athena :) - she/her - 24 - mdni with my likes!! (that’s where all the 18+ stuff goes) - i belong to WAY too many fandoms, oof - i write & read a lot lol
summary: good things happen to those who are found crying in the supply closet by their hot, older, maybe flirty boss-slash-mentor.
wc: 14.5k (i have no idea how that happened)
tags/tropes: age gap (duh), slow burn with an insane amount of tension, lowkey very emotionally rife, hurt/comfort, not-so-unrealistic amounts of crying, langdonmel in the background if you squint (you don’t have to squint very hard i love them so much guys im sorry) vaguely referenced but not subtlety implied bad childhood, gratuitous and frankly ridiculous medical inaccuracies because i took a lot of creative liberty, reader is an ode to Matilda by Harry Styles and You’re Gonna Go Far by Noah Kahan, Pitt Crew becomes reader’s family :)
a/n: this was supposed to be a sort-of drabble for @leeknowpegger. idk what happened. pegger i’m sorry i’ve been so dead recently (always) will you take this as an apology. If you’d like more cohesive tags, more context, extra details, and more in depth warnings, this fic has been cross-posted on ao3, and will be linked below :]
acknowledgments: thank you to @patrick-stewart for the amazing gif! my deepest, deepest apologies for not crediting sooner
ao3
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۫ ꣑ৎ
You have been the perfect day shift intern for five months. Five freaking months of listening to mostly constructive criticism, five months of adapting and learning on the go with not a single complaint voiced, five months of diligent note-taking, studying, and practice. Five months of weaseling your way into the list of interns-slash-young-doctors that your residents actually respect. Five months of grueling shifts, hard losses, and never saying no when someone needs you to do something.
Five months of being the untouchable, “perfect” intern. Robby’s newest addition to his growing list of “work-wards.”
Five months of unflinching effort and dedication and it took four hours of your third night-shift to reduce you to a miserable, snotty mess on the supply closet floor. Tucked into the space between the two shelves, just the toes of your blood and snot and god knows what else covered shoes peeking out, the rest of you obscured.
Five months, four hours, and back to back fuck-ups that escalated into Dr. Jack Abbot, the man you may or may not have had the hugest crush on since beginning your intern year, removing you from a case. Five months, four hours, and two parents screaming at Dr. Abbot, telling him that you’re not fit to be a doctor.
Tonight isn’t the first night a patient has yelled at you. Tonight isn’t even the first time you’ve been removed from a case. It’s not the first time Dr. Abbot has had to correct you, and it’s certainly not the first time you’ve made a mistake.
You’re an intern. It’s your job to fuck up, learn from it, and keep going. That’s what Dr. Mohan said to one of the other interns awhile back. They’d ended up flunking out, but oh well. It was good advice. It wasn’t meant for you, but hell if you don’t say it to yourself every night like a prayer.
But right now, the usual calming mantra is doing absolutely nothing. You’re stifling ugly sobs into the tops of your knees, arms wrapped around and squeezing as tight as you can, your chest shaking and shuddering with the force of your complete and total freak-out.
The patient isn’t dead. Despite your mistakes, they didn’t die. There’s really nothing to cry about. Nothing to hide in the supply closet for.
And yet, here you are.
Your first mistake wasn’t terrible, but it was ridiculously stupid and incredibly embarrassing. Triage room, emergency measures being taken. And you, tired and off kilter from being so used to the day-shift, broke the sterile field. Like some dumb medical student, not a fairly seasoned intern who’s drilled sterile protocol into her head until it’s muscle memory.
For a scalpel. You dropped a scalpel. Arguably the worst thing to drop. And then, like an idiot, you picked it back up.
And, well. There’s no time to re-scrub, so there wasn’t a need for you in the triage room anymore.
Your second mistake was equally stupid and avoidable, if you’d focused more. Dr. Garcia was kind enough to let you scrub in on an emergency appendectomy.
It was a test. Not your first.
And you ripped the fucking purse strings.
Once again, you were unceremoniously booted from the room (being kicked out of an OR feels a hell of a lot worse than being kicked out of a triage room) and sent back to the pit. Dr. Abbot immediately caught wind of it and demoted you to scut work until “you get your head back in the game.”
And, well. You tried really hard to devote yourself to your new task, but you had to keep blinking tears out of your eyes every five seconds and you absolutely refuse to cry in front of literally any of your coworkers, lest they think you some weak-willed weak-stomached intern who can’t handle some criticism and correction. You’re a hard worker. You’re good at this. You have to be.
So yeah. Crying in the supply closet.
You’ve always been a frustrated cryer, which is annoying on a good day and downright awful on a bad one (case in point.)
You’re just so upset with yourself. You’re better than this. You know you are. You’ve proven that you are. You don’t drop scalpels. You don’t break the sterile field. You don’t rip purse strings.
But you did tonight. And maybe one day you’ll laugh, but today is not that day.
You just don’t get it. Day shift? Incredible. Manageable. You’re on top of things, put together, and worthy of Dr. Robby’s respect.
But tonight? Quite literally the exact opposite.
You can’t be burning out, right? That’s not how burn out works. There’s like, signs, and you start to feel terrible and awful and exhausted and sure you definitely feel all of those things, but that’s because you work in medicine. And you’re an intern. You’re supposed to feel terrible and awful and exhausted. But maybe you’re not? You do enjoy your work, and it’s exhilarating, especially when you try something for the first time and execute it well, because you always do, you always get things right on the first try, obviously, so that means that this can’t be burn out. You don’t burn out. That’s not you. Right? No. Of course not.
You gasp a particularly rough sob into your knees, air feeling like knives as you inhale, making you cough horrendously. You must be quite a sight.
Unfortunately, due to your alternating hacking coughs and dramatic crying, you don’t quite hear the door open.
You do, however, hear the quiet “Oh.” that’s mumbled a few moments later.
Of-fucking-course.
You scramble upright, aggressively wiping at your face and attempting to make it look like you weren’t just crying on the ground.
“Dr. Abbot! I’m so sorry, this is very unprofessional and I know you have me on scut work but I promise I’m still working on it—“
He holds up a hand, and you slam your jaw shut with an audible click.
“Just needed some four by fours, kid.”
Always one to be helpful (especially to the guy you have a crush on who also happens to be your boss, aka the same person who professionally told you to get your shit together about forty minutes ago) you reach beside yourself and hand him the package of gauze, an awkward smile fixed on your face.
“…Those are three by threes.”
Bitch. Motherfucker. Fuck your life.
“Right,” You mumble, dragging your hand down your face. “I’ll just get out of your way. Sorry.”
You turn to walk past him, attempting to go quick enough that he might not notice the new tears shining in your eyes before a hand lands on your shoulder.
“Look,” Dr. Abbot starts. “You’re one of Robby’s adopted interns, right? Robby-Junior?”
“That is one of the rumors Santos has been spreading, yes.”
His hand is on your shoulder. His hand is on your shoulder. (!!!)
You don’t know what to do. He’s looking at you. Your boss doesn’t fluster you. You’re chill. You’re normal. You’re cool as a cucumber, yep yep yep.
“Robby doesn’t adopt interns lightly. Don’t let one bad shift mess you up. It happens to everyone.”
You purse your lips. You should let it go. Take his advice. Thank him.
The all-consuming-guilt and ever-present-need to prove yourself itches too painfully to ignore.
Dr. Abbot seems to notice, and he catches your gaze again.
“What, it doesn’t happen to you?”
A jolt of panic stabs your chest. “No! Of course it happens to me, I didn’t mean to imply that I’m like, above making mistakes or having bad shifts at all—“
Genuinely what is wrong with you. Why the fuck does he do this you. You’re a smart, confident woman who apparently chucks her brain into the garbage bin whenever her boss is around.
Dr. Abbot, probably picking up on a pattern of behavior by now, levels you with another look that shuts you up fairly quickly. He’s got a sort of impish grin on his face, and it shouldn’t be hot, but he’s got his hand on your shoulder and you’re having a ridiculously shitty night. Does anything matter anymore?
“Usually, we try to mix up interns schedules so you don’t get into a rhythm on one specific shift so that when you inevitably switch, the change doesn’t mess up your flow. But I'm sure your knack for keeping your head down and doing good work let you fall through the cracks.”
He takes his hand off your shoulder and shoves it into his pocket, but you almost don’t notice because he said you do good work.
Abbot gives you another grin. “And I didn’t stick you on scut as a punishment. Mindless work tends to be calming, which in turn helps focus your mind.”
“But I ripped the purse strings,” You blurt like a Catholic school girl in a particularly rife confessional, “Like an idiot.”
“You ripped them like an intern doing something for the first time.”
“I practiced hundreds of times to make sure it didn’t happen!”
He tilts his head, almost cat-like. “Did you also practice on a live person in a higher stakes situation while your body is messed up from a sudden and huge sleep schedule change?”
“…No?”
He snorts. “Exactly. Dr. Garcia probably won’t hold it against you. She’ll give you shit for it, but it’s not like she’s never going to give you another chance.”
You wipe the last bit of wetness of your cheeks with the back of your hand, embarrassment heating your face. Despite the awfulness of being caught crying in the supply closet, the beginnings of pleasant warmth is spreading through your chest, Dr. Abbot’s reassurances echoing in your head.
“Thank you, Dr. Abbot. Um. Sorry about the crying. I promise I don’t usually do that.”
Dr. Abbot snorts as he saunters towards the door. “Wouldn’t judge you if you did, kid.”
—
Dr. Jack Abbot is bored.
He has his work, which is great. He became a doctor after being discharged because he’s always been the kind of man that needs something to do. Something to mind, something to watch, something to fix. Robby and him and much the same in this way.
Working at the ED was enough for a while. There was a certain challenge to it, an unpredictability that itch sated, kept him sane. And, well. Now he’s an attending. Night shift lead.
He started to get restless again.
He thought a pet might work. He was going to get a dog, but it didn’t sit right with him to get an animal built for companionship and then leave it at home for over twelve hours a day. Then he thought a cat might do the trick. He looked online first, saw beautiful, well bred felines that could probably compete and win for best in show for whatever the cat equivalent is for the Westminster Dog Show.
And then he made the mistake of going to the shelter and seeing an old, one eared tuxedo cat that stared at him with something in between fear and spite and its eyes. And well. The shelter attendants assured him that the cat in question prefers being left alone and having its own space, but might warm up eventually, and he brought him home that day.
And then it was just Jack, occasionally Robby, and now his asshole cat who might not love him back.
That also worked for a while. Having Charlie was fun. It was nice having another living creature in his house that wasn’t him. Even if he did have a habit of chewing on power cords when left unattended and eventually progressed into attempting to destroy Jack’s stethoscope if he left it anywhere he could find.
Minding the cat gave him something to do that wasn’t tedious, and it was a special sort of bonus to wake up every now and then and see the cat sprawled at the foot of the bed, snoring away. He didn’t actually know cats could snore like that.
Around the time that the itch came back and Jack was considering adopting a second cat from the shelter (well on his path to becoming a crazy cat lady, as Robby said in the park over beers) he met you for the first time.
Sometimes Jack slips quietly into the ED and watches the chaos of day shift’s conclusions. He’s picked up a very special language of gauging what he’s getting into based on the body language and behavior of the rest of the hospital staff. Robby had told him about the latest intern— a motivated, stubborn sort of girl that frequently went toe-to-toe with Santos but without any of the pushback when receiving correction or criticism. He’d heard that you were smart, capable, and well on your way of becoming a great doctor.
Robby failed to mention that you were pretty.
He’d watch you, comparing notes with Mohan with a certain intense focus on your face, worrying your lip between your teeth and repeatedly tucking a piece of hair behind your ear because it’d fallen out of your disheveled pony tail he thinks ‘Oh.’
And then, a few months later, he finds you crying in a closet, subtly confessing fears of failure and falling short of expectations, and then he thinks ‘Well, there’s something to do.’
Jack tries not to think about you, at first. You, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes, bottom lip jutted out just a bit, hugging your knees. He tries not to think about how you’d looked at him when he’d assured you that you did good work, the awkward thank you, and the way that for the rest of the shift, all the annoying menial tasks that get forgotten in the chaos were all mysteriously taken care of.
He tells himself that he’s just going to keep an eye on you. For Robby’s sake. He’d do the same for Whitaker.
The next time you have a night shift, you’re clearly more prepared for the exhaustion, and when he finally sees you in true, proper action, he understands immediately why Robby likes you and Mohan frequently attaches you to her cases. Skill, patience, and focus.
When he watches you trach a patient with a certain ease that only comes from practicing hundreds of times, Ellis shoots him a knowing look. Raised eyebrows and smirk. When she passes him in the hall a few hours later, she jabs her thumb behind her shoulder at where you’re diligently filling out a chart.
“That one yours, then?”
Jack shakes his head. “It’s not like that. You make me sound like a creep.”
Another raised eyebrow. “Sure it isn’t.”
“She’s Robby’s intern.”
“Mhm.”
“She’s way too young.”
Parker shrugs. “She’s good.”
“She is.”
The senior resident cuts a glance back to you. “Think she’ll burn out?”
“Maybe.”
Parker crosses his arms. “Are you gonna let it happen?”
“She’s not my intern.”
Up to three Parker Ellis looks and counting.
“It’s an HR nightmare.”
Parker shrugs. “You just said she’s not your intern.”
He narrows his eyes. “You know what I meant.”
“Do I? It’s been awhile, Jack. No one would really judge you for having some fun.”
“Parker.”
“Jack.”
He shakes his head, walks towards the boards. “You’re the worst.”
Parker just laughs. “Sure I am.”
To your credit, he doesn’t find you crying in a supply closet again to see evidence of you doing so for a solid few weeks. But, like most things in the ED, the peace doesn’t last.
You came into work soaking wet, which is odd, considering the fact that he knows you drive, and the walk to the parking lot isn’t far enough to account how you’re shivering in your freshly changed scrubs. He brushes it off, chalks it up to freakish Pittsburg weather.
Some night shifts are relatively slow and mild. Tonight is not one of those shifts. Patients are extra irritable at late hours, which is to be expected, but what he’s not expecting is to walk by South 15 and see a 50-something year old man slap you.
Jack blinks, and in the next second he’s in the room, standing in between you and the patient.
“Excuse me, what the fuck is going on here?”
Gloria will probably give him shit for his language later, but right now all he can think about is the startled look on your face and the echo that the contact made.
“I said I want a real doctor, not this fucking—“
“Get the fuck out of my hospital.”
Shen peaks his head in. “Security’s on their way.”
Jack reaches behind him to where you’re still standing, your hand covering your cheek, and gently pushes you towards Shen, towards the door. You stumble over your feet a bit, but truly, Jack’s never been more thankful for his residents because then Parker is right there, ushering you out the door with a hand on your shoulder. Jack resolutely ignores your mumbled “I’m fine, really, he just surprised me.”
Thankfully, security doesn’t take that long to get to the room, and the second Jack is finished explaining, he’s out the door and scanning the ED for your face. Nurse Young jerks her head towards the break room, and he thinks he manages to give her what he hopes is a thankful smile before he’s beelining for it.
When he opens the door, you’re sitting on the floor again, holding an ice pack to your cheek with one hand and dabbing at your lip with a paper towel. Like you’ve never heard of medical protocol in your entire life.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
You jerk your head up, a kid caught with its hand in the cookie jar.
“Dr. Abbot!”
Lowering himself to the ground is awkward, physically. Prosthetics don’t lend to much mobility and he’s too old to be doing this, but he just. There are little beads of blood collecting and then sliding down your chin, dripping onto the leg of your scrubs. At the same angle of the split in your lip, there’s a little cut he can see peaking out from under the ice pack.
He reaches forward, fingers itching towards the deep scarlet dripping steadily. He pauses, remembering things like words and questions and sees the wild look in your eyes.
“Can I…?” Jack’s voice trails off, the words clunky and useless in this bubble that’s seemed to form around the two of you, on the probably disgusting floor of the ED break room.
You slowly drop the napkin, let the ice pack lower to your lap and nod.
“He had a ring on. I guess it caught me. I didn’t really notice until I got here.”
“Parker and Shen didn’t notice?”
You look at your lap. “I told them I was fine… And covered it with my hand. There are other patients. It’s just a little cut.”
Jack’s fingers finally reach your face, and he almost takes them back when you flinch on the initial contact, shaking ever so slightly.
But then, with noticeable effort, you relax into his palm, his fingers curling around the side of your jaw. He should grab gloves. He should get up, take his hand off your face.
Anyone could walk in right now and call Gloria on his ass.
His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, just below the cut, which does have some faint bruising around it. And truthfully, the split in your lip doesn’t look that bad either.
But there’s still little dots and trails of scarlet and he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to calm down until he fixes it. He needs to fix something.
“If I leave you here so I can get supplies,” He starts, voice a little rough, “Can I trust that you’ll stay here and not do anything stupid?”
“Uh, yes? Should I move to a real chair though?”
Jack huffs as he hauls himself to his feet. “That’d be preferable.”
Later, when he’s at home in his bed, he’ll assure himself that the night shift wasn’t truly that busy and he trusts his residents to handle things while he’s busy.
No one stops him on his way to the medical supply closet (the irony of the location is not lost on him) and he makes it back without interruption. Upon opening the door, you have in fact moved to a chair, and it seems the bleeding slowed in his absence.
What he should do is sit down in the chair opposite of you and handle this situation like a professional, like the Dr. Abbot, night shift attending, not Jack who’s got a thing for fixing.
He does try to remove his emotions and feelings from the situation, he really does. It’s something he’s generally very good at —which is where he and Robby differ; Robby would prefer to feel too much and Jack would prefer to feel nothing at all— but you’re looking up at him and there’s something really dangerous in the air and it must’ve gotten into your blood stream or something cause it’s swimming in your eyes and he realizes that removing his feelings is not going to be possible.
He decides he could at least tone it down. You’re an intern. Robby’s intern. So what if you’re bleeding all over the break room? Jack’s just doing his job as the attending to look after the doctors and nurses under his jurisdiction or whatever. That’s all.
“Tilt your head up.”
He sets to work cleaning up the cut and split as detached and clinically as possible, even puts on gloves so there’s no skin to skin contact, just protocol, but he can feel the warmth of your skin through the latex and you keep sucking in these tiny little breathes when something stings and he can’t get the sound of the slap out of his head and it’s all just kind of a lot.
He readjusts his hand on the side of your face, sort of holding your forehead now to have better access and control over the cut on your cheek and wow. Your skin is really warm. It kind of feels like you’re burning up.
Jack tosses the piece of gauze he was using and rests the back of his hand against your forehead. Shit, you are burning up.
He thinks back to you, walking in today, soaked to the bone.
“Did you walk to work today?”
You wince. “My car kind of died? On the way here? I was only a mile away. But I called a towing company, so I didn’t just leave my car in the middle of the road.”
He blinks.
“Your car died, so you had it towed and walked a mile to work, in the rain, late at night, and didn’t tell anybody?”
You just keep staring at him, brows furrowed.
“Yeah? I carry a knife and I’ve taken self defense classes, and my car was just towed back to my place, so. I had a shift to work.”
There’s… a lot to unpack in your answer.
“Kid,” He starts, wondering why Robby never thought to give him a heads up before you started working more night shifts, “What was your plan to get home?”
“Walk, probably. I was thinking about taking the bus. Dr. King knows the bus schedule, so I’m probably going to text her.”
Jack decides to just finish cleaning you up, before he does something stupid like shake you by your shoulders and ask why you didn’t think to let your boss know that your car broke down and you’d be walking home in the rain. Or that when a patient slapped you in the face, his ring cut your face and lip open.
God.
“It’s really fine though,” You say, gesticulating animatedly with your hands. “My place isn’t that far, and it’s not the first time my car’s died. The battery’s kind of shot, but I guess my car has a weird battery, and it’s like, crazy expensive to get a new one, so. Besides, I like walking. I’ve been meaning to catch up on my audiobooks.”
He wishes you’d stop talking so he’d stop hearing things that make him want to do things he can’t and shouldn’t do. Like find out what car you drive so he can buy you a new battery. Or buy you a new car all together.
Christ, you have him wrapped around your fucking finger.
“I’ll drive you home. If you’re fine with that.”
Jack has to fight a grin at how comically wide your eyes grow at his suggestion.
“Oh no, you really don’t have to. I promise I’m—“
“Please stop saying you're fine,” He begs, “You don’t have a working car, a patient slapped you in the face, and I think you’re coming down with something.”
The smile that’s seemed permanently fixed on your face since he came into the break room falters, for a bit.
“Well,” You grimace, hands fisting the hem of your scrub top, “Things certainly aren’t… great, but I’ll survive. I’m not like, incapable, or anything.”
Jacks quiet for a bit, not just mulling over your words but the way you said them; the cadence and tone.
He hums. “Is that what you think? That I or someone else here will think you’re not competent or that you’re weak if you take a break or ask for help?”
Your face falters again. “No, no, of course not I just… I don’t know. I’m an intern. It’s my job, supposedly, to mess up and have to be looked after in case I accidentally kill someone and stuff like that. I just don’t want to be someone that people think they have to worry about. I need— internships are competitive. They’re competitions, really. And I want to win.”
Jack Abbot knows what it’s like to want to win. That need to prove yourself, prove that you’re capable and strong and unfailing.
So Jack also knows how quickly that can all go south.
“You’re a smart kid,” He says, voice ever so slightly soft in the quiet tension of the break room, empty except for the two of you, “And you’re going to make a great resident, and one day, a damn good attending. But none of that means shit if you burn out or get run yourself into the ground before you get there.”
He avoids eye-contact while he carefully applies the bandage to your cheek. “This industry will chew you up and spit you back out if you don’t take care of yourself. I get it. We’re doctors. We make the worst patients. But you got slapped in the face during a shitty day. It’s okay to… not be okay for a minute.”
You huff a watery laugh. “Isn’t that what energy drinks are for?”
He shakes his head. “What, trying to die faster?”
“Anything to shake those student loans. Can’t be in debt if you’re dead.”
“Don’t they just pass it to your family? Next of kin or whatever?”
“I don’t think they can give student loans to a cactus. I mean, I consider her my daughter, but I hardly think it’ll hold up in court.”
Jack mentally files that information away for later. What later is, he isn’t sure.
He stands, pulls off his gloves and tosses all the used gauze and shit in the trash can.
“I gotta get back out there,” He jams his thumb towards the door, “But feel free to take five. No one’s judging you. Matter of fact, as your boss, I’m telling you to take a break.”
You roll your eyes. “Whatever you say, Dr. Abbot. But thank you. For the…”
You gesture to your bandaged cheek and lip. “…And for the advice.”
He shrugs, like taking care of you hasn’t become a persona fantasy he may or may not fall asleep imagining most nights. Like it doesn’t matter, like he’s just doing his job.
“Offer for the ride’s still open. Just let me know by the end of shift.”
And with that, he’s out the door.
It’s the end of shift, and you’re staring at the double doors that lead to the outside world, and beyond that, absolutely fucking miserable weather for walking, a dead car, and cold as shit apartment.
You’re not exactly rushing out the door.
You’re clutching at the strap of your bag, regular clothes on, still damp despite the fact that it’s been over thirteen hours since you originally took them off, begging the universe to strike you down where you stand. Spontaneous lightning bolts happen indoors too, right?
The doors just stare back at you, unchanging in their miserable-ness, and after a solid ten minutes of staring, you feel rather than see Jack sidle up next to you.
“Still raining out there?”
“Yep. Looks worse now.”
“Not great weather to walk in. Especially considering the low-grade fever.”
“Mhm.”
“Did you text Dr. King for the bus schedule?”
“No. I didn’t want to wake her up.”
Jack huffs a breath, then jerks his head towards the doors that lead to the employee parking lot.
“Come on, kid.”
The ride is quiet and awkward. Well. Dr. Abbot probably doesn’t think it’s awkward, because he seems like the kind of man not to be bothered by long stretches of silence. Or silence at all.
He’d been kind enough to turn the heat on full blast (you started shivering the moment you stepped outside) and the radio is softly playing, and it’s only thanks to Sabrina Carpenter’s voice that you don’t feel like completely freaking out.
You mouth along to the lyrics, quietly humming the chorus under your breath.
“—I get wet at the thought of you being a responsible guy—“
“—Treating me like you’re supposed to do, tears run down my thighs—“
By the time you’ve realized that perhaps this isn’t the best song choice to sing along to, considering the situation and who’s car you’re currently riding in, the words “I get wet” have already left your mouth so there’s no real point in stopping.
On a completely unrelated note, Dr. Abbot starts smiling a little bit when you hum.
Pittsburgh traffic is terrible, so the drive kind of drags on. The radio is playing Chappell Roan now. Casual specifically. You’re considering changing the radio station because god.
“So,” You start, just to say anything that drowns out “knee-deep in the passenger seat and you’re eating me out, is it casual now?”, “Did you… have a good shift?”
That was a terrible question. Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you? How did you get through medical school?
Dr. Abbot snorts. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”
Ah. Right. The Incident.
“I told you I’m—“
“Didn’t I tell you to stop saying that?”
Your lap has never looked more interesting. Wow, is that a loose thread on your sweats?
He continues. “Fine or not, a patient assaulted you. Even if he didn’t leave a mark, that’s still shitty.”
“Have you been hit by a patient before?”
He huffs. “Hell yeah. It happens to everyone eventually. It’ll happen again. You get better at keeping your cool.”
“Sorry you had to step in. I’ve been hit by a patient before and I was fine.”
“Oh yeah?”
You nod. “It was during my Pedes rotation, actually. I’ve always known working with kids probably wasn’t going to be for me, but, well. Kid came in for intussusception, and she was screaming and writhing in pain, and I failed to restrain her properly.”
“What, did she slap you too?”
“Nope. Kicked me in the chin. Ended up biting almost clean through my tongue.”
“Fucking hell, kid. What’d you do?”
You shrug. “Kept my blood in my mouth until we finished sedating the patient. Ended up with three stitches.”
Dr. Abbot lets out a low whistle. “Always the patients you least expect.”
“The importance of proper patient restraint was thoroughly impressed upon me, I assure you.”
The silence after your short conversation is slightly more comfortable, and thankfully the radio station has decided to play less pointed music.
Between the warmth of the car, the smell permeating the seats that smells distinctly like Dr. Abbot, and the drumming of rain outside, it doesn’t take long for drowsiness to begin to overtake you.
Your last thought before falling asleep is that you don’t remember if you gave Dr. Abbot your address or not.
Someone is gently shaking your shoulder, and you feel like shit.
“What?” You attempt to say, but the side of your mouth is pressed against the seatbelt and your shoulder so it comes out sounding like: “Whamfgh?”
Opening your eyes is a herculean task, like someone sewed miniature weights to your eyelids while you were asleep. You’re absolutely freezing, despite the steady hum of the car's heat, still on high, and you vaguely recognize the street the car is currently parked on.
Oh right, your apartment.
“Oh,” You yawn, hauling yourself semi-upright, aiming for woman who has it together, and less disheveled swooning woman in a Baroque painting.
Dr. Abbot is staring at you with equal parts humor and concern.
You rub at your eyes. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Little over forty minutes. You looked like you needed it.”
“It doesn’t take that long to drive to my place, even with traffic.”
Your brain is moving like molasses, so it takes you a second to catch up with the implication of his statement.
“Did you just… park in front of my house? So I could keep sleeping?”
He just shrugs. “Like I said. You looked like you needed it.”
Embarrassment and a touch of something else floods through your body, hot and cold at the same time.
“Sorry. You didn’t have to wait.”
“If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t have.”
Still moving slowly, you gather up your bag from where it partially spilled on the floor all over your feet, shoving old receipts and pads and chapstick back in with the reckless abandon of a person who isn’t nearly aware enough of social cues to be in a car alone with their hot boss.
Whilst you're grabbing and shoving, Dr. Abbot reaches into his back seat, rifles around for a bit, and then drops something rather unceremoniously over your head and shoulders. After a quiet “hey” you pull it into your lap, and then that hot feeling is back in full force.
It’s a rain jacket. Clearly Dr. Abbot’s. You can see his name written on the inside pocket. It’s nice too. Definitely not the kind of rain jacket you could afford on an intern’s budget.
“For the next time your car dies,” He clarifies, as if the jacket’s purpose is the thing that’s stupefied you, not the fact that he’s the one giving it to you, “In case of rain.”
“You really don’t have to,” your words are rushed and clunky in your mouth, tumbling over each other in your haste to say something, anything, “I mean, I can just buy my own—“
“First of all,” He cuts you off, voice smooth and rough at the same time, “Do I seem to be the kind of guy in the habit of doing things I don’t want to? And second of all…”
He tilts his head, gaze sharp. “Are you really going to buy one for yourself?”
Your mouth goes dry.
“I was planning on looking online—“
Dr. Abbot interrupts you. “Now you don’t have to.”
Like it’s that easy. Does he want it to be?
“Dr. Abbot, I—“
“Jack.”
His grin goes from mild to shit-eating as you stare at him, obviously radiating confusion.
“Jack,” you start, testing out the name in your mouth, hearing how it sounds in the air. “I can take care of myself. You don’t need to give me your jacket. I’ve been doing just fine on my own.”
“Kid—“
The prickling of perceived weakness makes anger spark in your chest.
“Don’t call me kid like I’m stupid.”
Dr. Abb— Jack seems simultaneously impressed that you interrupted him for a change and vaguely put out.
He holds up a finger, effectively silencing anything else you were thinking of saying.
“I don’t call you kid because I think you’re stupid. I don’t think you’re stupid. You’d know if I thought you were stupid, because I would tell you. ‘Kid’ is a…” He trails off, free hand tapping thoughtful rhythms on the steering wheel, “…Nickname. Term of endearment. Whatever you want to call it, but it’s not derogatory.”
Jack holds up a second finger.
“You have not been taking care of yourself. If you were, you wouldn’t have a low grade fever, and you would’ve called me as your boss or one of your friends to drive you instead of walking after your car died. You’ve been surviving. There’s a difference.”
Shame burns white hot through you— all your recent failings laid out by the person you want least to notice them. Clearly, he has.
Possibly out of pity in response to your no doubt miserable expression, Jack continues.
“Don’t beat yourself up about it. It’d be an honest-to-god miracle if any intern managed to properly take care of themself. Hell, residents don’t do it either, and neither do attendings. Does Robby strike you as the kind of man who takes perfect care of himself?”
“That depends. Is my answer going to make it back to him?”
Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Exactly. Doctors make the worst patients, in and out of a hospital setting. Knowing better doesn’t actually make us all that inclined to do better. Terrible misconception.”
He nudges the jacket on your lap. “So just take the jacket. One less thing to worry about.”
Emboldened by his recent streak of kindness towards you and the flush of fever running through your veins, you look over to him.
“You worry about me?”
Something dances in his eyes for a split second, gone before you can blink.
“I worry about all the interns and residents on my service, but especially the ones my best friend has taken a liking to.”
Right. Of course. He only cares because of Robby. And Robby only cares so he can add another doctor to the already short-staffed PTMC. It’s not like Jack actually likes you or anything.
You clutch the jacket to your stomach, finally finding the energy to get out of the car. Jack’s car.
“Well. Thanks for the ride, Dr. Abbot. And the jacket.”
“No problem, kid.”
And if later on that evening, in the safety of your tiny apartment, you take in the deep, fresh, almost spicy smell that makes up Jack, lingering on the jacket, that’s no one’s business but yours.
—
From that night on, it feels like Jack Abbot is everywhere.
Whether it’s something he’s doing on purpose or you’ve just developed a heightened sense to his whereabouts— it doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s a whiff of his cologne (eerily similar to Dior Sauvage, which makes you shudder. Certainly he didn’t choose a cologne similar to the number one male manipulator scent on purpose?) or seeing his handwriting on a whiteboard or his notes in a chart, he’s there.
You’re being scheduled for night shifts fairly regularly now, in addition to the 24-hour shifts you have the pleasure of being put on as an intern.
Working a double isn’t horrific, really. Exhausting, sure, but Robby and Jack’s solid presence makes the shifts more bearable. Plus, you’re quickly becoming friends with the fresher residents, Whitaker and Santos, plus some of the older residents like Mohan and King. Even Dr. Langdon gives pretty solid advice and mentorship, despite the tension in the air whenever he happens to be working with or near Robby.
Normally, 24 hour shifts are grueling, but not impossible. Somewhere around the 15 or 16 hour mark, the sleep deprivation hits, and you can just coast on stress-induced inertia and a healthy does of energy drinks and mania.
Today, though, has been particularly fucking awful. Maybe it’s the fact that the fever never really went away, or the fact that you started your period the day before (being sick on your period should be illegal.) It’s probably both of those things.
But there isn’t really anything to do but grin and bear it. The day will pass, and you have the next two days off anyways. Just survive the next however-many hours of the shift and then you can go home, dress in exclusively fluffy clothes, and binge watch tv whilst eating heart-stopping junk food.
You’re distracted from your charting, propped up on the counter at the nurses station by a light tap on your shoulder and someone saying your name.
Dr. Langdon has sidled up next you, voice hushed.
“Hey, uh. I just wanted to let you know that you seem to have… bled through.”
If a spontaneous earthquake could open a chasm beneath your feet and swallow you whole, now would be the time.
“Fuck fuck-ity fuck fuck,” You mumble, wiping your hands down your face. “Right. Yeah. Of course. Thank you for letting me know.”
In a moment that is as mortifying as it is kind of sweet, Langdon passes you a hoodie that is clearly his.
“To tie around your waist,” He clarifies, holding the object out across the meager space between the two of you, voice a bit awkward and stilted, like you might decide to spit in his face or something.
You don’t actually know what it is that Dr. Langdon did before your arrival that makes the break room go quiet when he walks in (unless Dr. King is there) but you don’t particularly care. If it was truly something horrific that you should be worried about, he wouldn’t be working here. Robby wouldn’t let that kind of thing slide.
So you take the offered hoodie with a strained smile (can this shift just be over) and speed-walk to the break room, praying no one decides to snag you on the way there.
What you should do is go to your locker where your stash of pads, tampons, spare underwear, and extra scrubs are, and then probably the bathroom to get changed, so you can keep on going but you also just saw Dr. King go into the break room and you just really need a hit of her specific brand of optimism.
The woman in question perks up when she notices your arrival, hastily eating the same snack she always eats around this time— a tiny bag of pretzels.
She watches as you collapse into the chair across from her, letting your head thunk onto the table.
“Bad shift?”
“Bad life,” You grumble. “Dr. Langdon had to give me his hoodie to tie around my waist because I bled through onto my scrubs. Like a middle schooler who doesn’t know what pad sizes are for.”
Dr. King nods thoughtfully. “He asked me if it would be weird of him to let you know and offer his hoodie. To which I replied that periods are a normal bodily function and he’s a doctor.”
“Here here,” You half-heartedly cheer, any actual cheer or enthusiasm severely lacking in your voice. “How did you survive your intern year, Dr. King?”
“We’ve been working together for awhile, you can call me Mel,”
She pops another pretzel in her mouth before answering. “But to answer your question, I mostly just kept telling myself that failing wasn’t an option. Which. Probably isn’t helpful, or good advice, but it worked for me. Something that’s nice is if you have a fellow intern or doctor that you enjoy working with. I know the other two interns who matched into the PTMC dropped out of the course, so it’s just you, but you have Dr. Robby, right?”
You nod, picking absently at a spot on the table and ignoring the way that it wasn’t Robby who popped into your head, but Jack.
Your teeny, ignorable crush on him has become a full-blown thing, with semi-weekly dreams about him in various… situations, and casual daydreams at all hours of the day of what it would be like to just be with him, or hear him, in any capacity that couldn’t be qualified as work or a boss checking on his employee. Intern. Whatever.
Hormonal and fever-ish, you suddenly feel like you’re going to explode and die if you don’t have someone to confide in right this very second. You haven’t heard Mel really talk about anyone you work with outside of professional doctor-to-doctor conversation, not even about Dr. Langdon, who she seems almost suspiciously close with.
“Mel,” You start, voice a little too thick and watery to just be talking about your stupid, annoying, one-sided workplace crush, “Can I tell you a secret?”
She seems to consider the pros and cons first, and looks fairly caught off guard, but she answers. “Um. Sure?”
“Have you ever had a crush on a coworker before? Or like, a boss or mentor?”
Mel sets down her bag of pretzels. “Is this about Dr.—“
“I have the biggest crush on Dr. Abbot and I think it’s ruining my life.”
The words burst out of you all at once, and Mel’s expression goes from shocked, to confused, before finally settling in abject amusement.
“Ah,” She says, sliding the pretzels across to you. “Um. Well I personally don’t have a crush on Dr. Abbot, but I think I understand the sentiment.”
You bury your face into your hands and groan. “It’s awful. It’s so cliche. It’s so fucking Grey’s Anatomy.”
“I’ve never actually seen that show. Becca likes it though.”
Mel allows you a few moments of wallowing and pretzel eating before she speaks again.
“Have you… acted on it?”
“No!” You snap your head up. “I mean. No, I haven’t. I’m not naive enough to think that he would reciprocate. He’s an attending and I’m an intern.”
She leans in. “But…?”
“But sometimes… I wonder? I don’t know. I’m probably crazy. He drove me home the other day, cause my car died, and it was raining, and I got slapped by a patient, and that was when I first came down with this stupid fever, and like, that’s normal, right?”
Mel nods. “Fr— Langdon drives me to work when we share shifts, and sometimes when we don’t. I think Dr. Santos and Dr. Whitaker carpool too. So maybe?”
“Right. Yeah.”
She takes the pretzel bag back. “Is there more evidence that makes you feel crazy?”
Your skin flushes hot at the memory alone.
“He gave me his rain jacket. To keep.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Mel once again takes a few minutes, and the rest of her pretzels before responding.
“I’m honestly not the best person to ask for advice about this. I’ve been told I can be… dense when it comes to romantic endeavors.”
You shrug. “You’re a great listener, and you haven’t steered me wrong in the past.”
She brightens. “That’s good! I think my advice would be to talk to Dr. Mohan. She has experience with your… particular situation.”
Mel tosses the empty pretzel bag and heads toward the door. “I’ll let Robby know you’re taking ten, so don’t worry about someone looking for you while you’re changing.”
“You’re the best. I love you.”
The resident flushes at your gratitude, and then ducks out the door, leaving you alone to stew on her advice.
—
Talking to Dr. Mohan proves difficult, at first. How exactly do you start that conversation? “Hey, I heard you had advice on having a world-ending crush on your boss, got any tips?”
Additionally, she’s kind of hard to track down. You greatly respect Dr. Mohan’s work ethic and truly aspire to her unflinching devotion to patient care at the PTMC.
After a few days (which turns into a few weeks, because you are an emotional coward) of trying (and failing) to find a moment to talk, Dr. Mohan actually ends up finding you.
“Hey!” She jogs up to you as you’re walking to your car, a too-bright smile on her face for the fact that you both just got off a fourteen hour shift.
“Sorry to be that annoying coworker who talks to you in the parking lot, but I wanted to catch you before you left. Mel said you wanted to talk to me?”
“Right!” You stammer, slightly mortified. You admire Dr. Mohan so much and really want her to think you’re capable but you really need some advice on Jack Abbot as a whole, and it sounds like she’s the only expert around. “Yes. That. It’s a really normal question, you know.”
Dr. Mohan just nods, a smile still fixed on her face, like this is a totally normal conversation. “Uh, sure?”
There’s a beat of silence where you both stare at each other, and then she gasps.
“This is about Abbot, isn’t it?”
You groan, throwing your head back in defeat. “Am I that obvious?”
She laughs goodnaturedly. “No. Probably not. You’re just the only intern in the ED right now so I try to make it a habit to keep an eye on you. Plus, Mel is literally the only person in the world who knows about my now-dead crush on him, so. I just connected the dots.”
“He’s so hot, Dr. Mohan. I feel like I’m dying.”
She makes a noise of sympathy. “He is. It’s fucking annoying, at a certain point.”
“Thank you!” You shout, “Like it’s just so there. It should be illegal to just walk around and look like that. I should be focusing on like, studying and learning, but instead I’m just harboring this stupid crush on an attending.”
“Have you ever seen Grey’s—“
“Yes. I know. I can’t be Meredith. Meredith was like, always a mess. Am I a mess?”
Mohan purses her lips. “Well. You did just say you felt like you were dying.”
“I know,” You sigh. “It makes me feel… shallow. I like being a doctor. I was so excited to get matched into the PTMC, and this stupid crush is throwing me off my game.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“On my first night shift rotation I dropped a scalpel, picked it back up, and then ripped the purse strings on my first appendectomy.”
She winces. “Oh. That’s not… great.”
Your hand finds its way to your comfort necklace. “He found me crying in the supply closet like some medical student, and then he comforted me. It was terrible.”
Mohan starts ambling towards the direction you assume her car is in. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’ve been caught crying in the supply closet several times. I think it’s a right of passage. And as for that second part…”
She shrugs. “Abbot gives credit where credit is due, but he won’t coddle you. If he actually offered real comfort or advice or whatever, then he meant it.”
“That’s what he said. It just didn’t really help the whole crush-on-him part. And then there was the slapping incident, and he drove me home, and now I have his rain jacket in my backseat in case my car dies again.”
Mohan actually looks taken back.
“Okay. It sounds to me like this is a situation that is in serious need of wine. Do you drink?”
“Whenever I have a spare twenty dollars.”
She grins. “I happen to have a couple bottles at home that might do the trick. Follow me back to my place?”
“Yes please.”
Wine and, eventually, takeout at Samira’s is much more enjoyable than you expected— considering the fact that you’re an intern and she’s a resident. She confides that she doesn’t have very many friends outside of the ED and was excited at the opportunity to have “real girl-time”.
She shares how she weathered her own seemingly life-ending crush on Jack, gasps and screams at the appropriate times when you tell her about the slapping, the events that occurred in the break room afterwards, the drive home, and the jacket.
You leave her apartment feeling lighter than ever. Like life might be worth living. Like you could survive your intern year.
Maybe everything will be okay.
—
Everything is not okay.
You’re now two full weeks into a never-ending fever, you keep getting stuck with shitty shifts (how many times a month can one person possibly be scheduled to work a double?) and top it all off, you’ve been pissed on not once, but twice in the same fucking shift.
Santos snorts when she sees you go by in your third set of scrubs for the day.
You shoot her a look. “Supportive as ever, Dr. Santos.”
“I try.”
You sink into the chair next to hers, taking a moment to press the heels of your hands into your eyes and maybe, like, take a thirty second nap.
It doesn’t help much.
There’s a particular misery in watching the day-shift rotation handoff with the night shift and not being able to join in the process. Because you’re still there. And will be, until you see them again for your handoff, in twelve fucking hours.
Patients tend to get bitchier the later it gets, and it’s one of those nights where every patient bleeds into the next in a never-ending sea of complaints, pain, and fixing.
The fixing is fine. You like the fixing.
You’re just… having a hard time keeping up with everything while the fever perpetually runs you down. It’s the kind of thing where no amount of sleep can help you. Unless it was for 48 hours straight and then you got another 48 hours off after that to relax while you’re awake, and then another 48 hours to be productive.
A vacation. A week off. You’re describing taking a week off work. It’s comical, actually. Imagine requesting a week off from work. Gloria or whoever it is would never grant that. Not as an intern.
You notice Jack lingering around your general vicinity, which is fairly normal on a night like tonight. Technically, as the only intern on shift, you’re the only liability he has to really worry about.
Somewhere around the eighteen hour mark, he slides into the chair next to you while you’re charting.
“You’re flagging.”
Your eyes burn as you tap information into the tablet, then check on the computer in front of you. “I’m fine. I just need a Redbull or something.”
He slides the tablet out of your hands. “Part of being a good doctor is knowing when to take a break. Can’t be a good doctor if you’re falling asleep during the exam, right?”
“I would never fall asleep during an exam.”
He shrugs. “I’ve seen it happen.”
Jack jerks his head towards the break room. “Take five. Get an energy drink or whatever. Then I want you on chairs for at least an hour.”
“Yes sir.”
He rolls his eyes. “Get going.”
Chairs don't prove to be as uneventful as you (and probably Jack) hoped it would be. You get vomited on by a teenage girl, who apologizes profusely when she finally manages to stop throwing up, narrowly avoid a swing from a patient that quickly becomes a behavioral case, and become an unwilling participant in another patient’s doctor fantasy.
Security had to get involved with that last one. It was. Something.
Your shift ends with little fanfare. It’s honestly a miracle you survived. You’re exhausted, achey, and still feverish. The only thing you can think about is crawling into your bed, indulging in a rare expense of turning your heat up, and sleeping until your next shift.
Walking into your apartment ends up being a slap in the face. First of all, it’s fucking freezing. As if you left every single window open while you were gone. Secondly, it’s dark. Like, not even the clock on the microwave is on.
“Fuck,” you mumble under your breath, tears beginning to burn with unshed tears digging through your bag and fumbling with your phone, about to text your landlord when you see that he’s already texted.
Eric (Landlord): Power and AC is down. Might take some time to fix. Power should be back on by tonight.
And that’s just the last straw, really.
You slam the door behind you, not even bothering to go inside your apartment at all, chest tight and face hot, you race down the stairs, trying to find Samira’s contact through blurry eyes. When you think you’ve found it you click call, collapsing on the curb with your body doubled over, crying like a crazy person into your knees, at something like nine in the morning.
The phone rings for a bit, and you’re about to give up when the line finally stops and somebody picks up.
“Hello?”
It’s not Samira who answers. It’s Jack.
You sniffle. “Why are you answering Samira’s phone?”
“I didn’t. I answered my phone. Because you called me. Are you okay?”
“Oh,” You decide to ignore his question, “I meant to call Samira. Sorry.”
“Wait,” Jack’s voice comes out all rough and tinny through the speaker, but even distorted through a phone, you could listen to it for hours, “Answer the question. Are you okay?”
Your bottom lip wobbles dangerously.
“The power’s out in my building. And the heating went out too. My landlord said the power won’t be on until tonight, and I just wanted to go to sleep, but it’s cold and I'm tired and this stupid fever won’t go away.”
“Do you have a place to stay?”
Always a man of action, Jack is.
You shrug, then make a non-committal noise when you remember he can’t see it. “I was supposed to call Samira and see if she’d let me sleep on her couch.”
“I have a guest bedroom.”
The statement hangs in the crisp morning air. You think of Jack’s encouraging advice, Jack’s steady presence, Jack’s warm car and his nice smelling rain- jacket. Jack, Jack, Jack.
“Jack?”
“Yes?”
“What’s your address?”
The drive over involves bawling your eyes out to Vienna by Billy Joel. It’s just that kind of day.
You have no problems finding parking (miraculously) and no one stops you as you head up to Jack’s apartment as directed.
It’s… fancy. Like, polished floor lobby, lounge area adjacent to the front desk fancy.
The actual building itself isn’t very tall, nothing like a skyscraper, so it’s not exactly surprising that Jack’s apartment is the penthouse. It’s just suddenly very awkward standing in front of the door, in the same sweatshirt you’ve had since high school, sweats that have seen better years, looking exactly like the kind of girl who sobbed on the ride over to Billy Joel.
Jack opens the door almost immediately after you knock, and.
If seeing him in scrubs was bad, it doesn’t hold a fucking candle to him in a tight, army green shirt and grey sweatpants. Grey sweatpants. That couldn’t have been intentional, right? Is he online enough to know these things? God.
His features soften when he takes in your tear-streaked face and disheveled appearance.
He makes a low noise in his throat.
“Oh, you poor thing. Come here,”
Jack had actually been gesturing to the apartment, saying ‘come inside’ but the dam breaks the moment he says “poor thing” and you don’t have the wherewithal to think anything more complex than “Jack=Comfort and Safety".
Your bag drops with a dull thud onto the ground and then you’re crashing into him, face pressed into his chest and arms wrapped around his middle. You can barely find it within yourself to be embarrassed.
Jack doesn’t react at first, going completely stiff in your hold, and you think maybe you’ve gone and fucked this up too, like everything good in your life, but right when you move to pull away a hand finds its way to the back of your head, and another rubs circles on your back.
“Poor girl,” he murmurs, voice a soothing rumble with your ear close to his chest, “They been running you ragged?”
You nod uselessly, feeling raw and cut open— like you’ve been smashed against a rock and everything you keep tucked inside is spilling out and you can’t stop it.
“I’m so tired.” You half-mumble-half-sob into him, a sentiment that feels too light to convey everything that’s happened since you became an intern at the PTMC, and everything else you don’t talk about that happened before.
“I know sweetheart, I know,” Jack is solid beneath your cheek and arms, a lifeboat in a storm. “How about we get you inside and get you warm, huh? That sound nice?”
At the promise of warmth you finally detach from him, shame burning through you when you eye the wet spot on his shirt.
“Sorry,” You say, voice barely above a whisper. “I think I got snot on your shirt.”
“Trust me kid, it’s seen worse.”
He grabs your bag before you can even make a move for it, and you trail behind him into his apartment, attempting to ground yourself by looking around his apartment.
It’s nice. Lived in, not sterile. It doesn’t, actually, look the inside of a dentist’s office, like you were half expecting. Most new apartments have that doctor’s office lobby feel. Not exactly comfortable when you’re a doctor and the goal of home is to not remind you of your job.
Jack hangs your bag on a hook by the door, right next to his own. Something twinges in your chest at the sight.
There’s a feeling under your skin you can’t place as you shuffle into his apartment, something warm and skittish that aches for this to not be a one time thing, to be able to compare the pale morning light you’re watching now to late afternoon sun. To know where he keeps his mugs, what drawer the silverware is in, if he’s got a junk drawer with random shit in it, and what the random shit is. What it feels like to be in his kitchen, shoulders brushing.
But that’s a lot of complicated things to name or voice just past the threshold of the foyer, so you wrap your arms around yourself and toe your shoes off, then pad quietly after him.
Jack is— inviting, or maybe enticing; all those words that beckon the skittish thing closer and it feels just on the tip of danger to obediently sit on the couch he ushers you to.
“By the way,” Jack says somewhere behind you, maybe in the kitchen? “I have a cat. His name is Charlie. He probably won’t come near you, but be warned, he’s an asshole when he wants to be.”
“Oh, that’s fine. I like cats. Especially the asshole ones.”
“That explains a lot of things.”
His statement is kind of loaded, chock full of subtext you don’t care to parse through at the moment.
“Um,” You start, feeling a bit unsteady, “Is— Do you mind if I shower? I kind of smell gross probably, and I feel… grimy. Your apartment seems clean and I’d hate to get my hospital grime on anything.”
Jack just chuckles. “One, I wouldn’t care if you got ‘hospital grime’ on anything because that would be a very hypocritical thing to care about, and two, of course you can shower. Do you have spare clothes?”
“I might’ve forgotten to grab those.”
Another huffy laugh. “That’s fine. You can borrow some of mine. I’ll leave them on the bed.”
That’s like. Wow. Yeah. You’re just gonna borrow some clothes from him. From Jack. You’re going to shower in Jack’s shower and use whatever bodywash he has (hopefully not 5-in-one) and then put on his clothes and you are totally capable of being Completely Normal about these things.
“I already started on dinner when you said you were coming over. Should be done by the time you get out of the shower. Chicken noodle okay?”
Damn Jack Abbot and damn your shitty emotional regulation and damn your life for putting you in these situations.
“Yeah,” You croak, thinking about things like soup and family and being cold and strong and alone, “Yeah that’s fine. Thank you.”
Jack politely does not comment on the fact that soup is reducing you to a tangled heap of emotions and tears, and instead directs you to where his shower is and says to use whatever you want and take however long you want. He says want, not need. You’re not sure if there’s an intention behind the word choice.
Once in the shower, you allow yourself time to cry, to feel awful and self-pitying and all those things that are terrible to go through in front of another person. His shower is expensive and the water is warm and he does not have 5-in-one. There’s a litter box nestled next to the toilet, and it’s not funny, but it kind of is, because Jack would be the kind of guy to look at a litter box and put it right next to the toilet. Everything in its place.
Maybe that’s your problem. You haven’t felt like anything is in the right place in years.
You want to stay in the shower, in the bubble of protection it provides, but the idea of running up Jack’s water bill is enough to guilt you into getting out. You shiver, dry, aggressively attempt to make yourself look less like a wreck at the sink, and then tip-toe into the attached bedroom and carefully pull on the clothes Jack left for you on the bed; a faded, oversized college shirt, and a comfy pair of sweatpants.
They smell like him. You smell like him, like his body wash. The house smells like him. Everything you take in is a pleasant assault of Jack, Jack, Jack.
Enough guilt to fuel an entire room of ex-Catholic’s is the only thing keeping you from snooping around his room. The idea of stumbling upon something private or hidden away makes you feel slimy and gross, so you exit the bedroom and pretend like you don’t feel like a foster dog on its first night home from the shelter.
(Do shelter dogs miss the shelter? Do they miss its familiarity? Do dogs miss anything at all?)
The apartment smells of more spices and good smelling food than you privately thought Jack capable of. You’d read him as the kind of guy to subsist on takeout and maybe like, protein bars. But he’s dutifully stirring a metal pot with all the diligence of the military man that he once was.
Quietly, as if he might throw the wooden spoon he’s stirring with if you make too much noise or take up too much space, you carefully pull out a barstool in front of his kitchen island, the one closest to the door, and haul yourself onto it.
He gives you an examining glance over his shoulder, turns a knob on the stove, then rests his forearms on the island counter across from you. His rather delicious looking forearms, you might add.
“Feeling better after your shower?”
You hum an affirmation, folding your arms and resting your chin on them.
“Isn’t it kind of weird to make soup for breakfast?”
He shrugs. “It’s dinner for us. Or, well, me. I’m not sure your body knows what meal it is.”
He taps a pointer finger rhythmically on the counter. “Any word from your landlord?”
“No. Sorry for… all of this. I know you’re tired.”
“I wish you’d stop apologizing for things I don’t mind doing for you.”
You don’t really know how to respond to that, or what to do with how it makes you feel, so you elect to save it for later. Good at compartmentalizing, ED doctors are.
You clear your throat. “I can call Samira whenever. She’d probably be excited to have girl time. So you know. Don’t feel like— I have other options. If or when you want me to leave.”
“Do you want to leave?”
You wish he’d stop asking questions you don’t want to answer.
You try to play it off, smother your fear and exhaustion with humor. Robby’s kid, through and through.
“Well, I can’t have you getting sick of me. You’re the only person I know who has a very rob-able house if this whole internship doesn’t pan out.”
Jack straightens, shoulders pulling and flexing. “Who said I’d get sick of you? Maybe I like the idea of you in my house.”
“Do you?”
You ask the question before you’re aware of how terrified you are of the answer. But you’ve already said it, and it feels nice to be the one asking the hard question instead.
Jack, likely experienced in this sort of thing, doesn’t look outwardly bothered by it, but he gets a sort-of-sad look on his face, almost like he’s disappointed that you had to ask.
“Have I given you any reason to think otherwise?”
“I don’t know,” You look down, picking at a hangnail to avoid his expression and his eyes and his everything, “I don’t want to assume anything.”
“You’ve already assumed quite a bit.”
You scrunch your face. “That’s different. Those are safe assumptions.”
“Are they?”
“Obviously, it’s safer to assume that you don’t want me to stay here, or at least not for very long, because if I assume that I do I’ll bother you and I want you to—“
You cut yourself off, jaw shutting with a firm click, but the end of the sentence hangs in the air unspoken anyways. It’s not hard to figure out what you were going to say.
I want you to like me.
Jack sighs, and alarm blares are going off in your head and your chest starts to feel tight and cold despite the warmth of his apartment, and then he’s rounding the island and you turn your body to follow him —never turn you back, never let your guard down— and then he’s standing in front of you, over you, and you’re not sure if you want to run or metaphorically curl up at his feet, tail tucked.
It’s pathetic. It’s embarrassing. It’s impossible to ignore.
(What does a shelter dog think, on that first night? Do they hope? Do dogs hope?)
He raises a hand, slowly, giving you a chance to lean away, and when you don’t, it comes to rest on the side of your face, his thumb swiping at the barely-there wetness from earlier tears.
It’s cleaning the cut from the slap, it’s a kindness you can curl into, and it might be a threat. Might be bad, might turn harsh and painful, might leave without a word.
Unlike that day in the break room, there’s no fluorescent lights to suck any heat out of the room and no gloves as a barrier; as a reminder of who he is, of what you are, of how things work.
It’s just you and Jack, in Jack’s apartment, wearing Jack’s clothes, and pretty soon you’re going to eat food that Jack made. Just for you.
And you think maybe, possibly, if he stops here you could kind of hold onto this moment for the rest of your life and it would get you through being alive and strong and alone, and you’d make it through this, whatever this is, if he stops here.
He doesn’t. He starts talking.
“I like knowing that you’re safe. That you’re taken care of. I like knowing with certainty that these things are true because I’m the one making sure of it.”
Your breath hitches in your chest.
“That’s kind of a lot of work, though.”
He hums. “It is. Luckily, I just so happen to be a pretty hard worker.”
Everything about the current situation is a lot and your nerves are over-taxed and dialed up to hundred, so it’s not surprising that you start crying again.
Jack brings up a second hand to the other side of your face and gently wipes away the tears as they come. It feels sort of like the physical version of everything he’s been doing for you since that day in the supply closet.
“You don’t have to do anything, or say anything, or make any kind of decision right now, okay? We can do whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want.”
There’s the word choice again; want, not need. Is there a difference? What does the difference mean to him? What does he mean? Why is he doing any of this?
Jack's phone goes off in his pocket, and he steps back, drops his hands, and goes back to the stove.
Jack said you don’t have to make a decision right now, but you kind of feel like if you don’t do something you’re going to be sick with everything that’s swirling and clawing inside you, threatening to burst. Like the very essence of you is going to explode, and your soul will be painted on Jack’s perfectly decorated walls.
That would be something, wouldn’t it.
You stay seated at the island, turning to stare at Jack’s back while he adds the final touches to the soup. He doesn’t talk anymore, but he keeps looking back every few minutes, like he’s making sure you’re still there.
Eventually Jack turns the stove off, dishes up a bowl of soup for you, and sets it gently in front of you. He uses his pinky to cushion the placing of the bowl, so there’s no loud clinking noise when he sets the bowl down.
There’s a tiny sprig of parsley on top of the soup, right in the center. Like a Panera ad for soup in September.
You start crying again, in earnest.
“I’m sorry,” You gasp, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m— I don’t know. I don’t know.”
You’re hoping the last sentence encompasses an entire lifetime of events, accidents, mistakes, and memories that have never been able to find a place in your head except dead center, at the forefront of your mind at all times, stamped on your forehead for anyone with eyes to see.
Your life hasn’t been wants or choices for a very long time. And here Jack is, giving you an array of both, and saying things like he wants you to want.
“I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Hey, hey hey hey, shhh,” Strong arms wrap around you, tucking your head into a warm chest, effectively shutting off all sensory input that isn’t Jack. “You’re okay, you’re safe, you’re okay, I got you.”
He rubs circles into your back, then switches to tracing shapes, and he lets you cry into him again and he doesn’t tell you to stop, or to calm down, or you’re being too much too fast.
“You’re okay, you’re gonna be okay sweetheart. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
—
You, embarrassingly, fall asleep right there, sitting at the kitchen island over a bowl of soup and twenty-something years of holding up your life with hands that never quite seemed big enough to do it.
You wake up in Jack’s bed, his comforter pulled up to your chin and the clock at the bedside table reading 8:17 p.m. There’s the muffled sound of several voices coming from beyond the door.
Holy shit. What the fuck.
Deciding to ignore the implication that Jack carried you to bed, you mentally take stock of what’s around you.
In front of the clock is your phone (plugged in to charge), a glass of water, and a note with Jack’s handwriting on it.
Kid-
I’ll probably be in the ED for the night shift by the time you wake up. I called Mohan (who called Mel, who was with Langdon, for reasons unknown) to go to your place and grab you some things. There may be people in the apartment when you wake up. You are in no way obligated to interact with them. They have to leave eventually.
Charlie is in the room with you because he hates strangers, but he probably won’t leave the bathroom. Probably. Drink water and eat something, if you can. Text me if you need anything.
The voices beyond the door are, more than likely, the aforementioned individuals who have now seen the glorified closet you call home. It’s not ideal, but you’re wrung out and don’t have the energy to really care. Besides, Samira and Mel are too nice to judge you that hard (you hope) and from what you’ve heard, Langdon isn’t really in a place to say anything.
On one hand, going out there requires socializing. Which, ew. On the other hand, Samira and Mel are the best. Langdon is maybe okay.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you shuffle out of bed and then continue shuffling to the door, hoping that whatever you look like isn’t too terribly awful.
Samira, Mel, and Langdon are standing around the kitchen island, various takeout containers and bottles of alcohol littering the space. For some reason, Trinity, Dennis, and Robby are also present.
Samira and Langdon are engaged in what looks to be a rather animated discussion-slash-argument, and Mel is standing just a little closer to Langdon than what could be considered normal for friends. Trinity is very obviously ignoring Langdon’s general existence, bickering with Dennis on the couch, and Robby is seated in the armchair by the window, nursing a beer and watching both conversations unfold.
You sniff aggressively, and all heads snap to you.
“There are more of you here then there’s supposed to be,” You grumble, scrubbing at your face. “Why are you all here?”
Mel is the first to speak.
“It was Frank actually!” Trinity rolls her eyes, and part of you wants to share the sentiment, “He figured Trinity would be upset that something happened to you and he knew and didn’t tell her, so Trinity decided that me and Samira would get your stuff while everyone else stayed here in case you woke up before we came back!”
Wow, okay, that’s. A Lot.
You squint. “That doesn’t explain why you’re all here. I mean it does, but only like, why you’re here physically.”
Robby frowns. “We heard that you were going through a rough time and you had to stay with Jack, so we came.”
Trinity snorts on the couch and Dennis, next to her, looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.
Robby shoots her a look, but continues. “We care about you. We— I don’t want you to feel like you have to do everything on your own. In or out of the ED.”
Trinity blows out a loud sigh and low whistle. “Jee-zus Robby, give the woman some time to wake up before trying to induce tears again.”
Robby does look a little apologetic, maybe a teensy bit chastised (and annoyed that Trinity was the one doing the chastising) and turns his deep brown eyes back to you.
"Sorry. Can't help these Dad tendencies, you know."
Your face gets hot, maybe a tiny, wet prickle behind your eyes forms while Robby smiles, and the tension leaves the room all in one go, and you start to think that maybe things are in the right place.
–
At the ED, Jack Abbot, who's been checking his phone whenever he gets a free moment like a highschooler with a crush, opens the first text that pops up on his screen after hours of waiting.
It's a picture from Robby. You, with your head thrown back in a cackle of a laugh, not a single bit of stress evident in any of the lines of your body. There's one text accompanying the picture:
Please don't make me give you a shovel talk. I think you already know what's at stake here.
Jack snorts and pockets his phone, because yeah, he does.
–
When Jack finally gets back to his apartment, he's half-expecting to see the kind of mess that a large grouping of obnoxious people leave behind. Trash, maybe a few red solo cups, empty takeout containers, someone asleep on his couch, someone passed out on the floor.
He's not expecting to see a clean space. The only evidence that people were there at all is some rearranged pillows, a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter, and some new takeout menus on his fridge.
And then there's you. You're lying on the couch, eyes glued to the TV, watching a show he doesn't really recognize. There's a well-loved backpack on the floor, just under the coffee table. The shocking bit is Charlie, his resident asshole, is 'loafing' right on your chest, purring away.
You lift your head when you hear the jingle of his keys, a smile immediately brightening your face. He mentally takes a picture, right there, so he can remember this exact moment forever.
"What'd you bribe him with?" Jack says instead of something much more neurotic, like 'You don't have to go back to your place when the power comes back on.'
You shrug, unaware of his emotional and romantic pain. "You were right. He came out from under the bed after everybody left. He kind of growled at me for a little bit, but once I settled down here he just kind of... came right up."
You plant a little kiss to the top of his head, right in between furry ears. Great, now Jack's jealous of a senior cat with one ear who licks his own butt. "How could I resist this face? I see why you brought him home."
Jack rounds the end of the couch, shuffling by, and Charlie opens his eyes just enough to shoot him a look that Jack takes to mean: If you make her get up and move me, I will kill you in your sleep.
Jack does not disturb his cat as he sits down on the couch. There's a moment when things almost get hairy- you pull your legs back when he goes to sit, slightly jostling The Asshole, who pins his only ear back in annoyance.
Jack solves this problem by taking your legs, clad in some soft flannel pajama pants and pink fuzzy socks, and lays them across his lap. There. Problem solved.
The warmth of your legs on his lap and the look on your face is reward enough for him. He can't think of a way he'd rather spend his time.
Jack, in a rare show of mercy, does not tease you, and decides that you've probably had enough excitement for one day.
"So," He says instead, looking up at the TV and grimacing at the mutilated corpse on the screen, "What are we watching?"
He watches you shrink into yourself. He hates it when you do that. He hates that you feel like you have to.
"Uh, Bones. I can turn it off, though. I'm sure you don't want to watch this."
He doesn't answer the question you've not-subtly voiced, instead choosing to redirect the conversation.
"Why did you put it on?"
You start chewing on your lower lip. Your signature 'I don't want to answer this question so I'm going to think really hard about it' move.
"It's kind of my comfort show? I don't know. I watched it a lot growing up. We didn't have cable, but the hotels I stayed at sometimes did. I'd wait until my dad fell asleep and then I'd turn on the TV and watch from the sci-fi or drama channels. Watched a lot of Bones. Supernatural too, and sometimes Doctor Who, if it was on. But Bones was my favorite."
The characters on the screen are involved in some sort of car chase now, police siren flashing on a black SUV. Jack isn't paying attention to that at all, because this is the first time since the day you walked into the PTMC and introduced yourself that he's ever heard you talk about your childhood.
"How come?"
"I don't know. I've always liked procedural shows. Had a huge House MD phase. Death and bones and corpses and stuff has never really grossed me out, which is part of the reason I became a doctor. But also..."
You point to the male character. "You see him? That's Booth. Seeley Booth. They all have kind of crazy names. He's an FBI agent, and his partner is that woman there. Temperance Brennan. Booth calls her Bones."
"She doesn't look like an FBI agent."
You smile. "She's not. She's a forensic anthropologist, but she consults on murder cases and stuff like that because she's kind of a genius. She's smart, strong, and capable. She and Booth don't always get along, because they both can be headstrong and stubborn. But he respects and trusts her, implicitly. No matter what. They love each other."
Your throat bobs, but your voice is steady when you speak.
"And when Brennan needs him, if she's in trouble or she needs him by her side, even if she doesn't know she does, he's always there. He always saves her."
Jack can picture it, in his mind. You, small and alone, watching these characters on some shitty hotel TV and getting it into your head that this kind of thing only exists in TV shows. He pictures you dreaming of having a Booth, of having someone to be there for you, to pick you up when you fall. He thinks of you crying in the supply closet and how quietly you'd done it. Almost silent.
He thinks of what happens to a person to make them learn how to cry without making a sound.
He rests a hand on your ankle, fingers instinctively drifting towards the pulse point there- posterior tibial. He keeps two fingers on it, even though he can't feel it through your fuzzy socks. With his thumb he makes circles, because he's seen how you lean into Robby's shoulder grabs, how you preen at physical and verbal praise, how you'd slumped like a marionette with its strings cut into his arms just yesterday.
"Jack?" Your voice is tentative, unsure.
"Hmm?"
"Am I..." You start chewing your lip again, "Are you— I don't to assume anything. So if I fuck this up and make you uncomfortable—"
"I want to kiss you."
Jack has learned how to speak fluent you. He knows how to stop an incoming spiral, how to soothe old wounds rearing their heads.
He continues when you don't speak.
"I want you to wear my clothes. I want to take care of you. I want you, in whatever way you'll let me."
"Oh."
"I was laying it on pretty thick, kid."
You look away from him, and this is another moment he'd like to keep forever.
"I thought I was just reading into things!"
"Do you think I call every intern sweetheart?"
Jack is positive Charlie's presence on your stomach is the only thing keeping you from actively squirming in place.
"I thought maybe you were just one of those guys. Samira said it was possible!"
He rolls his eyes. "You can't ask Mohan for romantic advice. She's you in a different font."
"I'm going to take that as a compliment."
You turn back to your show, losing yourself in the plot for a while. When the murderer has been caught and the credits are playing, you look at him again.
"We don't. Um. Can we just keep doing this? For now?"
For the first time since meeting you, Jack gets to say exactly what he's thinking.
"We can do this forever. We can do whatever you want."
tbh the concept of cockwarming and they’re trying really hard to focus and you ‘lose’ and slide up and down on them once and they just. Cum practically against their own will is fnfnnffjf
Knight getting older… knight with a bit of grey coming in… knight who finds it a little harder to put on his armour and walk the castle… knight with old battle injuries and faded scars
A beloved part 2 to Barbie Doll, but can be read as a standalone.
Pairing: Jack Abbott × nurse!reader
Wc: 9.3k (i was litr aiming for 3k…)
Description: You and boyfriend haven't done much besides making out. Cut to a drunk you trying to get him to fuck you last night (and him fending you off with remarkable constraint). The morning comes with heartfelt conversations and pancakes nobody ends up eating because, well…Jack was craving something else.
Or, your respectable attending ends up between your legs, for the first of many times.
Tags/warnings: Massive age gap (r in 20s, abbot is 50), size diff, Idk what the insides of a man's bedroom must look like, r has enough hair to be tied back, r is referred to as a girl, r has limited experiences with sex, r is insecure, self-esteem issues, r mentioned to have a soft curvy belly, r has breasts, long makeout sesh, r is kinda bratty, v little blood mention, finger sucking, slightly voyeuristic in the sense that jack talks abt putting a picture of her tits in his house, r has a vagina, pussy pronouns, r has a bush (tongue sticking out emoji), this man is pussy drunk, oral (f recieving), mentions of male masturbation, dom!jack, (1) thigh slap, a lil hair tugging, very mild degradation (needy, messy), a lot of praise, a lot of pet names: baby, honey, princess, sweetheart, kid, etc
Note: Im ngl i almost put a daddy kink, but idk my audience that much yet. Also, this is my first time writing smut. Also I'm a virgin who can't drive (but im learning to!!!), so be kind bcos this was purely based on imagination and my studying of smutty fics. Happy gooning, if you do. Also tell me if you do.
You swing your arm over the top half of your face, instinctively smacking your lips together to find them chapped and dry, just like your throat.
What –
Where are you?
A groan escapes your lips when you retract your arm, moving your head to take in your surroundings. The white ceiling greets you, wooden fan spinning at a medium speed, and you avert your gaze before you throw up in —
Jack's bed, you realise. You're in his bed. His room. To your right, deep blue blinds cover the floor-to-ceiling windows you know are there. To your left wall, his laptop sitting closed on his neat oakwood study desk, next to his reading glasses, and…
A clear container, about the size of your hand, filled with 2-3 hair ties, a couple of tic tac hair clips, and a small lip balm.
You didn't put that here. You may spend a lot of your time at this house in the past 6 weeks, but you were always hesitant of taking up his space in ways that matter. A toothbrush next to his in his bathroom, and two of your t-shirts in his closet, that's it, you were content with that.
Seeing that small box, though…you felt a warmth bloom in your chest, making you smile while you lay alone in his bed.
Wait.
Alone.
Where is your boyfriend?
You rise up on your elbows, sucking in a sharp breath at the piercing pain in your back. You look around; The bathroom door is shut with no noises coming from the inside. You rub the empty space next to you on the bed, patting the soft bedsheets, only to find them cold.
You frown. Until you notice the bedside table. His rolex sprawled next to a tall glass of water, mouth covered with a strip pack of medicine. Your phone is plugged into the charger, flashing a “fully charged.”
You sit up sluggishly, popping an Advil out of the pack, and depositing it on your tongue. You wash it back with a sip of water, and then hungrily empty the whole glass.
Your bare feet touch the carpeted floors, determined to find your missing boyfriend. You walk towards the bedroom door — slightly cracked open — and pull it wide open, the well-oiled hinges making no disturbance.
Small memories from last night start flooding in, once your mind gets the memo to wake up. You internally wince. Jeez. You broke your heels you spent your savings on?
But you forget all about that when you see Jack in the open kitchen, spreading a batter evenly on a pan, a bottle of your favorite maple syrup sitting not too far away. A stack of golden, fluffy, pancakes sits pretty on a plate, making your heart swell in affection, and stomach stirring in excitement.
He's still shirtless, only sporting his soft, grey sweatpants. And he's making breakfast. The two best things a man can do: cooking, and giving you a show.
Okay, maybe that's a little objectifiable coming from such a progressive person as you. He's a man, so what, that doesn't mean he wants to be leered at.
That, obviously, doesn't make you feel any shame. Before he notices you, you make the best of it. You drag your eyes down to his hard stomach, and up his chest, moving rhythmically with soft breaths. His muscular arms are methodically working the pancakes, just as you like them.
Your gaze travels to his hips where the sweats hang loosely. You can see where his V-line begins, and goes on to disappear in his pants. Could you trace it with your finger? Would he shiver and throw his head back, or clutch your wrist again to stop you?
Oh, you could take his house tour.
Just when you start getting a little breathless, a voice rings in your brain. Your voice.
“Why haven't we fucked?”
You immediately cringe. Oh, god. You are never drinking again. One of the most serious conversations you've been meaning to have, and you dumbly blurt it all out inebriated.
“Thought I was the one with the staring problem,” you flinch out of your embarrassing spiral, your boyfriend's slow drawl dragging you back to present. You clear your throat, willing some semblance of grace back in you.
You don't speak till you've reached him, standing behind his back, not daring to look him in the eye right now. You wrap your arms around his torso, palms grazing the sculpted plane of his stomach, now tensing under your touch. You bury your nose in his warm skin, inhaling deeply. Your own muscles relax when his scent fills you, something clean and musky, and a hint of his cedarwood soap. The ache in your head dulls, and his heavy presence wraps throughout your mind in a pleasant mist.
You press a soft kiss exactly where your lips rest against his back — a few inches below his neck. A muscle there jumps and you suppress a smile, even though he can't see you.
“Morning. You like leaving your girlfriend alone in your bigass bed?” you ask, pressing another kiss to the same spot.
“Don't think you really mind the way you're all over me.” His large arms keep moving, though your view is obstructed with his back.
You scoff, “well, thanks for the Advil, doctor.”
His hand reaches around his back to pat your hip twice before withdrawing it. “How's the headache? Shouldn't be too bad, I only let you nurse on rookie stuff.”
“Didn't feel very rookie, or maybe I'm just a lightweight,” you mumble, hot breath falling over his freckled skin.
Jack chuckles, and you absorb it as much as you can, saving it for later replays. “You did good, honey. You were a fun drunk, really.”
You huff, “you'd say that, of course, I tried to seduce you.”
You hear the flop sound of a pancake hitting the pan after being flipped. “Didn't think you'd remember.”
“Thought or hoped?”
“Desperately wished you would.”
The morning has made him slower and softer, his usual charm and humor taking a backseat in face of domesticity. Look at you, taming a rugged silver fox. Before you know, you hear the swift flick of a dial, gas being turned off, and he spins in your arms.
You look up at him. The tip of his nose is a little rosy, and his eyes have lost the sharpness in them — the one you've seen in ED, or when you particularly provoke him for attention. His curls are tipping over to his forehead, creating jagged shadows against his face. You don't think he's shaved today, so you send a silent ‘thank you’ to angels who govern DILFs.
He drags his hands up your arms, until they're cupping your face with great care, pads of his thumbs stroking across your cheekbones, before digging into the apple of your cheeks, effectively squishing them. Your lips pucker out without your permission, and you watch a boyish smile take over his face.
“You look adorable when you're not runnin’ your mouth.”
“Would you like me to become quiet and reserved? Because, I assure you, you will miss this mouth,” your speech comes out slightly muffled, and then returning to normal when he softens the pressure of his thumbs.
The corner of his lip quirks, and you watch the playful glint take its familiar place in his eyes. “It's a great mouth, I'll admit. Solid 8 out of 10.”
Your said mouth falls open, eyes widening in disbelief. “Excuse you, sir, don't undersell me. Where am I losing the 2 points?”
Jack pretends to think, letting out an unnecessarily long hum. “The fact that you've been up and about for —” he checks the wall clock behind you, “— 6 minutes and haven't kissed me yet.” He tuts in disappointment, shaking his head disapprovingly at you.
“That's what you get for leaving me alone in bed.”
“Tough crowd. I'm sorry then, I should've been holding you, sending a body double to make breakfast for you. I'll do better next time.”
“It's okay, we all have our learning curves, you'll learn, Dr. Abbot,” you coo, patting his back a little too roughly.
“Now, where were we…8 out of 10…2 left…” he trails off, bumping his nose against yours, and lifting your chin. He tilts his head down, sliding one hand to the back of your neck to keep you steady. He always does this, the smooth motherfucker, being tender while still being in charge.
As soon as his lips caress yours, you dodge, and he ends up kissing your ear instead.
“I have morning breath,” you pull back to look up in his eyes again, fixing him with your best bambi eyes.
“When has that ever stopped us? We once made-out for 30 minutes straight right after waking up. I felt like a teenager.”
“Yeah, because I'd gotten up, like 30 minutes ago, to brush my teeth and apply lip gloss.”
His mouth hangs open in shock, “what?” he asks, eyebrows furrowing together.
“...yeah. Do you really think I look like a pretty princess in the morning, Jack?” You huff a laugh, stating the obvious. Men.
Instead of a joke about your hair, or another wave of mock surprise, his lips downturn in a frown. The palm on your check moves up a couple inches, fingers toying the hair on your temple.
“Baby…did I ever make you feel like you had to do that?” His question comes not defensively, but low, distressed, and so, so delicate. It's like he's genuinely seeking your answer, treading with caution, allowing you to be vulnerable should you choose to.
“What? Jack. No. I've been doing this since, like, when I first slept over at someone's place.” Your fingers tighten on his back, holding him to you.
“Did they make you feel like you had to?” Your chest tightens at his concern, his protectiveness, and over what? Something you just off-handedly joked about? Something you didn't even give a conscious thought to?
Maybe that's the issue, that it's so internalised, you haven't seen anything wrong with it until now. You don’t know whether you should relish in his sweetness, or be embarrassed that a man out-feministed you.
Your eyes soften, the warmth blooming inside your chest has reached the tips of your fingers, your legs, down to your toes.
Oh, he's taken over you.
“Jack…you're so sweet, but I swear it's not that big of a deal. It's never made me upset or anything.” You unwrap your arms from his midriff, skimming your hands up his forearms, to reassuringly squeeze his biceps.
“Kind of a big deal if you feel like getting up 30 minutes early to make yourself look ‘presentable’ or whatever other bullshit your mind is telling you.”
Well, if he puts it like that.
You pause, feeling such deep adoration for this man and not the momentary kind, no. The kind that settles beneath your ribs and slips between joints, places unreachable, even to you. It's such a loss of control, to have such…like for someone that they're rooted deeply enough inside you. So much so that you've lost all jurisdiction of your own heart.
You're in freefall.
He must've seen it in your eyes, because he gently tugs at your hair strand, before tucking it behind your ear. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
“What's going on in your brain? I thought it was mostly barren land up there.”
You smack his bicep. “Mister, I don't know who you are, but I'm a nurse at the PTMC. Treat me with respect, or else.”
“Just felt a shiver run down my spine,” he deadpans.
You smile thankfully and twist your head to kiss his palm.
“I'm serious, honey. I want you to share this stuff with me,” his voice turns sombre again, in a way that always strips you bare of your defenses.
“You don't have to fix something you didn't break.”
“If you have a tiring day because of a shift, am I not allowed to hold you to sleep?”
“Jack…” you softly whine.
“Isn't this exactly the kind of thing why we've been hesitant to take a step forward?”
Your mind recalls some bits of last night — the genuine need to touch him, to be touched, to lose control. Was it liquid courage, or was it because your mind was hazy enough to not conjure your insecurities?
“Can we have a proper talk about this? Right now?”
“Yes.”
“Can I go brush my teeth in case the conversation lasts 2 minutes, and then we straight up just start climbing each other?”
“No.”
“Pretty please?”
A long suffering sigh from him.
“Okay, princess.”
7 minutes and 1 aggressive teeth brushing session (wherein you literally made your gum bleed because of haste), you exit from the bathroom into his bedroom.
You accidentally shut the door too hard behind you, and nervously clap your hands together. “Okay! Let's talk about fucking.”
Jack, who was reading a news article on his phone, blinks at you. Slowly, he takes off his reading glasses — which, sad — and sets them on his bedside table. He has removed his prosthetic, always preferred it off while in bed, and the empty fabric of his pant leg is rolled up to above his knee.
You climb on his bed, crawling over to him.
“How about we first talk about not calling it ‘fucking'? I'm a 50 year-old man, not a 21 year-old boy who wants to get in your pants.”
“Spoilsport,” you mutter before finding your place. Not on the bed. On him. Your knees dig into the soft cushion behind him, thighs bracketing his hips. A soft, pleasing, hum escapes you.
You may not have tried many — or, any — positions with him, but this one is your favorite, and you suspect it always will be. This, straddling his lap, after bad days and good, having him close enough to sink in his presence, without losing your own.
It's like during your days, the scale tipped too much in either direction, and made your anxiety go broom. With him, the scale stabilised. The universe balanced itself as long as Jack was touching you.
His right hand rushed to your waist to anchor you, slipping past your t-shirt to find bare skin, thumb stroking against the side of your belly. His left finds your own hand, interlocking your fingers and resting them against his stomach.
“Okay, if you brought it up yesterday drunkenly, then you must've given it thought before,” he urges you softly.
You shift in his lap, and pretend not to notice the way he suddenly bites his lip. You take a deep breath, a familiar anxiety curdles in your stomach at the thought of talking about something that's so sensitive to you.
“I have, yes. Um…do you remember when we talked about this before as well? I, uh, don't have much experience with, well, fuc — sex. You know, shagging. Boinking. OH, horizontal tango.” Your mouth has a way of spitting out garbage nonsense whenever you’re experiencing nerves.
“Shut up,” your favourite doctor stops your verbal diarrhea, unimpressed.
“Rude. But…do you remember?”
“Of course, I remember.” Your heart leaps at his gentle tone, so good with giving space for your vulnerabilities.
“And you…” you laugh nervously, toying with the drawstring of his pajamas, eyes downcasted.
“Eyes on me, honey.”
You watch his dark irises, the lines of his forehead, stubble you know is prickly from having your fingers trace it many times. It’s him. You clear your throat before continuing and feel his hand squeezing yours.
“You're experienced. And I know that doesn't matter but…” you trail off before finding another thread, “do you know what it feels like to view yourself in third person?”
“Happens sometimes when I'm getting shot at, yeah. What about it?”
“It happens with me even outside the job. It's like I'm looking down at myself, observing the way my face looks, or my hands move, or my gait, or a bunch of other things. When I imagine having sex with you — and I have so much — all I can imagine is how I'd sound, what face I'll make, how my body would look…”
You shake your head, blinking away the tears that threaten to spill over. Your chest aches in the aftermath of your admission, never having admitted this loudly. “And none of it looks pretty in my head.”
You purse your lips, waiting for his response. What you feel first is the tightening of his fingers around yours. The hand under your shirt starts moving, up and down, in a slow rhythm, burning your skin with every stroke.
“Thank you for sharing that with me,” he murmurs, with this almost poignant look in his eyes. He brings your linked hands up to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss on the back of yours.
“Let's see it through. I'll start by telling you, I've imagined it multiple times as well, more than I should. Totally felt like a creep.”
Your cheeks burn.
“But it was never like the way you describe. In my imagination,” his hand tugging you closer, hot breath falling over your chin, “It's never about how you scream, it's about why. Is it because of my mouth, fingers, or what?”
You gulp.
Or, what?
You're pretty sure you feel the “or, what” stirring alive beneath you, hardening against your inner thigh. It's so hard not to move.
Jack tips his head forward, pressing his lips to the side of your jaw, “As for how your face would look; as long as your shiny eyes are on me, and your mouth is falling open, I think you're good.”
His next attack is to the corner of your lips, “and what about your body? How do you think it would look?”
He doesn't get a response, because all functions to your brain have been cut off. His right hand halts, settling an inch below your breasts, the side of your shirt hanging around his wrist.
“Tell me,” he softly commands.
“Awkward and lousy, not knowing what to do. And my skin would have folds and rolls. Also, do you know boobs are never really evenly sized? One is always bigger,” you blurt out.
Jack laughs, always more amused with your neurotic babble than repulsed. Your shoulders drop a fraction. “Yes, I know, that's the beauty of them. Otherwise, what's the difference between you, and say…a barbie doll?”
And so he makes you smile, the one you flash only to him, the one that lets him know you’re okay. Just like that. He looks proud about it too.
Speaking of sizes, his gaze flickers towards your chest, lingering there before dragging their way up your mouth, and then your eyes again.
“Same for the rest of it. Don't worry about giving me more skin to kiss, I'll take care of it. Of you,” he says with sincerity and calmness, a level of assurance that feels like he took a walk with your mind. And then pressing a peck — finally — against your lips.
You don't feel your self-doubts vanishing, or your walls crashing down. But the door cracks open, and the light searing out is enough to take a step forward.
“Okay. I believe you,” you whisper, stealing another quick kiss from him. “But what if I, you know, fail you?” It comes out awkward, reflecting every bit of uncertainty in you, even when you can feel the length of him growing insistent.
“This will be about you first, what'd we talk about worrying? I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself…as I have, many, many times.”
The distance between you feels less, despite no moment. Have the walls started narrowing in? Your throat runs dry.
“What?” you stagger, brain feeling like scrambled eggs.
“What ‘what’? Because I'm 50, I don't have a libido?” he muses, voice raspy. His hand leaves yours, trailing its way up your arm. When it tangles in the hair behind your neck, the hand holding feels childish in comparison. He should’ve been doing this all along.
“I didn't say that. I just didn't think you…”
“What? Touched myself thinking of you? Palmed myself right here, on this very bed?”
Your lips part, eyeballs practically protruding out of your face like a cartoon character. You finally shift your weight. When his bulge connects with your crotch, you feel you’ve gone third base already. Even with layers in between, you feel how hard he is, probably enough to be in pain right now. But his face barely reflects that.
“Don't worry, not the same bedsheets.”
“Not exactly what I'm thinking about, doctor,” you breathe.
“Really? Feels like you should be.”
You smack his stomach, and he doesn't even flinch. Instead, his eyes crinkle and a smile makes its way like the sun rising in the sky.
A pause.
“Enough talking. C'mere.” He pulls you by the back of your neck, capturing your lips in a kiss. He moves like he’s in no hurry. While you hustle your way through every moment, Jack acts like all clocks have personally stopped so he can pass through.
He claims your bottom lip, leisurely enjoying the softness, and gives it a playful nip. Swallowing the gasp right out of your mouth, his palm tightens in your hair, tugging in a pleasant pressure to angle your head exactly like he wants. He hums in satisfaction, the rumble vibrating all the way down your chest, pooling between your thighs. You try to chase the heat, instinctively rolling your hips, getting greeted with a delicious friction that coaxes a helpless whine out of you.
His thumb strokes the underside of your breast, and you shiver, losing control over your own mouth, getting sloppy in your technique.
When Jack pulls back, your entire body disapproves, your lips immediately desperate enough to chase his again, a string of spit connecting yours to his before breaking. He chuckles, and you don't even have enough mind to even feel self-consciousness. You might as well be on another planet right now.
“You look like you haven't been kissed since middle school.” He watches your swollen, ruined, lips with pride blossoming in his abilities, clearly well enough to make you act depraved.
“That's not true. I was just kissed by an old white guy,” you breathlessly retort.
“Why are you kissing guys so different from your boyfriend?”
“Trying new things.”
“Fuck that. Haven't you heard, kid, older is better?” he replies smugly, before diving right back in, on a mission to catch your top lip this time. Unlike his hands, yours keep wandering — grazing his abdomen, tracing lines up his chest, finding home low on his waist, thumb hooking in his sweatpants.
The desperation is making you feel reckless; you sink your hips into his again, seeking that perfect, agonizing friction. A deep groan rips from Jack’s throat. His palms slam flat against your hips, squeezing them and bringing your tortuous grinding to a dead halt. “Stop,” he rasps, “do you want this to last or not?”
“What are you saying?” you ask, a poster child for innocence, with batting eyelashes and glossy eyes. To really drive it home, you roll your hips forward again, enjoying the way his eyes darken. This is safe territory, making out with him like you're still teenagers, and hell, if you're not gonna tease him.
“God, you're such a brat,” he murmurs, the rough whisper lost against your mouth when he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of your upper lip, a fraction too deep. You moan at the sting, but the sound is cut short. Jack is already pulling back with a jolt, feeling the metallic taste of copper on his tongue.
“Fuck, baby, sorry, I —” the heat in his eyes instantly dissolve to swimming guilt. His hand rushes up to cradle your jaw with a sudden, trembling gentleness. His thumb sweeps across the hurt, wiping the small bead of red before it can run.
“Jack, it's okay, I promi —”
But he's already peppering apologies all over your face; lips meeting the tip of your nose, then the bridge; corner of your eyes; hollow of your cheeks; and a “feel better?” at your temple. Soft oh's leave your mouth, over and over and over.
You never want to hit the ground ever again. May he never run out of kisses.
“Never felt bad to begin with. I like a little mean.”
“Not when it’s our first time, honey.” The sharp edge of panic vanishes, leaving behind a quiet self-doubt, pulling his brows in a tight line. Your chest tightens when you peer into his eyes, and find them unmasked off any walls. You look straight into the deepest, darkest corners of him, the ones that come with tight security and deflecting jokes.
“Not our first time making out, Jack,” you softly reassure.
Jack presses a final, promising kiss into your hair. He exhales the last of his hesitance when he sees you — open, welcoming, entirely warm beneath him. “First time making out as foreplay,” his voice drops an octave, completely grounded now. “I need you to know we can stop anytime. Throw me off for all I care, if you get uncomfortable. Got it?”
You nod.
“Words. Big girl words.”
“Yes, Jack. I will kick you in case that happens.”
“My little footballer,” Jack coos. “Do you wanna get off my lap now?”
“Uh, no,” you dictate.
“Kinda have to, sweetheart, for what I'm planning next.”
You suck in a deep breath, your bravado actively flatlining at the thought of actually doing something more.
Jack reads the subtle tension in your shoulders instantly. “Hey,” he murmurs, hand soothing over your knee. “We can pause. No pressure.”
Your response is entirely physical. You swing your thigh over his lap, sliding off the comforting warmth, to sit beside him. His eyes follow the slow curve of your body, never breaking contact, until you’re settled on the mattress. A quiet approval settles on his features, “that's my good girl.” He tilts his head, studying your face, “still green?”
You nod.
Jack arches a brow.
“Still green. Now what?”
“Let's get you comfortable,” his hand trails over your neck, settling firmly on the back of your head, “like the ‘pretty princess’ you really are.” His other palm gently cups the dip of your waist, guiding you down until you're laying flat on your back on his navy blue sheets. He pauses, lifting your head just enough to slide a pillow beneath your head. His scent on the linen wraps around you, making you feel like you belong in his bed.
“So gorgeous, all pretty in my bed.” His dark gaze slowly drags over your body, “aren't you, honey?” He leans down, dwarfing your body with his large frame, pressing a lingering kiss just atop your nose, “eyes on me, yeah? Don't close them, no matter how good you feel.”
“You're pretty confident,” you murmur, squirming restlessly underneath him.
“You're about to know why.”
He steals your breath with another kiss, steady, deliberate, and unhurried — easing you in for what’s about to come. The tip of his warm tongue outlines your upper lip, tracing the edge until you eagerly part for him, begging for him to deepen the kiss. Instead, he pulls back, eyes snapping to the pulse in your throat.
“Hey, our tongues didn't battle for dominance,” you say excitedly, feeling pride at your hilarious reference.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He shoots you an amused look, shaking his head, before he's burying his nose into the slope of your neck. He breathes in deeply, drinking your scent in, like a man starved. He's teasingly slow in his moments, treating foreplay like it’s the real meal. You wonder how he's still patient — you, on the other hand, have started to helplessly writhe, fucking yourself on empty air, desperate for him to finally take over.
His hand slides up your side, burning your skin on its way to ruck up your shirt. The cool bedroom air hits your exposed midriff, coaxing a sharp, involuntary arch of your spine.
“Jack, please,” you beg, voice shaking, needy for him. Your fingers tangle in his curls, fisting in a painful grip.
His stubble scratches your sensitive skin as he drags the tip of his nose down the curve of your neck, but you couldn't care less even if it left marks. When the fabric of your shirt gets in his way, his thick finger snags the neckline, tugging roughly to uncover a path.
He freezes, staring at the bare slope of your left breast, his breath hitching at the sight.
His tongue darts out to taste you, dancing over the swell before his teeth close to nibble on it. “Mm, fuuuuuck, baby. So fuckin’ sweet for me,” he rasps against your chest, drawing a whimper from you. He soothes the sting with slow circles of his thumb, followed by a final sweet kiss to the ache.
His pupils are blown wide with hunger, swallowing the color of his eyes, looking down at you like you’re his last meal on earth. His fingers toy with the hem of your top, playfully tugging the frayed edges.
“Need to see your sweet tits, baby,” he commands, voice dropping low. “Do you trust me?” he asks, low and throaty, studying your face for any shadows of hesitation.
Excitement and nervousness collide in your chest, and words get caught in the throat. He must see it, because he's tipping down, pressing his forehead flat against yours. “Gonna play with my pretty girls, give them so much love. Have thought a lot about them — fucked my fist first time I saw you in your black tank, pulling taut across your chest. They looked so perfect, sitting there and waiting.”
You frantically tug at his hair, “Jack, fuck, I'm gonna pass out,” you whisper, voice strangling with want.
“I asked if you trust me, honey.”
The excitement wins.
“Yes, please, take it off.”
“My good fuckin’ girl. Get up for me.”
Not a second later as soon as you're sitting up, his fingers hooking deep into the hem, “arms up, pretty girl.” The shirt catches at your ear, but Jack gently guides it off, carelessly tossing it behind his shoulder.
Your breaths come in shallow and ragged, as you sit fully naked from the waist up, in front of the man who's watching you like a hawk, tongue darting out to wet his lips. You watch as he tears his gaze away — with considerable effort — to assess your comfort. He cups your cheek, heavier than necessary.
“Green?”
“Green.”
“Of course. Where's that sharp tongue? Mind goes dumb when I touch you? It's okay, sweet girl, I'll do the thinking. Hm?” You sink your teeth into your lower lip, nodding fervently at him. Your blinks are slow and heavy, eyes getting glassier with sheer need. Any remaining logic melts away, turning you into putty under his control.
Oh, this is what it feels like.
“Big girl words,” he pats your cheek affectionately, a soft pat-pat.
“Yes. Just a bit nervous,” you admit.
He hums, eyes darkening in hunger as an idea crosses his mind. The pad of his thumb sinks into your bottom lip, “open up, baby.”
Without thinking, you oblige.
“So obedient,” he remarks, a low purr of proud satisfaction in his chest. “Here, take 1. You'll feel better.” His thumb slides past your lips, into your hot, slick mouth. “Suck it nice and clean, okay?”
You swirl your wet tongue around the tip of his thumb, coating it wet, and he hums in approval, “let me know if my girl needs 1 more.” He fluffs the pillow with his free hand, “now lie back, just like before.”
With you flat on your back again, his rough hands slide down your legs to encircle your ankles. Your feet rustle the sheets as he guides them backward, bending your knees and opening them wide, clearing space for his larger body. He positions his heavy weight between your thighs, hot breath falling on your breasts.
He presses his face into the soft valley of your chest, nuzzling the tip of his nose back and forth against your skin. “Better than I imagined. Fuck, doll,” he murmurs, pressing a trail of hot, wet kisses down your belly. The moment his lips touch the curve of your stomach, the muscles there instinctively tighten.
“Sweetheart," he rasps. "Let go.”
You try. You really do. But every time you try to let your tummy loose, let it sit naturally, it's like your brain panics and sends out an emergency signal, forcing you to flatten the softness there. “I…I'm trying.”
Your boyfriend puts a firm hand on your belly, feeling the rigid tension from sucking in, letting it rise and fall underneath his palm. He slowly lowers his mouth and you shiver when you feel the feather-light kiss.
“This is what you're worried about?” He squeezes the side of your waist, fingers digging in a possessive hold, placing an open-mouthed kiss right below your navel.
He huffs a low, fond sound. “Silly girl.”
“Let go,” he commands again, and this time your body listens to him, loud and clear. His authority cuts right through your defences, and you let the anxiety go with a shuddering exhale. He feels his hand filling up, your stomach softening entirely, and the weight of your skin perfectly molds into the curve of his palm.
“You don't realise how sexy this is, right? How fuckin’ hard I am —” as if to emphasise, he rolls his hips, and you cry his name, feeling his hard length on your thigh, “— more skin to grab, more of you to hold. Fuck, my beautiful girl, drivin’ me crazy. Gonna take such good care of this perfect body.”
Your spine arches off the mattress the moment he closes his hot mouth around your nipple, drawing a slow, satisfied whine from you. Your fingers blindly rush to bury his head even deeper, your cheeks hollowing, suckling his thumb on with a mind of its own.
He swirls his tongue around the pebbled tip, relieving it from the cool air of the room. Your hips buck desperately for friction, but the flat plane of his torso doesn't do much more than leave you aching for more. He withdraws his mouth, and with an almost playful focus, smears his spit across your areola with his thumb. Before you can even catch your breath, his mouth migrates to the peak of your other breast, giving it the same heated, biting attention. He finally frees his hand from your mouth, kneading the soft flesh of your breast that he’s temporarily left lonely.
He pauses to take a deep breath, burying his face between your tits, licking the space with a single-minded feverish dedication. When he pulls back, he just stares, admiring his craft, “fuck, look at the girls, baby. Such a pretty mess, covered in my spit. Makes me wanna take a picture, frame it in the living room. Do you think it'd be a nice replacement to that matisse hanging right at the center?”
His words send an unexpected thrill through your thighs, and you cry out again, not above begging him, “whate– whatever yo– you want, Jack, fuck, please…” your sentence comes out broken enough for Jack to shoot you a look of entirely mocking sympathy.
“Use your words,” he taps your lip. “Form a proper sentence, and we can decide, okay?”
“Please touch me,” your voice cracks at the magic word.
“Where, baby? I don't understand."
“Between my legs, Jack.”
“I still don't think you're using proper vocabulary, honey. What do you want me to touch?”
The frustration leaves your mouth in a whimper, “You're such an asshole.”
Jack laughs in amusement, “c'mon, let me help you, tell the doctor where it hurts.”
“My pussy, Jack. Touch my pussy.”
The crude words leaving your sweet mouth, snaps the last thread of his restraint, ripping a low, gravelly groan from deep in his chest. His hand slides down to palm his raging, thick erection through his pants, giving it a hard, painful squeeze before tearing his hands away.
God, you want to do that for him.
“Yeah? Your sweet pussy, baby?” he rasps, hungry eyes drilling into yours. “Did you get it all wet and messy for me?”
You nod frantically, answering in a breathy, desperate tone you don’t even recognise as your own, “yes, fuck, oh god. Just get down there. Please.”
“Since you asked so pretty. Your hips. Up up up.” You comply, and the moment you shift, his long fingers lock into the waistband, hurriedly dragging your shorts down your legs in a single, inpatient motion. He hurls them recklessly to the floor without even looking — so opposite to his controlled and calculated behavior out at the Pitt.
He glides down your body, large hands greedily palming every inch of bare skin he passes, until he's face-to-face from your damp panties. He taps his shoulder in a silent order, and even with your pleasure-drunk mind, you quickly recognize his demand. You slowly lift your legs, hesitating for a second before you slide your ankles down his back, knees hooking securely over his broad shoulders.
He toys with the edge of the fabric — soft, light pink, and nothing lacy or fancy about it. “Oh, where'd you get this lovely pair, baby?” Jack asks in a light, conversational tone, entirely too humorous for a man with his face a lick away from your crotch. All while you're writhing like an animal in heat. It's an intoxicating feeling, suddenly having lost all your inhibitions, obsessed with only one goal in your mind.
“I don't fucking know!” you exclaim, hot tears of pure, unadulterated desperation pool in your eyes.
“Think, sweetheart. I'm trying to talk to you here, and you're being all uncooperative.”
“I don't know. At the mall, maybe! It was a pack of three.”
“Aw, see, good girl, thank you for letting me know,” he praises. “Let's see how it feels,” he nuzzles his nose into the cheap, stretchy, fabric, sharply inhaling the sweet, rich scent of your arousal. It is an action so completely depraved, so utterly filthy, you can't fathom it's your respected attending.
Well, you never expected to be naked in his bed either. Life, you guess, occasionally handing lemons you don’t deserve.
“You smell so good, my pretty girl,” he thumbs the damp spot, a growing, wet circle of sheer need. “Is it the panties or is it you?”
“You should find out.”
“Oh, the brat returns!” Jack exclaims delightedly, giving your thigh a playful pat.
You pause for a heartbeat to take it all in, to look at the man who stores your hair ties in his room, who carries your purse without a smidge of male-ego (bare minimum, but respect), always seconding his needs to yours. It’s this instant you realize how relaxed you are, how safe, how at ease he's put you — you who not too long ago, was drowning in a sea self-doubts.
“Jack…”
Catching the sudden change in your tone, his brows snap together in concern, heavy hands gentling at your thighs in case you call a red. But you only smile at him. Your sweet, thoughtful, wonderful man.
“I just wanted to say, I care about your comfort, too. In case you need to stop, you can pull yourself back, or tap my thigh.”
For a moment, he freezes in surprise, caught completely off-guard, as if not expecting to have such considerate words offered to him too. His heart swells, growing twice as big, and you see it in the fond way he looks at you, overwhelmed and soft.
You wonder if he's in freefall too.
“Thank you and yes ma'am,” he replies sincerely, voice thick with emotion, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to your thigh.
The command in his cadence slips back just as easily as it left. “Now, I want you to take the other pillow as well, and prop it below you. You know. For easy watching.”
“Watch what?”
“You fucking yourself on my face.”
Oh, he's good.
Without a word, you oblige, adjusting the cushion behind you until your back is elevated. From up here, the sight is fucking obscene — your legs splayed open, throned on your boyfriend's sculpted shoulders, his eyes darting between your underwear and you, like he can’t decide which one looks more appetizing.
You swallow a gasp when he kisses your clit, right through the flimsy material.
“Can I see you, baby? See her?” He looks up, heavy-lidded, eyes boring into yours with unhinged intensity, like the fate of his future lies in your hands — like, if you were to say no, he would be a man destroyed. You're not sure how it's possible for a person so lust-ridden to look at you with such stilling devotion.
For the first time, you don’t lock up.
“Yes, please.”
He carefully peels your panties aside, as if unmasking a priceless gift, wanting to savor the precious moment. His eyelids flutter shut when your sweet, warm scent fills his room and he draws a deep breath to drink it in. When he opens his eyes, a look of pure awe takes over his face, eyes glinting with a feral light. He looks like a kid at Disney World, dizzy and starry-eyed, not a man about to eat you out.
“I knew it. I knew she'd be exquisite like you.”
You feel color rush to your cheeks, never having felt so exposed to someone. Sure, you've been seen naked, but not like this. Not only your body, you feel everything bare — your heart, your soul, your mind.
“I didn't really think of shavin —”
“Shut up. It's exactly how I like my food. Besides, you're a big girl, aren't you, honey?”
It seems he doesn't care for your verbal responses anymore, seeming dull and dry in comparison to the meal in front of him. He is completely spellbounded by your pussy. He swipes a firm, deliberate, thumb across its puffy lip, and you very coherently whine something along the lines of “nnngghh.”
He kisses your swollen bud again, this time with no barrier of cotton. Entranced, he mutters, “so pretty,” under his breath, deaf to your breathless begging. He presses against your glistening slit, teasing your heated, tight, opening and painting your pussy lips with your own stickiness.
“Well, to me, you look perfectly healthy, madam. What brings you here for a checkup?” he asks, voice gravelly and mockingly professional, examining your cunt.
“Jaaaaack, please. Baby…”
“Shhh, honey, I'm not talking to you,” he scolds, resuming his clinical conversation with your pussy. “Did you only need a doctor to fuck yourself stupid?”
“Stop kidding around, oh my —”
Your head falls back helplessly when the flat of his tongue connects with your slit. He expertly licks a long, broad stripe from your opening, all the way up to your swollen peak, eager to taste every inch of the wet skin. Your thighs tightly squeeze around his face, the pressure doing nothing to deter him from the divine purpose he’s been given.
“— God…”
“No god. Just Dr. Abbot.”
His hand is quick to sting your thigh in a reprimanding slap for shaking violently enough to vibrate his shoulders. “Remember, eyes on me. And voice loud, I need to know what's feeling good.”
“Everything feels good. Just don't fucking stop.”
“Bossy,” he mutters, before using his meaty fingers to pry apart your folds, slowly revealing the pink flesh, shining like a diamond for him. Lost in his hunger, his mouth latches itself to your inner lips, sucking each gently, confident he has your time, attention, body for as long as he wants, with the way you’re greedily responding to him. He hums in contentment, doing it for his enjoyment just as much for yours.
Your hips buck, burying his face deep enough to cut off his air-supply. His name falls over your lips, again and again, like a prayer unanswered. Encouraged by your more than enthusiastic response, he doubles down on his efforts at the same slick spot. He is perfect at this dance, a quick study of every hitch of your breath, every gasp, every twitch of your hips — using these mental notes to his advantage.
Your speech has become a mess — “nnghhhhhfuuckkk” or “jackkkkfuckgod” or even “imgonnadie”
His tongue rushes to your entrance again, impatient but not sloppy, to taste you, to not let a single drop go to waste when he’s here, starving for more.
“Fuck, pretty. Such a messy girl, tsk.”
Your nails drag into his scalp in a hurtful scratch which neither one of you seems to care about. With every lap against your warm, inviting hole, the tip of his nose rubs against your clit in a strong friction, sending the bundle of nerves into instant overdrive.
“Fuuckkknngh…” you speak eloquently.
He intently focuses — more than you've ever noticed in the ED — switching masterly between the flat of his tongue to lick broad, wet, stripes and his lips for slow, torturing suctions. His mouth fucks you with precision, knowing where exactly where to ease off, and where to tease an “aaaahhghh” out of you.
Your entire world tilts, brain turning to liquid, when he finally closes in around your bud. You yank the soft strands of his hair, accompanying the mindless action with a guttural moan so unlike you, teared right out of your throat.
“God, yes, like that. Just like that,” you fervently gasp.
Unlike other people you've been with, he doesn't increase or alter the pressure at your enthusiasm. He keeps the same pace, devastating and rhythmic, listening and following your advice.
“That's it. That's my best girl, singing so pretty for me. Let me hear you, baby.”
Your back arches painfully off pillows when the tip of his tongue agonizingly circles your clit, outlining the hyper-sensitive point at a pace that feels like time has slowed down, minutes dragging into hours, world around you turning blurry and sluggish.
Your breath rips out in sharp, short, gasps. Your eyes squeeze tightly shut, toes curling at his back. The floodgates are barely holding themselves close, but you don't want this to end. You want to be stuck in this ride, in this high, for as long as you can, suspended mid-air.
You know that's impossible when you force your eyes open, and watch the light catch the wet sheen on his nose, all slick from your juices.
“Jack, I'm so —”
“Happy?”
“Close,” you sob at the increasing sensitivity.
“Do you wanna come on my face?”
You can only cry out in response.
“Count to 10 in your head and then you can.”
10…9…8…7…6…5…4…3…2…1
The tension coiled tight in your belly snaps. The floodgates spill open, and your eyes roll back into your head. Words catch in the back of your throat, coming out as unintelligible noises. Everything fades to black for a moment, before your boyfriend's voice anchors you to earth again.
“So good for me, used my mouth like the needy girl you are.” He's lapping away slowly at your slit again, hell if he lets any release you've gifted him not put to good use.
You weakly push at his shoulders, willing him to a halt, overwhelmed and oversensitive. He immediately obeys, long fingers pulling back the ruined panties over you — instead delicately sliding his palms over your thighs, peppering them with tender, grounding kisses. When he stops to study you for any hints of discomfort, he looks at you like his eyes have blurred out every subject but you.
His mouth moves. Stops. Moves again.
Wait, is he saying something?
You furrow your brows, not being able to hear anything through the thick layers of fog up there — glittery and rosy, finding every crevice, every hidden part, and dulling the chaos of your brain.
You snap out of it when he tilts your chin towards him. He's sitting next to you now, body tilted closely towards yours, “Jesus, did I break you?” His free hand is kneading your quads, chasing away any pain they feel from having spent a good amount of time being spread open.
You nod, “but in a good way.”
He smiles like somebody just offered to do his charting until retirement. You lean heavily into his parm, cherishing the soft stroke of his finger, even when his skin is always dry from the excessive use of sanitizer.
“Can I kiss you? Or are you overwhelmed?”
You nod too quickly. When he leans in and brushes his lips against yours, it's like this is the first time you're ever doing this. You quiver when you taste yourself on him.
He smells like you.
He presses a chaste kiss on your temple, murmuring, “I'll be right back. Okay, honey?” before moving to the edge of the bed, securing on his prosthetic limb.
He returns with a damp towel and water. He sets the plastic bottle on his nightstand with a soft click. He climbs the bed, slowly crawling towards you, approaching like you're fragile and breakable.
“I'm gonna clean you up, baby.” He settles between your legs again, clinically wiping the dry and sticky patches — a shameless mix of his own spit and your own wetness. “We've made quite a mess on you.”
He tosses the cloth haphazardly to the floor once he’s done — joining the rest of your garments — and drags the thick duvet over your body until you’re trapped in solid comfort, tucking it under your armpits like you're a child. You can't help but track his every move, eyes following him, but can't get a word out of your mouth.
“Jack, get under the covers with me.”
“Do you want me to get a hair tie for you first?”
Your hand flies to your head, smoothing the frazzled strands down, “why, do they look bad?”
“No, you walnut. You don't like laying down with your hair open.”
“Oh. I don't care, right now. Get in or I'll cry.”
“Scarier threat than the cyber attack one,” he sincerely remarks, and shifts under the covers, gently guiding you down with him till you’re both lying on your side, facing each other. Your bare chests kiss, and you slide your thigh between his legs, tucking it securely there. Any thought of empty space between you is intolerable to your body.
Oh.
Shit.
This man dedicatedly made you cum after dismantling your insecurities, and made your head go vroom. And you're just now realizing that he's not made of stone.
Which is ironic since his cock feels like one, angrily touching your thigh, straining against his pants. You feel guilt washing over you, at your selfishness for not paying heed to his needs, lost only in your own.
He rubs the side of your ribs, soft, calming, up & down motions, “hey, where'd you go? I wasn't that good. Like an 8 out of 10, maybe,” he repeats your earlier talk, a smirk playing on his face.
“I'm okay,” you feebly say. And then more confidently, “I promise. I just need a minute to process, and then we're taking care of you.”
“Hold your horses, sunshine. You're the patient and your job is to rest. You may climb the doctor any other time.”
“The doctor deserves a thank you for his treatment.”
“Not when the patient looks like a wild animal.”
You sigh, “I just don't want you doing it alone now.”
“I'll make you watch if it makes you feel better. When was the last time you watched a good show?” He draws you in closer by the waist, warping you in his scent, pressing you even more firmly against him. Even liquid wouldn't be able to seep through the space between you right now. It coaxes an involuntary sigh of relief out of you.
However, your cheeks heat at his cocky words, and you pinch his bicep. He breaks out in a hearty laugh, watching you with enough adoration that you just might pass out. But you don't, because nothing bad can happen when he's here.
“Okay, go. What worked and what didn't? What can we do differently next time?” he asks, ready to search your eyes in case you lie. His pinky traces the curve of your spine, the comforting gesture making you drowsy in his arms.
“Everything was perfect.”
“This isn't a fanfiction, darling. Think about it. Anything.”
“How the hell do you know what that is?”
He decidedly ignores your insulting question, continuing with his line of interrogation “slower next time? Faster?”
“More next time.”
He hums, eyes lighting up, “needy girl.” His hand delivers a playful smack to your ass, squeezing affectionately before letting go. By that time, you’ve already dramatically gasped, slapping his chest right back.
“Names? The praise work for you?”
“Mhm,” your voice drops low and hesitant, “so did the insults.”
Jack's brows raise in pleasant surprise, “you like being my messy and needy girl? You like asking me to use your big girl words?”
“Maybe…”
“Another talk for us to have. God, aren't you the dream?” It surprises you the way he says it, not jokingly, but like he means it. Like you could actually be something someone he fantasises about. Your chest tightens.
“Hey.”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Your initials are J.A.”
“Yeah, not sure, but I kind of think it's because my name is Jack Ab —”
“Jackass,” you mumble, nodding your head thoughtfully at your new discovery. “J.A – Jackass,” you repeat, just in case he didn’t make the connection. Forget the fact that he bosses an entire floor of medical staff.
“Think I heard you the first time.”
“You're a Jackass.”
“What a thing to say to someone who just had his tongue in your —”
“My Jackass.”
Once again, you say something completely out of pocket, and frankly enough, stupid, but he still melts. Because despite the choice of your words — again — it's the affection behind them. It's the you behind them that catches him in the ribs, as if somebody knocked the air out of him, making him soft, pliable, and yours to mold.
“Okay, well, I definitely broke your brain. Go to sleep, princess,” he playfully shoves your face into the pillow. “Off to bed, kid.” And his favorite sound fills his room.
Your giggle.
Okay i hope yall had fun! I took a longass time to write, and as always, glaze all over me (kidding) (no im not) if you liked it. Not to mention, ALWAYS MENTION when one of my works either makes u blush or laugh. And also when.
Okay but I fucking love the headcannons of izuku smoking cigarettes and having tattoos while keeping his golden boy image
🏁 eighteen plus only ! ⋆ minors don’t interact ⋆ implied smut ⋆ smoking/drinking ⋆ izu is a hoe!! ⋆ flirty midoriya hehe ⋆ teacher izuku midoriya, teacher & fem reader
feel sooo sick to my stomach because i adore the idea of sleazy!izuku being everybody’s perfect boy. the golden boy. he’s so good with kids and has a campaign about eating healthy and sugar free meals in schools with deku themed cereal bars and drinks but then he secretly smokes after every patrol as a vice to keep himself sane.
he still blushes and clams up when pretty reporters tell him he’s doing so well on the charts despite the hiatus he took … but then he’ll invite them up to his apartment after a round of press junkets just to fuck them by his city view. one hand in their hair, forcing their faces into his sheets and the other one tapping the ash from his cigarette into her glass of wine he’d used to butter them up. izuku will send them home with freshly pressed clothes and one of his sponsored energy drinks tucked underneath their arms — they never squeak, never tell the press. after all, their jobs are on the line and they desperately want another taste.
izuku, underneath crisp linen shirts and blazers and hero suits has more scars than he can count. more tattoos too. his favourite is the one that streaks straight down his spine, intricate work of black ink and green accents that remind him all too much of black whip. no one would ever know unless they saw him naked, he’s too shy to go fully nude for add campaigns and only allows certain creative directors to work with him on shoots because of.. said nerves.
“you’ve got a lot of bad habits, midoriya sensei.” you tell him whilst the two of you work late one night. your eyes aren’t on him, you sit side by side grading papers in the teacher’s office. finals. his third years will be heroes soon and yours move up to second in their place.
izuku’s red marker pen screeches to a halt on the page — dribbly ink, loose and crimson sinking through the crisp and crumpled page of a student’s hand written essay. he’ll bump them up a mark for the mess.
“like what?”
he doesn’t look up either, breaths careful and controlled, because all it would really take is one person and their prying eyes to bring his squeaky clean reputation down to its knees. the symbol of hope, a slimy sleaze would be the headline of the ages.
“you smell like smoke, tobacco. it clings to your tie sometimes, especially after your free periods.” you comment absentmindedly, flipping the page of your own student’s work. “there’s a lipstick on the collar of your shirt. purple. the journalist who came to give the students that media training workshop. she wears a similar colour.” you gesture to the collar of your own shirt next, gaze finally flickering up to meet darkened and amused jade eyes. “and you’ve got new ink right here.” you tap the inside of your wrist once, izuku lifting his own. “dynamight’s death date on your wrist.”
“you got me there, i won’t deny it. you stalking me?” izuku laughs, his fingers press into star studded cheeks and his eyes remain hooded. daring. “didn’t know you were such a fan.” he rolls his hair closer to yours, elbows on his knees.
“i’m just observant sensei, i like to know what you’re up to. keep myself out of trouble.”
rolling your eyes, you shuffle your papers and begin to pack up — completely ignoring the heated figure beside you, the curiosity and newfound desire radiating off of him in alluring waves.
you shake your head. resist.
“i’m one of the good guys remember? no trouble here.” izuku fiddled with the stray pens on your desk, teasing you with a touch that’s yet to be yours,
“everyone has their dark side, sensei.” you quip, snatching the stationary up — not missing the spark of electricity that jolts between you both when your fingers brush. “including you. so if i want to keep working here — i’ll need to be on my best behaviour. away from trouble. away from you.” you smile slow, almost sexy like you see right through him. “so don’t worry too much midoriya. your secret is safe with me.”
end. - reblogs and comments are always appreciated! just liking doesn't do anything. so leave a comment to motivate this writer if you'd like to see more!!
It was a relatively normal day in Oceanside, you were sitting on the couch, half watching some animal documentary you had turned on because you knew Andrew would like it. He had sat close to you, his eyes on the screen as your legs had laid over his lap, his rough hands resting on the soft skin of your shin as his thumb rhythmically brushed back and forth. But he had gotten a phone call, one that made him get up and take it outside, it wasn't as if he was hiding anything, he just didn't want to disrupt your movie watching experience with his phone call, or at least that's how he saw it. A few shouts later and a slamming of the sliding door, he returned back inside, his shoulders square and jaw tightly locked in place, he came back over to the couch, sitting back down with possibly too much control, like he was trying to contain a strom between his two bare hands. His movements still stiff as he reached for your legs, bringing them back to his lap with more care than necessary, like even with all that he was keeping contained you were the one thing being gentle with came naturally. His hands resting on your knees like he needed the contact to ground him, his back straight and his chest rising and falling with noticeably more effort, while his gaze practically burned holes into the TV screen. You noticed, of course and could only stay quiet for so long, so slowly you moved a little closer, eyes lingering on his side profile, tracing the line of his clenched jaw. “Andy?” Your tone is intentionally soft, like approaching a cornered animal, and it seems to get though whatever chaos was swirling around in his head as he turned his face fractionally in your direction, his lips still tightly pressed together and his gaze looking focused while also distant. You're tempted to say more, to remind him that you're here if he wants to talk, if he needs anything, but you know he knows that by now. But as you look at his set expression, the anger practically vibrating off of him, you mind yourself doing something stupid, so stupid you should probably be sent away because what on god's green earth possessed you to do such a thing, but before you could logically think it through, your hand was raising. Your soft delicate hand lifting up as you extend your pointer finger and lightly tap the tip of your finger to the end of his now, a boop if you will. You just booped Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody on the nose, did you have a god damn death wish? Maybe, but you had lived to tell the tale, somehow, you're not quite sure how actually, not even sure what you had just done. And it seemed Andrew was just as floored, as he stills, almost a flinch but not quite, it had taken a while but he was learning your touch didn't come with pain or a price. His eyes narrowed a fraction more as he looked at you as if you had just unplugged him, his brain blue screening for a second, but then it happened, his shoulders relaxed, his jaw unclenched and the corners of his mouth twitch, like even he found some humor in the absurdity of the situation. Moving closer, he folded himself into you, hands sliding up your legs to your hips and settling there as he pressed his face into your chest cuddling into you. Your hands naturally found their way into his hair, fingers threading through dark auburn curls as you held him close, feeling the anger seeping out of him with every second that passed.
So maybe it has become a little bit of a habit now. Whenever Andrew got frustrated or angry, not when it was about legitimate stuff, not if someone's life was actually in danger, but when it was about the littler things, when his jaw would clench and he would get that murderous look in his eyes and grumpy little pout on his lips, you found yourself tapping your finger to the end of his nose, and he would melt. Someone had bought the wrong bread for sandwiches, his shoulders tense, scowl in place, then you booping the end of his nose and he softened, listened to you as you suggested a quick trip back to the shops to rectify it, his arms linked around your waist as he nodded along. The weather was bad and ruined his plans to skate, stewing by the kitchen island, too caught up in his own thoughts until he felt the tap to his nose, and before he knew it, his shoulders had dropped and he was nuzzling into the crook of your neck with a soft curve to the corner of his lips. You didn't quite understand it but one little boop from you and he softened, his narrowed eyes turned to those sweet little puppy eyes you adored so much. So what if booping a hardened felon on the nose when they got angry wasn't what most did, it's what you did, and it worked.
(This was inspired by Kate and Anthony from Bridgerton and how she boops that little Englishman. Anyway, hope you enjoyed and please feel free to let me know your thoughts and ideas.)
dating jack means there is an unspoken rule that he always parallel parks for you. it doesn’t even matter what time you come home, because he’s always texting you “Call me when you’re here. I’ll park.😊”
pulling up in front of the house but he’s already in a light jog out the door, wearing his soft camo shorts and black tee, house loafers & backwards baseball cap. motioning for you to come out with his hand, a direct but gentle “get out, baby.” as he opens your door for you.
parallel parks with one hand on the wheel, veiny arm rotating it as the other hooks behind the passenger seat headrest. his jaw clenches and his sun-tanned neck straining as he looks back.
afterwards he hops out, jingling your shiny keychain and leaving a tap on your ass to signal you to head inside. “how was your day, pumpkin?”
