squeeze your eyes shut, fingers clawing the sheets, little sounds spilling out of you that you can’t control. It’s too much and not enough at the same time, and your body is about to snap.
“I know,” he says, quickly sensing your overwhelm. “Come here.”
You barely have time to think before his arm loops around your waist, pulling you up from your forearms. You gasp as he lifts you, slamming you back against his chest so you’re half kneeling, half suspended in his hold.
And then…his free hand comes up to cover your eyes. You gasp when your world goes pitch black, narrowing only to the sound of his voice and the feeling of his body behind yours.
“Shh,” he coos near your ear, placing delicate kisses all over your jaw. “Just feel, sweetheart. That’s all you have to do.”
Without sight, everything else slams into focus, the heat of his chest behind you, the roughness of his stubble on your neck, the tight grip of his arm keeping you upright. He starts thrusting again, chasing that sweet spot that makes your head go dizzy.
It’s more than enough now. It’s too much. You feel undone and held together all at once.
And to top it off, he decides now is the time to reach for the clasp of your bra, unhooking it with his free hand to hold you up by cupping your bare breasts. Your fingers reach back blindly, to his hair, his thigh, wherever you can reach. Jack just keeps his sweaty palm over your eyes, shielding you from everything but him.
“Fuck, you’re clenching,” he groans, knowing you’re almost there. “Let go for me, don’t think…just feel.”
You come with a shaky cry, your entire body shuddering in his hold. He keeps fucking you through every helpless little sound, feeling his own release building up.
After a few moments, when he considers your breathing has sort of stabilized, his hand finally slips away from your eyes, caressing the hair sticking to your face as he keeps pounding you from behind, still fast, still deep, but sloppier. You can tell he’s close by the way his cock twitches inside you.
“There you go,” he praises you, even if his breathing is ragged now. “That’s it. You did so good for me–shit–”
As your eyes adjust again, the post nut clarity hits you.
Your fucked out doctor brain freaks out. No protection, you’re very irresponsible, don’t let him. He seems to make the same calculation–pretty strange for a man–because he starts to pull back.
Fuck it.
Before he can deal with it himself, you wriggle out of his grasp to free yourself, and get off the bed. Your jelly legs barely hold you up before you sink to your knees in front of him. From there you get a clear view of all of him, the fact that the carpet does match the drapes, and even the leg he’d been hiding. He instinctively steps back, almost stumbling over the pants pooled over his feet.
“Hey, careful,” you coo, placing one hand on his thigh to nudge him forward, the other wraps around his glistening cock, making him curse. “Let me? Please?”
“Jesus,” he breathes. His hand holds the back of your head, managing a weak smile. “Atta girl, be good to me.”
Jack doesn’t have to tell you twice.
You don’t even have to do much, just a quick pump at the base of his length as you lean forward to place a teasing kiss on his leaking tip, almost sending him right over the edge. The sight alone makes him twitch, he was going to have to cover his own eyes if you kept looking at him like that with his cock on your mouth.
You wrap your lips fully around him with no warning, letting his cock stretch your mouth as you swallow every inch. Every strangled sound he makes encourages you to be as devoted to him as he was with you. Your head bobs up and down, guided by his firm grip on your hair.
“Fuck–you’re gonna kill me–” he chokes out, you take that as your cue to nod at him, mouth too full to tell him to let go. “Okay, that’s…I’m–”
He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because he’s already finishing inside you. He groans as he spills strings of hot cum on your tongue, fingers tangling in your hair a bit rougher, pushing his hips forward to fuck the last of his orgasm out. You choke just a little, holding onto his thighs, trying to swallow every drop he sends down your throat.
Jack pulls out with a groan when the adrenaline of it passes, dragging his thumb over your lips to wipe the remnants off.
“Pretty girl…” He praises, as you look up at him with swollen lips and glassy eyes.
“Atta boy, you did good for me,” you rasp, making him laugh.
“Come here.” He helps you get on your feet, then back to the bed.
“Thank you,” you mutter, tugging the duvet off to cover your body when you sit down.
He stays quiet as he hauls his joggers back up and finds his shirt somewhere by the door, until he can’t avoid looking at his watch anymore.
“Shit.”
“So…no cuddling?” You chuckle.
“Sorry,” he mutters, even though you both knew this is how your little hotel affair was going to end. He slings his backpack over one shoulder, and walks over to you.
He takes a moment to cup your cheeks, memorizing every feature, and you try to do the same. Your eyes trace every line of his face, the glint that never left his hazel eyes, the gray dust adorning his jaw.
God, he’s so handsome. How are you supposed to forget him?
Jack starts leaning forward, but you meet him halfway, closing the space between you. The goodbye kiss is not rushed like you expected, no, he still takes his time even if he’s gonna be late to wherever he’s headed. He pulls back with a smile, and a small, disbelieving huff of laughter as he licks his lips.
“What?” you ask.
“You taste like cake,” he says, clearly amused, then adds with a little tilt of his head, “and…something else I probably shouldn’t think about on my way out.”
“Oh, just go!” you laugh, shoving him away. “Before you’re late and whoever’s waiting for you files a missing persons report.”
“Yes, ma’am. They will,” he says, lifting his arms up innocently as he walks toward the door. “Good luck tomorrow with your…big day.”
“You too, with your…something,” you smile. God, you’re definitely going to need a good night's sleep after all of this.
He nods, and with a devilish wink, he’s finally gone.
You wake up feeling like you can take on the world.
With a pep on your step, you walk out of the hotel with clear scrubs and an even clearer conscience. Good sex? Check. Good sleep? Check. Daydreaming about the silver fox stranger you’ll never see again? Check check check.
You’re ready to kick ass and save lives.
Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center is just a short walk away, but it gives you enough time to self regulate your emotions before you walk through those doors. You get there early, greet everyone politely and exchange a few words with some nurses before your shift actually starts. For a moment, you almost forget you’re the new kid, and you feel like you’re right where you belong.
You make your way through triage, mentally rehearsing how you’re going to introduce yourself to your attending, when your sneaker slips on something. You don’t know if it’s saline, or water, or spit, all you know is that one second you were walking and the other you’re losing your balance. Your hands desperately find the wall with a smack, saving yourself from landing flat on your ass, but your forehead still hits the edge of a door frame with a sharp little crack.
You see stars for a second there, the same kind you saw yesterday.
“Whoa, hey! Are you okay?” Someone calls.
You groan, but straighten immediately, because what else are you going to do? Sit down and let the tears from your eyes spill? Absolutely not. Not on your first day. You swipe your fingers over your forehead, hissing at the sting, and when you look at your hand there’s the smallest smear of blood.
Perfect.
“I’m fine,” you say quickly. “I’m–”
“Absolutely not, come here.” A woman in black scrubs and a ponytail approaches you, holding your jaw to assess the wound. “I’m Dr. McKay, and you are?”
“I’m okay,” you say, trying to shrug her off. “Really, it was just a slip, it didn’t even hurt. I really need to go meet Dr. Robinavitch–”
“You slammed your head into a door frame, Robby can wait,” McKay says flatly.
You try to protest but she steers you toward one of the small triage rooms right off the ER entrance. You groan as she nudges you to sit on the bed. “I just need a band-aid, it’s just a scra–”
“A scratch, yeah, I heard you. You’ll get your band-aid after I make sure you’re not walking around with a concussion,” she says, then holds a finger up as if to say ‘wait’ and walks to the door, “Perfect learning opportunity, actually.”
Oh no.
“Hey! Santos, Whitaker, Javadi, come here,” she urges more people with scrubs. Great. “Consider this your first patient.”
You consider faking your own death.
All three of them clock your black scrubs and badge, and your bruised ego dies a little more when they realize you’re one of them. McKay just stands next to you like this is science class and you’re the classroom’s skeleton.
“We get all types of patients here. And today…” She pats your shoulder with the back of her hand. “It’s a colleague who discovered the floor is slippery on her very first day.”
Redacted.
“I’m fine,” you repeat. “Really. I just need a band-aid.”
“After we use you for educational purposes, now look up please,” she says, shining a light in your eyes to check your pupils. You resist the urge to slap her hand or lean away. “Headache?”
“No.”
“Any loss of consciousness?”
“You literally saw me since I hit my head,” you say, a little too aggressive, but McKay ignores your tone. “Sorry–no.”
“Nausea? Blurred vision?”
“No. I swear, I’m okay.”
“Alright. Whitaker, you’re up. What are your concerns when someone hits their head?”
“Um…we should ask what caused the fall?” He says, and McKay nods approvingly. He turns to you, “Did you feel dizzy before you slipped? Lightheaded?”
“No. There was just…something on the floor. I didn’t see it and unfortunately I slipped.”
“Good,” McKay says, more to them than to you. “No dizziness, no neuro complaints, no loss of consciousness, minor external injury that doesn’t need stitches.”
“And no reason for a CT,” one of the girls adds.
“Correct, Santos. So we’ll clean it, come on, you’re up.”
Your shoulders drop in the smallest relief. Now you have to survive the rest of the day after this humiliation, but adding unnecessary imaging on your first day would’ve ended you right there and then.
Mckay just smiles at you as Santos gloves on and prepares the stuff she’s gonna use. You look outside the door for a moment, trying to remember the confidence you’d walked in this morning, when a figure walking by catches your eye.
All you see is a flash of broad shoulders in a dark shirt, and a camo backpack slung over one arm. You make eye contact for a brief second as he glances inside casually, before doing a literal double take when he realizes who’s in there. He stops in his tracks, just as your heart stops inside your chest.
For a brief second you think you do need that CT, because there’s no way you’re not hallucinating talk-you-through-it Jack in front of you.
Here. In your ER. Wearing matching uniforms.
Jack, the man you let manhandle you last night–or afternoon?–whatever. The man who covered your eyes and told you to just feel. The man you sent you into orgasm oblivion and then kissed you goodbye tasting cake and himself on his tongue.
No. No way. Absolutely not.
You hiss when Santos presses something wet in your wound, and Jack decides that’s the best moment to step in and cause you a stroke on top of everything.
“Everything okay in here?” he asks casually, looking at you with the same glint in his eyes as yesterday.
You want to die.
“Abbot! Thought you were on your way out,” Mckay beams.
“I was, then I saw you tormenting the new blood. Didn’t want to miss the show,” he gives her a tired grin, shrugging, then looking around the room. “Morning, everyone.”
Javadi just smiles awkwardly, while Whitaker shifts on his feet and nods at him. At least Santos is having a blast enjoying the hell out of your tragic situation.
“Our colleague here decided to introduce her face to the wall,” she chuckles, shutting up when she realizes she only gets an unimpressed look from McKay.
“Hmm. Minor head trauma on the first day…that’s one way to make an entrance,” Jack jokes trying to lighten the mood, pulling on a fresh pair of gloves with a snap. “Mind if I take a look?” he asks you.
You hesitantly shake your head, and Santos barely steps back before he gets between your knees and you have to look up at him, and wow, that’s familiar. His fingers are gentle as he tilts your chin higher, focused on the small scrape by your hairline.
“It’s just a scratch,” you mumble under your breath.
He ignores it, and brings a penlight to your eyes, doing the same little routine Mckay did. Is this what your first day is supposed to be? A tortuous loop?
I might just fake a seizure right now.
“Any reason you might’ve tripped? Blurry vision? Sudden vertigo? Or…any specific memory that made you lose focus?”
It’s the way he drops his voice lower that makes you almost choke on your own spit. That exact same tone. That damn voice in your ear.
“We already asked those, Dr. Abbot. She said she slipped on a wet patch. No dizziness, no other symptoms,” Whitaker, bless his oblivious soul, chimes in.
Jack slowly turns his head to look at him, with an unimpressed stare that clearly says no one asked you to speak, white boy without using a single word.
Before anyone can torture you any further, a blue eyed doctor bursts in.
“McKay! We’re doing rounds.”
“Alright, meet us there once Dr. Abbot is done with you,” she says to you, ushering the others out. “Don’t forget to give her that band-aid she’s so desperate for.”
“I’ll take good care of her,” Jack replies, with an innocent smile.
The audience of your public execution finally leaves. And it’s great! Perfect. Exactly what you wanted: alone time. You don’t realize you’ve been holding onto the gurney for dear life until Jack–or should you call him Dr. Abbot now?–chuckles.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” He asks, amused.
“I don’t know, you’re the doctor here, apparently. So you tell me, how’s my head?” you snap, in a mix of nerves and residual embarrassment.
He grins. Oh he grins like fucking devil. “I don’t have any complaints.”
Heat rushes to your face instantly, and suddenly it’s like you’re back flirting in that bar again, sharing a chocolate cake. You shake those thoughts away, clearing your throat.
“So um…your flight was actually a night shift…in this hospital,” you say.
“Yeah. And your ‘big day’ was starting your first morning in this same ER. Nice upgrade from anonymous hotel guest, I guess.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny,” he chuckles, but you’re still looking at him skeptically. “Hey–it’s not that bad. People have done worse.”
“Worse than sleeping with an attending?” You say. “Like what–stealing medicine or secretly killing patients?”
“What? No–I hope no one’s doing that” he frowns.
This is the moment you start panicking for real.
“God, Dr. Robinavitch’s gonna kill me or worse,” you gasp. “He’s gonna fire me. Fuck–he’s gonna fire me and this is gonna be over before I even start my shift–“
“Okay, first of all, you need to sort out those priorities. Second, no one’s getting fired. You just need to get out there, and focus on your work. Alright? Can you do that for me?”
That. Fucking. Tone.
“Stop talking like that!” You whisper shout, knowing nurses could be nearby. “This is my first day, and I already have to convince everyone I’m not a complete disaster. So yes, I can do that for you. Happy? I’d like my band-aid now, please.”
“Okay, okay. You’ll get your band-aid,” he says calmly. “You just have to be more patient.”
You shoot him a glare, but he just smiles, still unbothered. He walks to a cabinet, pulling out a bright pink box of band-aids with a huge “My little pony” printed on it.
“What is that?”
“Best we have in triage,” he shrugs, amused. He looks back inside into the cabinet, before smirking at you. “We got Spongebob too.”
“…My little pony is fine,” you mutter.
“Alright,” he nods, invading your space again. “Look up for me.”
You’re grateful you’re not hooked to a heart monitor. You close your eyes, take a deep breath, and tilt your head up.
“Almost done, you’re doing great,” he drawls, smoothing the stupid band-aid over your life threatening injury with ridiculous care. “There,” Jack says, finally stepping back. “All done. You did so good for m–”
You snap upright from the bed so fast you almost cause yourself another injury by bumping into his big ass head.
“I have to go,” you blurt, already making your way to the door. “Thank you, Dr. Abbot. I hope we never see each other again.”
He peels off his gloves with a laugh, tossing them into the bin. This is the most entertaining thing that’s happened to him all week.
“No promises, doc,” he winks, “PTMC is not that big.”
You don’t give him the satisfaction of a response or even to see the panic on your face. You practically launch yourself into the hallway, and start speed walking toward the ED with a My little pony bandaid on your forehead.
Best sex of your life.
Worst coincidence of your career.
And yet…you can’t wait till you see him again.
Thank you so much for reading 🤍 feedback is always appreciated ✨
overview: headchef!sukuna prides himself in running his kitchen with an ironclad fist and insists that nothing could tear him away from it. however, when he hears that the infamous food critic who gave him 2 out of 5 stars over a year ago is back for blood, his feet seem to have missed the memo as they carry him right to your table. jaw tight with rage and practically foaming at the mouth when he sees how unaffected you are.
cw: mdni, enemies to friends to lovers, head chef x food critic, acts of service, fem!reader, smut (duh), brief improper use of chocolate syrup, sloppy kisses, nipple play, oral (f and m receiving), 69, unprotected sex, creampie, cum eating, tummy bulges, cervix kissing, cowgirl, lotus position, 5K words.
art creds @/hunnismoker on insta
Something was wrong.
And it isn’t just the crappy presentation that his joke of a sous chef just plated. With a glare that has the younger man shrinking back, Sukuna moves forward to fix the mess with a displeased grumble.
Even as he does it, there isn’t that flow state of calmness that always washes over him with the lunch rush. That cooling wave of being so busy he felt as though he were threading through the kitchen, light as a feather as he floated from one station to the next and made sure everything was running smoothly, wasn’t even on the horizon.
Sukuna knows that everyone else hated how busy the restaurant became during those few hours, but for him, they offered a reprieve from his overly active mind, which would run in circles as he questioned everything.
Whether the new hire had put enough seasoning in a dish, then needed to rein in his temper when he went to confirm, either tasting nothing at all or every single spice they had on the rack dumped inside. Sukuna almost finds it impressive that there was hardly any in between.
Other times, he would scowl accusingly at everyone as he asked what idiot put out the chef’s knife in the bread knife’s holder. He had a system after all, and that meant all utensils had to be spick, span and perfectly ordered where he expected them to be.
When he didn’t have orders to bark at his staff or anything to micromanage, his thoughts turned to something even more infuriating. The wet fart of a critic who was the very reason he started second-guessing himself in the first place.
You had come in innocuously, anonymously, despite your large following and by the time one of his staff recognised you, it was too late. You had already seen enough. Tasted enough.
Sukuna woke up to an article titled “The Malevolent Kitchen”. And even a year later, one section stuck out to him the most. The words pop out in his mind’s eye, so clearly that it was like he was reading through the passage again.
“While it’s undeniable that the food at the restaurant tastes “good” (that is, if mediocrity is what you're aiming for), there’s a noticeable lack of heart and care in its execution...”
“There’s a clinical sort of accuracy, an almost obsessive kind, in the preparation of each meal that leaves even the most delicious dish landing blandly.”
“There is obviously no room for creativity or thinking out of the box in the kitchen, and I am inclined to believe that has something to do with the constant bellowing that came from within.”
“Upon further investigation, it seems the Chef de Cuisine, who also happens to be the owner, was the one responsible for the trembling hands with which the rest of his staff worked, barely looking up and sweating as they aimed for perfection rather than the passion that probably drew them into the profession in the first place.”
“Perhaps without this hostility spreading around and poisoning the entire atmosphere like snake’s venom, the food would have been a lot more enjoyable. I wholeheartedly believe that with different management, my rating would have been a lot higher, but as it stands now… ★★☆☆☆”
Sukuna clutches the knife in his hand tightly, maybe a little too tightly, because someone pauses then moves away at the sight of the veins in his forearms bulging angrily.
Just who did you think you were coming into his restaurant and telling him how to manage it? Apart from the new hire here and there, Sukuna has worked with the same crew for nearly a decade. Surely if he was that insufferable to be around, they would’ve left by now?
Everyone’s a fucking critic. Your job wasn’t even that hard to do. He, too, could get behind a screen and professionally troll people while dressing it up as an honest review.
Honest review, my ass.
It's just his luck that as he’s thinking about you, a server comes into the kitchen, eyes slightly wide and her cheeks flushed as she stares unblinkingly at him. She was clearly the bearer of bad news, and Sukuna has never been one to shy away from shooting the messenger.
“Fucking hell. What is it?”
With his ire aimed right at her, the woman can’t get a full sentence out for the life of her, but she does manage to say a name. And that’s enough to make the coral-haired chef feel as if he has been dipped into a barrel of acid. The kitchen goes so quiet that not even the hissing sizzle of meat on the grill can be heard anymore, or maybe the blood roaring between his ears blocks it all out.
Sukuna takes two steps towards the door, then, realising he didn’t put the knife down yet, slams it onto a nearby counter before exiting. He barges into the dining area, eyes squinted to slits as he scans the room. They leak of that poison you wrote about in your article as he hunted you down, his body tense and poised to strike at any given moment.
Then they find their mark, and his lip curls with a snarl.
Sitting near a window, with a crisp dress shirt tucked into a pair of formal pants that he refuses to acknowledge longer than necessary, he stalks towards you. Your attention is on the menu before you, hollow eyes looking it over with… boredom.
Sukuna stops beside your chair, casting a literal shadow over you with the bulk of his form, but you barely glance up.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” The words are barely coherent as they are spat out, clasped all too tightly within his clenched jaw.
“Hello, to you too.” You flip to the next page of the menu, polished nail tracing over an item with a sliver of intrigue.
“I thought I made it clear that you were banned.”
“And I thought you would’ve gotten over your temper tantrum by now.”
You sigh when the menu is promptly plucked out of your hands, and only then do you let your eyes meet his. Sukuna thought it unfortunate and beyond unfair that your face didn’t match the ugly cruelty of your insides, because it only served to make him hate you more, “Sorry to disappoint.”
“Don’t worry, it’s my own fault for expecting more from you.” You smile at him, and the sharpness of it has his hands balling into fists. You notice, yet it doesn’t stop you from continuing. “I see you still have the same menu.”
Sukuna bristles.
“You were here a year ago.” Even he heard how his voice pitched with the lilt of defensiveness in it. “And if you hated it so much, you wouldn’t have come back so soon.”
You merely scoffed in response, and at his limit, a large hand clasped around your upper arm. Sukuna was ready to pull you up and throw you the hell out, but you were already drawing yourself to your feet and stepping into his space. Heels so high you came eye to eye as you glared at him.
“Despite what your bruised male ego is screaming at you right now, I’m not here to fight with you.” Sukuna scoffs and exhales sharply to expel the candied scent of your perfume. He didn’t like how it messed with his head. “However, if you keep going on like this, I may be forced to add bad service and ‘manhandles female customers’ to the new review.”
The fuck?
“I don’t care about your little gossip column, or the gremlins who have nothing better to do than consume that slop.”
The indifference in your gaze turns to annoyance, and he revels in it. “You wouldn’t be here if that were the case, and considering the rumours that sales have been going down, those gremlins must be very hardworking, no?”
Fire licked at the tips of his ears. Not exactly blushing but more so boiling with so much rage it was impossible to keep it all trapped inside. “Keeping tabs, are you?”
“It’s hardly a secret, Ryo.”
“You—”
Your head tilted, encouraging him to continue so you’d have a reason to strike him off his balance and call his restaurant, his food, the very things that breathed air into his lungs, cleared his mind and gave him purpose bland again.
He lets go of your arm, one finger at a time, and you drop into your seat with an exasperated huff. You take a moment, hand sweeping over your face before you meet his eyes again. That carefully blank expression that is always over your face eases up the slightest bit as your eyebrows knit.
“Look, I’m here because I felt bad when I heard that business has been low. I wanted to try again and possibly give a better review, if you’ll allow me.”
Despite some people throwing the cold-hearted ice queen label at you so casually, it was the furthest thing from the truth. You knew that these were people’s livelihoods on the line.
When you started reviewing food, you went to smaller restaurants, the hidden gem sort that were sealed away and overshadowed by the fast-food franchises that stood tall as mountains around them. And back then, nothing made you happier than seeing the beaming smiles on the owner’s faces as they thanked you for bringing so many customers with the good reviews you gave. But the money and popularity got to your head and made you lose sight of why you chose this line of work to begin with. Sure, Sukuna was a pompous jerk, and he needed to watch his tone when addressing his staff, but you could admit that in your pursuit to bump him down a few notches, your review probably affected them too.
If Sukuna is shocked by your concession, he doesn’t show it as his scarlet eyes burn with that unnerving intensity while he studies you.
A beat passes, then he sets the menu back on the table in front of you, and he’s gone.
Sukuna doesn’t come back out of the kitchen, and all the servers ignore you when you try to place an order. And just when you’re about to give up on trying to fix things and leave, the kitchen’s double doors swing open.
Trolleys of food come out, so many that it has to be most, if not all, the items on the menu and while you’re half jealous for who it’s for and half appalled as you stare with wide eyes. Then, when you realise the trolleys are coming over to your table, your heart sinks. Plate after plate is set down, and your head turns to and fro as you try to take everything in.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t order any of this.”
The waitress is a woman around your age with a bold red asymmetrical bob and an extremely timid smile. “Chef said it’s on the house.”
“Oh.”
“He also said that the deal only applies if you finish all of it.”
Right.
You stifle an eye roll as they put the last dishes down, and only when the table creaks under the weight of all the food on it do the servers leave you to it.
You eat more than is advisable, and it’s out of pure coincidence that Sukuna walks past the kitchen door for the twentieth time and steals a glance at you through the glass panel.
Last year, you claimed that his food was tasteless and lacked emotion, so this time, he took everything he was feeling and put it into all the dishes he served you. Albeit it was mostly anger, you didn’t seem to pay it any mind as you tasted everything.
There is a hidden subtlety in how you show that you’re enjoying your food. A slight tilt of your head before you quickly take another bite, a lift of the eyebrows and when you move onto dessert, even an imperceptible smile comes through.
The sight makes Sukuna feel strange. Like a nest of wasps fell from the tallest tree branch and cracked open in his belly. He isn’t sure what it means, but when you come back the next day and sample more of the menu, he’s a little less grumpy about it. Just the tiiiniest bit.
You’re taking full advantage of the free meals Sukuna offered, and there was no review in sight. When he asked you about it, you told him to not rush you with so much sass he was compelled to immediately draw back. And that was nearly two months ago.
Sukuna is becoming increasingly agitated with your presence, and when he realises that it wasn’t even hatred anymore, it makes him queasy.
You always sit at the table near the window, some days staying until closing time because he insisted on making you a test subject as payback. Sukuna makes you try new dishes before he adds them to the menu. The ones you like are added on by the end of the week, and the ones you merely purse your lips at before saying, “It’s good...” are promptly scrapped off the list.
Sometimes he sits in front of you while you eat, rosy brows pinched as he studies your micro expressions as closely as possible so he doesn’t miss anything. You found it strange at first, but now it’s become such a norm that it barely bothers you.
“Who’s micro-managing everyone in the kitchen when you sit here and watch me eat like a weirdo?”
“Haru.” Sukuna retorts, unfazed by the insult.
“Your sous? Weren’t your exact words ‘he’s as useless as a fishnet condom’?” You ask with a raised brow.
“Oh, he is. But he’s a little better when I’m not breathing down his neck.”
“Who would’ve thought?” You snicker and he offers a wan smile in response. A fiery glint in his crimson eyes ignites again, as if the anticipation of your new review has shot him back to life and brought back a spark he didn’t even know he lost.
Sukuna rolls his eyes when you mention that you’re especially pleased that the kitchen has gotten a lot less tense. People didn’t change overnight, so he still gives a terse remark here, a grumble there and a blistering glare elsewhere, but the heavy weight that his unpredictable mood saturated through the restaurant dispersed into something a lot more tolerable.
Something almost likeable.
“I’m editing the final draft.” You tell him as he sits in the chair opposite you. It’s way past closing time, and while everyone left a long time ago, the cake Sukuna baked for you was still cooling down, and because you refused to let it out of your sight, you decided to wait with him. Your hand rubs your belly as you reminisce about the sizeable slice he gave you. A slice you finished less than five seconds ago, but miss as if it were a long-lost friend.
You push the laptop towards him, and when he turns it around, there’s frantic clicking as he scrolls through the draft of your article. You know he got to the end when he shoots you a mildly amused look over the screen.
“4.8 stars?” His lip trembles, and you’re not sure if it will topple over to a smile or his usual scowl.
“Only because you refused to add that triple-beef burger you made me last.” You reply with your eyes narrowing slightly, and Sukuna allows a single huff to escape. Something of a curt laugh.
“We have enough burgers.”
He turns the laptop back to you, and you pull it closer with a shrug.
“Well, in any case, you’ll be happy to know that today is the last time you’ll have to endure my presence.”
You mean that as a joke, but Sukuna doesn’t laugh. And when your eyes dart to his, he’s got an odd look on his face.
“So that’s it, you submit your review, and you wash your hands clean of us.” Of me. He almost says.
Your eyes flutter a couple times as you blink at him in confusion.
“I thought you’d be happy. I can’t exactly keep eating here for free forever, you know?” You laugh awkwardly, shifting a little in your chair, and he just arches an eyebrow.
“Says who?”
“I—uh…”
“You can come back whenever you want. I’m gonna go get changed, then I’ll take you home, yeah?”
“Oh. Thank you, but you don’t have to do that.” You splutter, but Sukuna is already out of the chair and heading to the bathroom to change out of his uniform.
After he leaves, it takes a while for you to force yourself out of your stupor and pack your things away.
You’re standing up from the chair when he comes back. The white uniform and dark red apron he lived in are swapped out for a fitted black shirt that shows that his tattoos went a lot further up his arms than you thought. Dark wash jeans hug his thighs, and you flit your eyes away before you could do something crazy like drool at the sight of the bulging muscles barely hidden underneath.
You turn on your heel and go to wait outside while he closes up, and it takes five minutes before he’s at your side again. When you told him that your car went in for repairs, you didn’t think he would burden himself by driving you home, but you don’t hate it.
The drive to your house is silent apart from you giving him directions, and when you’re just down the street, he clears his throat.
“I suppose I should thank you.”
You turn to him, head lulling to the side against the headrest.
“You suppose?”
He only offers you a sidelong glance, lips quirking into a lopsided grin. That was probably as much as you were going to get, so you’ll take it.
“Then I suppose I should apologise too. I mean, for being too harsh with the last review.”
“You suppose?” He throws the words back at you, eyes not even on the road anymore, so you press a finger to his jaw and make him face forward again.
“Don’t get cute.”
Sukuna lets out a rumbling laugh that brings a smile to your face too, and he stops at the curb right in front of your house. He gets out first and spawns to your side at inhuman speed so he can open the door for you.
Sometimes you think he has been replaced by a doppelgänger with how nice he’s being. And the ease with which he does all these acts of service then brushes them off as if it's nothing is making your friendship bloom into something more.
Sukuna closes the door behind you and leans against it, prepared to watch you walk up the steps and into your door. Purely for safety reasons, of course, definitely not so he can watch the inviting sway of the flowy dress as it follows the movement of your hips.
“Thank you for dropping me off.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” He’s not asking, and you scoff but nod nonetheless.
You walk away, and he’s hypnotised for all of two seconds before you stop and turn to him again.
“Would you,” you break off with a hint of uncertainty colouring your tone, and it has him pushing off his car and taking a step closer. “Would you…like to come in?”
Sukuna’s feet falter, and he stares at you for a few long moments before his face breaks into an all too big and unfamiliar smile. Dangerous, feral and sexy enough to make you think that you might have made a mistake with the offer.
Pancakes.
Sukuna teased you when you told him you were craving them, joking about how you invited him in so you could exploit him for more food, but he started making them for you nonetheless.
Somewhere between snatching one while he wasn’t looking and fanning your mouth when you realised it was a little too hot, the atmosphere in your kitchenette stiffened.
The pancake you took was so hot that it made the chocolate syrup on it melt and dribble down your chin, and before you could move, a thick thumb swiped over your skin to clean the mess. Your mouth opened to thank him, only to fall quiet when he pushed his thumb between his lips and licked the sugary sweetness off of it.
“You make me cook for you, and now I have to clean you up too?” You weren’t even breathing when he took your small hand in his, lifting it to his mouth and sucked the syrup from your fingers too.
The digits rested on his tongue, slim and nimble as he drew his cheeks in to get the last few dregs of chocolate before he released them with a pop.
You weren’t sure who moved first, only that one second you were staring at his lips and the next, the decadent richness of cocoa settled lavishly on your tongue as he pressed his mouth to yours.
The risqué kiss escalates from suggestive to outright debauched as his lips track down your jaw and press against your pulse point. Your head tips back when the warm drizzle cascades over your collarbone, and before you can linger on the stickiness of the syrup, his mouth covers the skin, hot, wet and earnest before you fully conjure a thought up.
Sukuna sucks, licks and bites before his mouth teases even lower. Deft fingers tug at your dress, sliding it down your bust, and he rewards your brazenness of doing without a bra by latching his lips around your nipple and drawing it into the relentless cavern that is his mouth. Your eyes flutter as more syrup is put on your skin, only to be wiped away with a long flick of his tongue over and over again.
His free hand reaches up to palm your breast, and the sound that escapes makes you wish the ground would open up and swallow you whole.
“Oh, that was a cute noise.” Sukuna purrs against the swell of your tit, and heat touches your cheeks and refusing to be the only one affected, your hand reaches down and circles around the thickness of his girth. Even when trapped under his jeans, his cock twitches in your grasp, and Sukuna groans, hips rutting forward with desperation you didn’t even know he possessed.
“So is yours.”
With a mirth-filled chuckle, he cups the undersides of your thighs, and your legs instinctively wrap around his waist. You sigh out where your room is, then you’re sealing your mouth over his again.
You’re so enraptured in the kiss that when he falls back onto the bed, you yelp as your body follows him. Sukuna pulls you into his arms, and clothes fly in a flurry of movement that has both of you naked in no time. His arms close around you, and only when you try to straddle him does he break away.
“Sit on my face.”
“What?” You’re forced to squeeze your thighs together due to how achingly your cunt pulses at the demand.
“Sit on my face, please,” he repeats, so you know you didn’t mishear. “You’ve been eating my food this long, isn’t it only fair I get a taste too?”
Your breath catches, and you crawl out from between his legs, moving to his side. Your eyes looked down the length of his burly body, past the supple expanses of tanned skin and dizzying swirls of tattoos that seemed to litter every inch, even past muscles that rippled with every breath he took.
You eventually land on his cock, tip flushed pink and leaking as it lay heavy against his abdomen. Unable to help yourself, you turn to give him your back, and lift a leg to straddle his face.
You back up until you feel his breath fanning against your cunt, cooling the slick between your folds and making you tremble above him.
“I said sit. You’re hovering baby.” He laments with his hands coming up to trace over your inner thighs. As tempting as it is, your head shakes.
“I’m not about to get a murder charge for smothering you to death.”
Your words elicit something between a groan and a laugh from him, and you feel him pull you even closer.
“Believe me, I’d die a happy man,” you laugh, or at least you were about to until you’re yanked down. “Give it to me.” Sukuna huffs at the first taste of your pussy on his tongue, and that’s the only warning you get before he situates himself between your legs like he belongs there.
You can’t decide between lifting off his mouth or grinding down harder as his tongue flattens over your pulsing clit. Impeccably skilled and nasty as it gathers all the wetness there before delving into your wet cunt.
Blunt fingernails bite into your skin, and he paws at you to keep you firmly plastered to his face. A sick part of you relishes the breathless moan he tries to choke out before you roll your hips onto his face. But it’s clear he’s exactly where he wants to be when he sighs, “That’s it, go harder, baby. Swear ‘m not gonna break.”
Sukuna’s tights tremble, cock throbbing needily before you decide to put him out of his misery and take it into your hand. Unfortunately, you barely cover half of it, so you lean forward and close your mouth around the blushing head. Sukuna hisses against you, hips threatening to snap upwards, and you groan when the taste of his precum hits your tongue.
Your hand twists around the base as you bop your head up and down, moans vibrating against the velvety length as he suctioned the pearly nub of your clit between his lips before lewdly flicking at it. Sukuna's hand twines into your hair, pushing you further onto him until he hears a soft gag that has his vision blurring out. His other hand loops around your waist like a bear trap to keep you from shifting off his mouth. To him, if he could still breathe it meant he wasn’t doing something right.
You're overly wet, almost impossibly so, and he laps away at every drop your cunt gives him as if it was all the sustenance he needed. Throat closing around his tip, the only warning you get before he comes is a choked moan hummed between your dripping folds. He spills into your mouth, and your eyes roll back as release sinks its claws into you and forcibly pulls you under.
Your mind is hazy as you shuffle off his face, and work-worn hands turn you around so you can straddle him properly.
Under different circumstances, you would’ve laughed at the face Sukuna makes when you cup his jaw in your hand, but your mouth is a little too full to do so now. Mouths meeting with bruising intensity, you let yours fall open, and you feel him stiffen under you. His cum leaks into his mouth, and he only manages a choked curse before he kisses you harder.
Balmy sweetness and tart sharpness mingle on your tongues in a cocktail so dizzying that as he lines himself with you and pushes inside, the stretch isn’t nearly as painful as it should be for a man his size. You bottom out with a whine that he swallows whole, and refusing to take a moment’s rest, your hips immediately start rolling against his.
“Shit, look at you. Do you know how hard it was to act like I hated you?” Sukuna’s eyes greedily roam over your body, and his meaty hands follow their path. They cup over your breasts, squeezing with a grunt, then trace down to paw at your thighs, hips and jiggle your ass.
“Well, you made it look easy.” Your shake with laughter then scarlet eyes land on your belly, and it takes everything he has to keep himself from cumming when he sees the slight bulge his dick leaves behind every time he thrusts up into you.
“Wasn't.” He insists between a moan that slips through when he feels his balls draw up in warning, rough hands grope your ass and bounce you on his cock faster, handprints digging so deep you know they’re bound to leave bruises.
Sukuna sits up so abruptly that it almost throws you off balance, but his arms urge you to cross your legs behind his back. They settle on your hips again, lifting you up, then slamming you back down onto him.
You’re breathing into each other’s mouths, choppy pants exchanging so keenly as if you were keeping each other alive all so you could blissfully fall off the edge of sweet release together.
“Mhm fuck,” you moan as your clit grinds over the hard planes of his abs and pelvis, and you can only get out two more jerks before your body tenses.
You spasm repeatedly around him, and moans slip out of his mouth with every clench. His hips lift to plunge even deeper into you, and a cry is ripped from your throat when his mushroom tip bops onto a spot that has you seeing white.
“So fucking beautiful,” He huffs against your dewy skin as he shudders as he cums too. You melt into his arms, and he holds onto you tightly as he lies down and pulls you along with him.
You’re basically using him as a cushion as incessant aftershocks, eventually slow, and he lets you. You feel like you only rest your eyes for a moment, but you feel Sukuna’s hands caressing your skin. Gentle and unlike the brutish roughness from a few minutes ago. Then…
“Wanna try those pancakes again?”
Your snicker shakes both of you, and you turn your face into his neck.
His service was unquestionably a 10/10, but you’d be caught dead before you stroked his ego like that. You could think of better things to pay attention to anyway.
a/n: don’t even ask. this was supposed to be a drabble inspired by this post by @bluukive. lord I hope this gets lost in her notifs and she never sees it. also wanna put it on record that I blame @rambld for giving me her sukuna writing bug
