Hey! I think you said you were taking requests. Could you make something along the lines of reader is around late 20s, typical “I’m too old for you” soo, the reader talks to some of the younger night shift staff, and there is little hint of jealousy. Next day, you go to talk to them but they just walk away or pretend to do something else? Then you put jack into room somewhere to talk and.. 🤭 well, you can probably see where I am going with this ^^ ❤️❤️
yeah oh god
"think i need someone older."
jack abbot x fem!nightshift!reader
part 2 kinda
now playing - older - Isabel LaRosa
synopsis: you realize that these boys you're talking to have priorities elsewhere. you decide to start pining for your attending, which works out even better than you thought.
cw: smut, (at work grey's anatomy style), unprotected sex, pining, age gap (reader is 20s, jack is late 40s/early 50s), jealousy, use of y/n, jack being a sinister little guy
a/n: this so yummy..... mmm.... i need him religiously. i put a little spin on it but i also feel like it’s kinda butt.
dating apps weren't your scene. everyone was just looking for a quick fuck, or someone to sell drugs to, or promoting their soundcloud "rapping" career. none of those boys actually wanted a relationship, commitment, or a future. you, on the other hand, had a fear of dying alone.
your weekends were filled with bad dates, second base with weird dudes, and the occasional stand-up. you were sick of it, and your hormones figured that your attending, dr. jack abbot, would be a good candidate to fill the void that was missing.
it started with a dumb conversation on a surprisingly quiet night in the middle of september. you were standing around the nurses station, jack reading over a chart as you chatted with shen and ellis.
"it was horrible," you groan in response to ellis' question about your date. "he talked about himself the entire time. the worst part is, he wasn't even that cute in person."
you didn't notice jack's raised eyebrow from where he stood, listening in from across the room.
"gross," she mutters. "i told you, just date women."
"i've tried that, trust me. i would if i could." you rest your head down for a moment, shaking your head.
"what about you, dr. abbot?" shen pipes up, being the only one who caught on that he was listening. "you seeing anyone?"
you perk up, resting your chin on your fist as you wait for an answer. obviously, you've noticed the ring he wears, but you'd also heard through the grapevine that he's widowed.
"not for a long time," he says in an unimpressed tone, setting the ipad down.
"really?" you chime in, trying to hide a smile as a thought formed in your head. "you've never tried getting back in the game?"
"i'm well past my dating years, y/n," he looks at you, clearly regretting trying to eavesdrop.
"definitely not," you shake your head. "even nursing home residents date each other." that gets a chuckle out of shen and ellis, but jack just looks at you funny.
"i'll keep that in mind when i get there." he shakes his head. "don't you all have work to do instead of gossiping?"
the three of you sigh and groan respectively, scattering.
you take a few steps to the board, scanning it. "y'know, dr. abbot, i'm sure there are plenty of girls who'd love to be wined and dined by you." you smile suggestively. although you weren't explicitly implying anything, he caught on.
"nice try, sweetheart." he says, patting your shoulder as he walked past you. "you're far too young for that. maybe robby would be up for that challenge. you should ask him."
you laugh dryly, biting your lip as he walked away. no, no. now your mind was made up.
a week or two later, you were swiping on tinder, shen and ellis over your shoulder once again.
"ew, fuck," you mutter in disgust at the troglodyte on your screen, swiping left.
"who the fuck are these people?" shen asks. "do you have your radius set to a different planet?"
"pittsburg's finest," ellis chuckles, sitting down in a chair.
"this is just painful." you say, pocketing your phone and sighing. you see jack from across the room, this time talking to a resident.
"... do you guys think i could score a date with abbot?" you ask quietly, keeping your gaze on him to make sure he wouldn't turn towards you and overhear.
"what? seriously?" ellis looks at you like this is the most ridiculous thing she's ever heard.
"yeah, seriously," you nod with a cheeky smile.
"i'll give you twenty bucks if you can get him to even buy you a drink," shen says with a disbelieving smile, like you were insane.
you hum intently, trying to come up with something. a med student comes into your view, whoever he was, he looked exhausted and lost.
"i've got something." you smile, taking a step to the other side of the nurses station.
the kid, maybe a few years younger than you, looked up at the board like he was asked to slay a dragon.
"you look lost." you say to him, looking up at the board yourself.
"y-yeah. a little." he gulps, looking at you.
"i remember those days. just take it one step at a time, don't let it stomp on you yet. you'll get the hang of it eventually." you give him a sweet smile, surely catching the attention of the attending from across the room.
"... i'll try. thanks." the student smiles back.
you step away as jack was walking over. "you're after med students now?" he asks, setting the tablet down on the counter.
"i'm not 'after' anyone." you say innocently, shaking your head, looking up and down his being. his shoulders, his freckled arms, the way his face tensed as he processed your response.
"sure looks like you are. get back to work, kid. make yourself useful. save some lives or something." he shoos you off.
you giggle softly, stepping away from him.
when you came in for your next shift, the vibes were a bit off. you came in, coffee in hand, and everyone seemed to glance at you like they knew something you didn't. rumors spread like wildfire around here, but how come you're the only one who hasn't caught wind of something that happened less than 12 hours ago?
"what is going on around here?" you ask, setting down your cup and looking down at Dana, who was packing her things up to leave.
"... that med student you had flaked." she says, not elaborating any further.
"what? he quit?" you ask, confused. everything was fine last night.
"transferred to a different hospital. you must'a scared him off." she shrugs on her jacket, but you could tell she still knew something.
you let out a breath, coming out more like a scoff. you look around like the answer would be sitting on a sign in big letters, yet nothing appears. you try to be normal for the rest of the shift, but puzzles that were missing pieces seriously irked you.
based on the way abbot looked at you tonight, something firm in his eyes yet keeping his distance, you had a sneaking suspicion that he had something to do with it.
by midnight, you found yourself standing around, occasionally throwing a few words into your chart in between chatting.
every time you’d glance towards your chart again, you could see in the reflection of the screen shen and ellis muttering to each other like high schoolers.
“what are you two talking about?” you ask, slowly turning around with your eyes narrowed.
“nothing.” shen clams up, his eyes, flickering anywhere but you.
“yeah… mkay.” you hum suspiciously. “anything to do with the med student that left?”
they both spin in their chairs, failing to be nonchalant.
“mm, yeah, okay.” you nod again, promptly standing up.
“dr. abbot, can i speak to you? privately?” you ask as you approach him, coming out of a patients room.
“uh.. sure,” he nods, gesturing for you to lead the way to the staff room.
you cross your arms as he closes the door behind himself, turning around to face him. “care to explain why everyone knows something i don’t?” you ask, making him sigh.
“… is this about the med student?” he asks, like he was tired of hearing about it.
“yes, it’s about the med student. jeopardizing a students learning and career just because you can’t handle yourself—“
“i didn’t say anything to him,” he cuts you off, his voice firm yet quiet. “nothing to make him quit, at least.”
“so you did!” you scoff, placing your hands on your hips. “why would you even—“
without warning, he pushes you against the counter, his body pressed against you. he was warm, smelled like cologne and hand sanitizer, and you could practically feel every individual muscle in his body. “shush.” he says, and if you weren’t speechless before, you were now.
“i don’t want to see you getting chummy with med students and interns,” he continues, his tone holding something back, like he was almost ashamed to admit it. “it’s not— i just— i don’t want to see it. hear me?”
your mouth goes dry, your eyes flickering from his eyes to his lips as you nod slowly. it’s silent for a bit, neither of you saying anything, only the sound of your breathing filled the room.
you weren’t sure who moved first, but suddenly his lips were on yours in a hot, desperate kiss, his grip tight on your hips. you whimper quietly, your hands coming up to hold either side of his face as your lips molded together like they were meant to be there.
it’s fast, the way his hands undo the tie of your scrub pants and slide up your shirt, cupping your tits over your bra. your hand tangles in his greying curls, the other lightly caressing the freckled skin of his neck.
his tongue pushes your lips apart, sliding against yours as you feel the familiar hot tingling sensation in your underwear. your cunt throbs with need, making you whine pathetically into his mouth.
you both pull away for air, his hands on your bare waist, chests bumping as they rise and fall.
“we shouldn’t be doing this.” he mutters breathlessly.
“i know,” you reply softly, still searching his eyes for any sign that he actually wanted to stop.
no sign was there.
your lips meet again, hot and messy, saliva on the corner of your mouth as your tongues rub together. your hands messily fall to the waistband of his pants, untying the string and pulling at them.
“greedy girl,” he mutters as he pulls back, quickly flipping you to face the cupboards and sliding your pants down your thighs. his hands grab your ass, slapping one cheek softly. “you stay quiet, you hear me?”
you nod, resting your forehead on the cupboard in front of you as you pant. he pulls the front of his scrub pants down, slipping his hardened cock out of his boxers and dragging it across your holes. you moan, feeling the sheer girth of his tip made you even more excited for the real thing.
"i'll treat you to a real date after this, yeah?" he pants into your ear, his tip catching your hole and pushing in slightly.
you nod, moaning softly as your hips buck closer toward him, making him slide a little further into you. he groans quietly, letting out quick breaths to keep himself quiet.
"make sure you feel appreciated, unlike these other guys you talk to," he mutters, thrusting inside of you slowly, stretching you like you'd never been before.
you clutch the counter, holding back a loud whine, leaning your head back onto his shoulder.
"you'd love that, huh? being taken care of, getting fucked the way you deserve," he talks, his heavy breathing against your neck only making it harder for you to keep a quiet mouth and a straight mind.
his thrusts speed up, creating an obscene, wet slapping throughout the room. neither of you seemed to care that someone could walk in at any time, deciding that getting off was your top priority.
"fuck-" you choke out, a hand coming up to tangle in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer.
"haven't had sex like this in so long," he mutters, reaching around your front and rubbing your clit in time with his thrusts. "you gonna come with me?"
"uh-huh," you practically sob, having a hard time keeping quiet.
"atta girl, come for me," he grunts, his thrusts growing messy and untimed.
you let out a hushed whimper, your muscles sucking him in tightly as he cums inside of you, the sticky warmth making you feel fuller than ever. you don't think you've ever had such a long orgasm, drawn out and making your legs tremble.
you both pant, standing there for a while as you caught your breath. you whine quietly as he pulled out of you with a sigh, pulling his pants back up and retying them.
"you okay?" he asks softly, hands running across the soft skin of your ass, reaching down to pull up your panties and scrub pants, leaving you to tie your pants back up the way you'd like.
you nod, practically regaining consciousness as you tie your pants back up with shaky hands. "'m okay," you whisper softly.
"good," he nods, kissing your temple softly. "get back to work. i'll meet you in the parking lot after handoff." he says, hushed, and walks out of the staff room.
you'd forgotten you were even at work. you absolutely were meeting him in the parking lot.
summary: you're called into the ED on a rare friday night off, saving you from a disastrous first date. throughout your shift, dr. jack abbot can't keep his eyes off you and lends a helping hand when he notices you're in pain.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, undefined age gap, hint at power imbalance, swearing, slight suggestive content, no smut, smutty thoughts, slow burn (hehe oops), mutual attraction/pining, bad dating experiences, the pitt loves to gossip, santos is a terrible matchmaker, misogynistic/derogatory men (no one from the pitt), slight hurt/mainly comfort, jackie boy and his miracle hands 🙂↕️, dual pov (kinda?), jack & dana call reader kid, sweetheart said once, no use of y/n, reader wears a dress, reader has had knee surgery (and the scars to prove it), partly proofread, medical inaccuracies no doubt, let me know if i missed anything 🤠
word count: 7k
authors note: first crack at writing jack abbot! yes, this is self indulgent, yes my knee is hurting like a b lately. (goldi on a man hating agenda? say it ain't so!). reminder that i live to give ai two big middle fingers 🫶 400 followers celebration - hello what???
song inspo: sweet serotonin - amber mark
divider credits: red line divider by @/omi-resources, medical divider by @/sisterlucifergraphics
Right on time, taking me by surprise
Must have been in your eyes, like me, oh, my
Where you been my whole life?
Where you been my whole life? Oh-oh
Dating had always felt like a chore—a time consuming, anxiety riddled, unsatisfying chore. Most of the men you matched with on dating apps made it abundantly clear that they were only interested in casual, no strings attached fun. It was never fun for you—maybe in the beginning, when you would exchange a handful of flirty texts that had butterflies flapping in your stomach and a giddy smile blooming across your face. But then, once they had you where they wanted—laid out on their questionable smelling sheets, straddling them on their lumpy, faded couch—all the promises they had made over the phone suddenly vanished.
Nine times out of ten they didn't even bother with foreplay, hitting you with "does that feel good?" before spilling in a condom within two minutes of sporadically thrusting into you. You never lied, never bothered with faking a moan—let alone an orgasm—just to satisfy their ego. They were shit at taking care of a woman's needs, and you weren't going to spare their feelings just because it was polite.
So, why you were on a date on your rare Friday night off from working in the ED was fucking beyond you.
You wanted to blame Santos, she was the one who had set the date up after all. She claimed she was sick of hearing you bitch and moan about your dry spell, saying that if you weren't going to get back on the apps then she would find someone for you. And honestly, after working at PTMC for a few years—getting increasingly frustrated after every twelve hour shift you spent with Dr. Abbot—you owed it to yourself to give dating one more try. Maybe this would be the guy that would finally touch you right, finally make you feel something more, scratch that itch that you couldn't reach yourself.
He was your type, just as Santos had raved. Well, your new type. At some point, maybe around month two of swapping to the night shift, your thumb had slipped and the dating apps started showing you men at least fifteen years your senior. Men with fine lines crinkling their eyes, salt and pepper scruff lining their jaws, their terribly posed selfies accentuating their age.
But, surely, these men would be experienced enough to care for a woman's pleasure, right?
Wrong.
God, you were so wrong.
You gave up after two failed dates—one ending shortly after the appetisers because he was still married, the other ending when he got aggravated because his dick was staying semi-hard and had an ego too big to take viagra. Oh, and he refused to make you feel good if he wasn't getting anything in return.
You deleted the apps in the uber on your way home. You tried to convince yourself that it was these men that you kept picking and not you. You sure as hell weren't the problem. Comparing them to your extremely off-limits attending had nothing to do with it, either.
Santos said he was a regular at her gym, no mark on his left hand where a wedding band may have been, with an enticing smile and deep eyes that promised a good time. If only she had spoken to him for more than a couple of sentences.
You internally cheered when your phone vibrated on the table in front of you with an incoming call. You didn’t even bother checking caller ID, you would gladly take a call from a scammer if it meant it got you out of one of the top five worst dates you’ve been on in your life.
“Excuse me,” you muttered to the man sitting across from you before lifting the phone to your ear. He rolled his eyes and gave you a dismissive wave, sipping on the ridiculously expensive whiskey he’d ordered for himself.
“Hey, hon,” Dana’s urgent voice came through the line. “Sorry to interrupt your night off, but we need you in the ER. Ellis has come down with a nasty stomach bug, and the place is about to overflow with patients from a multiple MVC. Night shift needs you, kid.”
You couldn’t resist the sigh of relief you let out. Being elbows deep in traumas sounded a lot better than continuing your date with the misogynistic asshole in front of you.
“I’m on my way,” you replied to Dana, ending the call and gathering your clutch. You offered a fake apologetic smile to your date as you stood up from your chair.
“I’m really sorry,” you weren’t, “but I’ve been called into work. Life of being an ED doctor.” You offered an awkward chuckle.
He let out a sigh, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “So you’re not coming home with me, then?” Your eye twitched. “Least you can do is pay for your half of the bill.”
And there it was. The disgusting norm that comes with modern dating—the man only footing the bill if he knows he’s getting his dick wet.
You pulled a twenty dollar note out of your wallet, slapping it onto the table with more force than necessary. You shot him a sickly sweet smile before turning on your heel.
“Have a nice life, dick.” You muttered to yourself, pushing open the door to the restaurant. You pulled out your phone, ordering an uber straight to PTMC.
“Holy fuckin' smokes!” Dana exclaimed, her eyes locked on the sliding doors to the ambulance bay.
Despite the chaos engulfing the Pitt, her outburst caught the attention of the nurses and doctors hanging around the hub. Half of the day shift had their bags hanging off their shoulder, midway through saying their goodbyes.
It was almost cartoonish, the way they slowly spun, their eyes following the path of Dana's. A couple pairs of eyes bulged, a med student's jaw slightly dropped, and a smug smirk curved Santos' lips.
"Oh damn," Princess whispered, McKay and Mateo humming and nodding their agreement.
They had seen you plenty of times before—right before the start of a long shift when you were bright-eyed and eager, at the end of a double when you were sunken and hollow, stumbling into an uber after one too many at the local bar. But, they had never seen you like this.
There was a shift in the air, one that you seemed completely oblivious to. You were walking the path from the ambulance bay to the staff lockers, mind focused on getting into your spare pair of scrubs and out of your stupidly uncomfortable shoes. You briefly wondered how long into your shift it would take for your knee to start twinging, for the muscles around it to start straining because you decided to wear nice shoes instead of practical ones.
They were shoes you had bought to match the dress that had been hanging sadly in your closet for the past four months. It was a nice dress, one that you had been eager to wear and finally you had a reason to. Now you were regretting wasting it on that douchebag.
It wasn't just the dress that everyone was taking notice of, wasn't the only thing that had the room momentarily holding its breath. You looked…different. Still like yourself, but with your best features highlighted—making you stand out in a crowd. Not that you even noticed the attention on you.
Dr. Jack Abbot was leaning his elbows on a desk in the Hub, his back turned in your direction. Dana's abrupt—but not unusual—outburst had him looking over his shoulder, doing a double take when he realised it was you that had Dana swearing. He straightened his posture instinctively, turning and folding his hands behind his back like a soldier standing to attention. His eyes followed you as you kept walking towards the group of fleetingly stunned medical professionals.
He always noticed you, more than he cared to admit. He gravitated towards you from the second he saw you on your first day shift years ago, drawn to you like a moth to a flame. You were intelligent, quick-witted, determined but you were also kind, compassionate, empathetic—all important attributes for a doctor to have. You were his best resident. And you were beautiful.
It was a matter of fact to him, that you were pretty in a way that had his pulse tumbling and breath hitching. He knew it was dangerous for him to be attracted to you—his resident that was way too young and had way too much of her life ahead of her. So, he never did anything about it. He kept things strictly professional, pretending like he didn't have a file cabinet tucked away in his brain where he stored every little detail about you.
He convinced himself that every detail he knew served a purpose, that it made him a better attending and in turn made you a better resident. It was to help you, which then meant you could help patients.
Knowing the exact way you liked your coffee? That was so you were well caffeinated and less grumpy towards patients when the four am low hit.
Noticing when you took more frequent deep sighs, accompanied with rubbing your temples? That's when he knew you needed fresh air to ward off an incoming headache, and then you would be fine to treat more patients.
Carefully watching the way your face lit up when he bought your favourite snacks? Just confirmation that you were getting sustenance, so you would have the energy to continue your hard work as an ED doctor.
It was habit for him to catalogue everything about you, and now you were giving him details to store that had nothing to do with improving your work as a doctor. The way the light reflected off your lip gloss, how you filled out your dress and made it look like it was designed just for you, the sway of your hips thanks to the shoes you were wearing.
He couldn't control the drag of his eyes down your body even if he wanted to. And that's when he saw it—the three faint scars on your left knee. The fluorescent lights above made them stand out more, and his eyes were glued to them. Two were barely an inch long, laying in horizontal slits either side of your kneecap—keyhole scars. The third one was more noticeable, running in a clean vertical line along the very top of your shin. He recognised the surgical scars immediately.
“I feel sorry for the poor bastard we dragged you away from.” Dana's raised voice knocked him out of his trance, the sounds from the ED around him rushing back into his ears.
He turned back to the desk, back to his charting before anyone could see how he had been looking at you—before you could see. His eyes still flicked back to you over his shoulder, observing how your pretty glossy lips were pulled in an out of place pout and your brows were furrowed in what looked like annoyance.
You sighed at Dana's comment, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. He wasn't a poor bastard at all, he deserved being walked out on. Before you could reply to the day charge nurse, Santos let out a long low whistle from her spot leaning against the Hub, right next to Dr. Abbot.
Whatever pleasantries you always had loaded for your coworkers disappeared in an instant, anger and irritation flaring hot in your chest. Your jaw clenched and your eyes narrowed in a glare, a single finger raising to point accusingly at your fellow resident and friend.
"Don't you fucking dare, Trinity." You seethed, pulling more attention towards you.
Whitaker froze in his spot, his hand's pausing on the keyboard where he had been finishing up his charting for the day.
"Oh, shit," he whispered, worried. "You never call her Trinity."
It was true. She was only ever Santos or Trin to you, Trinity was saved for the extremely rare occasion that you were mad at her.
Perlah and Princess stopped in their tracks, exchanging knowing looks with growing grins on their faces. They could wait a few more minutes before heading home.
Santos' eyes widened briefly, surprise flooding through her—she wasn't the one who had called you in and ended your date early.
"What did I do? Not my fault there's a ten car pile up." She raised her hands in mock defense.
"You're the one who set me up with a misogynistic prick!" You couldn't help but exclaim, your hands starting to shake with the unleashed anger you had been feeling since the second you sat down at dinner.
The group gathered around the Hub went still, eyes darting towards each other as they watched the rare scene of you losing your temper. The women around you shared a collective wince, immediately understanding your situation. They didn't even need you to explain what happened, they already knew how awful men could be—especially in your line of work.
Jack couldn't stop the protectiveness that ran deep through his bones at your statement, couldn't stop the jealousy souring his gut at the fact you were out with another man. A man that apparently did not deserve your time, did not deserve how beautiful you looked. He didn't think any man deserved you, even himself.
He wanted to know what happened, wanted to know who deserved a beating for treating you poorly. The possessive rage bleeding in his veins was new and incredibly dangerous.
The doors to the ambulance bay split open, a handful of paramedics rushing in with gurneys carrying bloodied victims from the MVC Dana called you in to help with.
Robby emerged from Trauma one, glancing around at his staff loitering while chaos rushed around them.
"Hey! What are you all doing standing around? Get to work!"
Everyone shifted into gear at his yell, splitting off to assess the new patients and to prepare rooms for their treatment. The day shifts with one foot out the door already slowly inched towards the exits.
You passed Dana as you rushed towards the staff lockers to quickly change, her hand briefly squeezing your shoulder.
"I'll be here if you need to vent, hon." She threw you her signature mother bear smile. "God knows I've dealt with my fair share of misogynistic pricks." And she had the battle scars to prove it, too.
The frustration from your awful date lingered, only being subdued during the frantic hours you treated the patients from the car crash. You focused on what you knew best, on providing the utmost medical care you could.
Even after the influx of injured and critical patients from the crash, you had to handle the day patients that had been waiting for hours. The last of the day shift went home by ten pm, looking like zombies and talking about a goodnight drink at the park before they split ways. Just after midnight, multiple dirt ridden trucks pulled up into the ambulance bay—dumping off a load of drunks that had ruined their faces and fists by starting a bar fight.
Your frustration rose back up to the surface as you tried your best to treat the belligerent drunks, their acrid breath hurling derogatory insults at you despite how you were helping. Some nights this behaviour was easy enough brush off, to file away for you to scream about later. Not this night though, you were already feeling torn down by a date's outdated and chauvinistic views and now it was just more fuel to the fire.
Dr. Abbot was standing next to you, observing as you examined a drunk's head lac, asking questions to determine the best plan of action.
He was standing next to you when the drunk grumbled out loud, his glazed eyes glued on your scrub covered chest. "Don't think you belong here with those."
Jack watched as your hand faltered, a grimace flexing your jaw at the crude comment. He opened his mouth, whether to tell the asshole off or to reassure you he wasn't sure, but you met him with a sharp look and shake of your head.
He was next to you again, letting you take the lead on a hip dislocation. Unfortunately, it was another one of the bar fight idiots—an old man who slipped from standing on the bar. You treated him how you would any other patient—your hands in the exact same position.
"Bit further up, sweet cheeks. That's where I need your hands most." He leered with a sleazy grin.
Your hands slipped, a flare of disgust and rage tearing up your chest. Your breathing grew heavy, coming out in quick audible bursts. Angry tears started to fill your waterline.
Why were men so fucking awful?
Dr. Abbot stepped in from behind you, adjusting his stance to block you from the drunks invasive eyes. He gripped the man harder than necessary, leaning down with an authoritative, deadly glare.
"Shut your fucking mouth," he simmered, pushing the man's hip into place with more force than required.
After exiting the room you leaned against the wall to take a breath, pinching the bridge of your nose as you willed yourself to calm down.
"Hey," Dr. Abbot's low voice mumbled in front of you. You lifted your head to find him peering down at you, worry softening his hard features.
"You doing okay?"
He watched you visibly collect yourself, pulling in a deep breath and squaring your shoulders. The faint tremble in your jaw gave you away, though.
"I'm fine. Nothing I can't handle," you muttered, crossing your arms across your chest. You couldn't break down over a couple brass comments, not when you've witnessed much worse happen to your fellow female colleagues.
He lowered his chin towards you, his shoulders dropping. He spoke in a soft, private tone. "Doesn't mean it's okay, kid."
He sighed and took half a step closer, careful not to invade your personal space. "You've had a long few hours of dealing with pricks tonight." He paused, a faint smile gracing his lips. "I promise we're not all bad."
You rolled your eyes with an amused scoff. "Yeah, that's what they all say."
Still, you couldn't help but feel hope at his words—because you knew they weren't all bad, you were reminded of that every time you worked with him. And the other men who worked in the Pitt alongside you. But, you always noticed the good qualities in him more than anyone else.
You noticed how he never flaunted his money, yet was always the first to pull his phone out to call an uber for a struggling patient. How he often door-dashed dinner for the ED staff, careful to make sure everyone's dietary requirements were catered for. You noticed the way he positioned himself between an aggressive patient and female staff, becoming an immovable shield. And you sure as hell noticed how gentle he was with the younger patients, how his voice softened as he put them at ease.
You hated how much you noticed about him. Hated how hours, days, weeks later a warmth still curled in the pit of your gut. You hated how much you wanted him, hated how his soft hazel eyes and hardened lines threw your world off its axis.
What you hated most was that you knew you would never find a man like him. You were stuck dating assholes because the one man you wanted was the last man you were allowed to have.
He kept his eyes on you as you pushed away from the wall, heading towards one of the day shift patients in the West rooms. His eyes tracked the subtle hitch in your step, the way you shifted more weight onto your right leg. It was something he had noticed before, when the sun would breach across the horizon signaling the end of the night shift. He never focused on it too much, filing it away as tightness after being on your feet for twelve hours straight. But now, after seeing the scars your scrub pants kept hidden he knew it was more than that, and you were only halfway through your shift. It was obvious your knee was bothering you. He felt his own knee twinge in sympathy.
"So," Mateo started, leaning back in one of the swivel chairs at Central. "What happened on your awful date?"
You didn't have to look up from your charting to see the cheeky grin on his face, you could hear it bleeding through his voice.
"You've spent too much time with Princess," you muttered in reply.
Shen peered up from his spot in the Hub, his ears perking at the mention of a date—the man loved to gossip, especially with a dunkin coffee in his hand. He grabbed the tablet he was working on, his lips pursed around his straw as he walked over to you two. You felt his presence before you heard him.
"What's this I hear about a date?" He leaned his hip on the desk next to you, raising his eyebrows in interest and slurping his coffee.
You sighed, bringing a hand to your left thigh to rub a twitching muscle—you were really paying for those stupid shoes you wore earlier.
"Why is it that I'm always surrounded by men?"
"Hey!" Lena exclaimed as her and Bridget walked past you three. "We're still here—and we want to hear the date story too!"
You didn't even remember them being near you when you first got to work, seething at Santos about her awful blind date set up—gossip traveled fast at the Pitt, especially at shift change when the nurses overlapped.
After taking a look at the relatively calm board, the two women came back to Central with matching curious grins. It was nearing the end of the three am witching hour, when the influx of crazies quietened down and the exhaustion started to creep into your bones. You had just over three hours of your shift left and you figured venting about the thing that had been simmering in your chest wouldn't do you any more harm.
You didn't notice Dr. Abbot hovering in the doorway to Central nine, midway through removing his gloves when the unmistakable sound of gossip reached his ears.
He was curious, he couldn't help the way he shifted closer—focusing on your voice over the other sounds filling the ER.
"Where do I even start," you muttered, lifting your head to meet the intrigued eyes of Mateo sitting across from you.
"Firstly, he didn't hold the door open for me as we entered the restaurant—just let it swing into my face." You chuckled bitterly, "should've taken that as the first red flag."
Lena and Bridget nodded along sympathetically, knowing the worst was still yet to come.
"He then proceeded to order for me—both my drink and food when we had barely spoken a word to each other."
Shen shrugged next to you, and you focused a glare on him. "He ordered me clams. I fucking hate seafood." That made the man wince.
Jack drifted closer to the conversation, standing a few feet behind you. You were too caught up in the annoyance that lingered from your date to notice his quietly commanding presence.
"When I told him what I do for work, he went on a five minute monologue about how the ED is no place for a woman."
That gained a collective eye roll and groan from everyone gathered, even pulling silent wince and twitch of the mouth from Jack.
"You stayed after that?" Lena questioned, her face showing how incredulous she found the situation.
You groaned in response, lowering your head into your hands. "I know, don't remind me." Your voice was muffled by your palms.
You took a breath and lowered your hands, loosely crossing your arms over your chest to ground yourself. "That wasn't even the worst part…" you trailed off.
"After bragging about his job as some finance hotshot, he said that because it takes him all over the world—by that, he meant he goes to Canada sometimes—he needs to have romantic partners in every city he travels to."
"Yikes," Mateo blurted with a wince.
"Said that it's his right as a man to have multiple partners, but that the women he's seeing can only exclusively date him."
Jack couldn't stay quiet any longer. There was a deep burning in his chest the more he listened to you.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered with a humourless chuckle. "Where the hell did you find this guy?"
You whipped around quickly, shocked and flustered that your attending had heard all about your terrible date. You expected him to be annoyed at you all for sitting around gossiping, but you could only find disgust and another unreadable emotion clenching his jaw.
"I didn't find him," you mumbled with a shrug. "Santos set it up. Said he's a regular at her gym."
"I'm surprised you weren't more mad at her earlier."
"I was actually relieved when I got Dana's call asking me to come in." You let out a small laugh, feeling ridiculous that you preferred the night shift chaos over a date with an attractive man—well, he was attractive until he opened his mouth.
Jack felt a misplaced sense of pride blooming in his chest at your admission. He took it personally when you said you would rather be with him—the night shift—than on a date.
"To top it all off, he made me pay for my half of the bill when he realised—"
The rest of your vent was cut off by one of the medical assistants wheeling in a patient from chairs.
"This is Mr. Wilson, mid sixties, he's been erect for the last eight hours."
The irony of the situation didn't get lost on you, a small snort slipping from you. Shen patted your shoulder before straightening up.
"I got this." He had the decency to leave his dunkin coffee behind as he walked over to the patient.
"So, Mr. Wilson. Did you take anything that might have lead to this condition?"
Five minutes later you were sat alone at Central, some of the lingering frustration now eased from your shoulders. A freckled arm appeared in front of you, placing a cup of coffee and your favourite protein bar next to the keyboard you were typing on.
You looked up in time to see Dr. Abbot's face tilted towards you, a soft smile smoothing his features.
"Thanks, Doc." You breathed with your own faint smile.
He responded with a smooth wink, one side of his mouth quirking up before he turned and headed towards South.
You watched as he left, noting how his gait shifted to accommodate his prosthetic leg. Your eyes trailed up his back, watching the subtle shift of his muscles beneath his scrub top, lingering on the freckles sprinkling his neck before landing on his silver curls. God, how you wanted to tug on those curls. A rush of warmth flooded your body as images flashed through your mind unprompted, unwanted. Images of you running your fingers through the curls while his head was between your thighs, hazel eyes dark with his own desire.
You spun back around before anyone caught you staring, quickly chugging your coffee and burning the roof of your mouth in the process. You took it as a much needed distraction to the heat gathering in your core. All he did was give you a goddamn coffee and snack.
It was just after five am when your knee buckled, straining from the long night and making you audibly wince. You were back at the Hub, hands clenching the counter as you tilted your foot against the half wall trying to stretch the tight muscles pulling on your knee.
It offered you temporary relief, one of the knots on your lower calf slightly easing. But it wasn't enough—the hard to get knots clustered on your upper calf were too deep, too close to the joint to get any relief from a quick stretch. You sighed as you felt the joint start to throb, a clear indication that the inflammation was flaring up.
That steady presence you quickly came to admire fell next to you once again, a veiny hand placing a tablet on the counter. You tried resisting following the lines of veins up his forearm, but you knew it was a losing battle so early in the morning. The fluorescent lights were still bright above you, but the early hour made everything feel soft—like the calm before the day shift storm.
"ACL reconstruction?" Dr. Abbot's voice grumbled low next to you.
"Huh?" You questioned, your brows scrunched in confusion. The patient you had just seen was a young teen with a fever that wouldn't break, possible meningitis.
Dr. Abbot tilted his head towards your leg that was still in a half stretch position.
"Your knee, I saw the scars when you came in earlier. Is it giving you trouble?" A line appeared between his brows, his cute mouth curving downward in a concerned frown.
He knew it was giving you trouble, he didn't need to ask. He had observed you the whole shift, feeling concerned when you stilled with a huff and changed your stance to accommodate the pain. He knew the pain of an injured joint all too well, could feel his own leg starting to scream at him after ignoring the tenderness for over ten hours. His fingers itched to help you, to offer you some comfort and take away your pain. He told himself it was because you were his resident—he couldn't have you hurting and disrupting your job as a doctor.
You straightened under his watchful gaze, distributing your weight evenly on both legs—a jolt of pain had you shifting to your right with a subtle wince.
"Reconstruction and a meniscal repair, too." You answered his first question. "Nothing I can't handle," you repeated your earlier statement, trying to brush off the obvious discomfort you were feeling.
He shot you a deadpan look, not buying your bullshit. He crossed his arms across his chest, leveling you with his quiet, intense authority that had fire tingling under your skin.
"What happened?" He asked gruffly.
You sighed out of habit—it really wasn't that big a deal.
"A not-so-friendly soccer match in high school." You shrugged, looking away from his unwavering stare. "Hurt like a bitch, but it's been over ten years. I've learnt to deal with it."
He grasped your elbow gently, leading you away from the Hub despite your complaints. He lead you to an empty patient room in North.
"Dr. Abbot, what are you—my patients—"
"Shen and Crus have it covered, you're allowed to take a break." He let go of your elbow, turning to close the curtain halfway—giving a slight semblance of privacy.
You stood awkwardly near the patient bed, feeling flustered from his attention and stubborn to prove you were fine.
He shot you another look, something between amused and impatient.
"You're in pain. Sit."
Again with that goddamn commanding tone, the one that always had you shutting your mouth and obeying.
You sat down on the edge tentatively, not missing the faint smirk twitching his cheek.
He was enjoying this.
You couldn't focus on the thought for long—your attention being seized by him grabbing stool and rolling it in front of you.
"What are you doing?" You asked with a single brow raised, watching as he sat down on the stool and patted his leg.
"I'm helping my resident," he said nonchalantly, like this was something he did all the time. "Now lift your leg. Doctor's orders."
You huffed with an eye roll, succumbing to his authoritative charm. You placed your ankle in his lap, careful to not rest the full weight on him. You weren't sure whether this was crossing a professional line—it felt just shy of being intimate, of being more than just your attending helping you with an old injury.
You could feel the strength of his thighs beneath your leg, how they were pure hard muscle. It was something a resident shouldn't notice about her attending—something she definitely shouldn't store away for later, when she was home alone with her hands between her thighs.
His hands gently grabbed the bottom of your scrub pants, slowly pushing the fabric up your leg. It felt way too intimate for such a simple act—his bare hands brushing against your skin, eliciting a path of fire and goosebumps in their wake. You no longer had control over your eyes as they dropped to watch his hands, catching sight of the wedding ring he still wore. He rolled the pant leg above your knee, his eyes darting up to yours for consent—moving his hands down at your small nod.
His hands gently pressed around your inflamed joint, the heat radiating up to his skin before he even touched you.
He gave a disappointing shake of his head. "You need to ice this, kid."
"I will when I get home, promise." Your voice was low, quiet. "It's not usually this bad—it's, just…it's been a long night." You don't know why you were explaining more than necessary, maybe you didn't like feeling like you had disappointed him.
Even with the door wide open, the noises of the ED fell away around you—fading into a faint hum as you looked into his hazel eyes.
"Why is tonight any different? I don't think I saw you limp once on the Fourth of July."
Your breath hitched without your permission—he was paying enough attention to you to make note of that?
His hands traveled down from your knee, fingertips lingering briefly on your scars before wrapping around your lower calf. His calloused fingers pressed into your skin, feeling around for the tight knots.
A steady stream of shocks ran up your leg from his touch, gathering in a simmering warmth in the pit of your belly. His hands on you felt way too good, you started to regret accepting his help. You would not be forgetting his hands on you any time soon.
Jack was doing his best to keep his head clear—repeating to himself that this was to relieve your pain. But, god, your soft skin and the smell of your lotion cutting through the usual antiseptic was making it hard to focus on anything else. Add in the way you were looking at him with big, trusting eyes and he was a goner.
His mind betrayed him further, thoughts of how you prepared for your date earlier clouding his mind. Was your smooth, tempting smelling skin just a coincidence, or were you planning for more? He remembered the dress you wore—how could he ever forget it?—and his thoughts strayed to what you might've been wearing under it, what you may be wearing under your scrubs. It was a seriously dangerous train of thought to have, especially with your leg in his lap.
He watched your face carefully, looking for the slightest wince to indicate you were in pain. He pressed harder, rolling a knot and catching the way your body tensed in response.
"I didn't wear the most sensible shoes earlier," you mumbled. There was something about the two of you alone in here, with his hands carefully tending to you that made you more…vulnerable. Open. "Wasn't expecting to work a twelve hour shift—I went with shoes that matched the dress." You finished with a small shrug, looking away from his piercing eyes.
"Ah. The date that keeps on giving," he grumbled bitterly.
His hands pressed further up, reaching your mid calf. You felt the cool band of his wedding ring press into your skin, and it made this feel even more personal and intimate.
"What were you saying earlier? When he made you pay half the bill…" Dr. Abbot's voice trailed off, eyeing you expectantly with raised brows.
You scoffed, the disgust you felt almost twelve hours before still sitting on your tongue.
"Yeah, that. He said the least I could do was pay my half since I wasn't going home with him."
Jack's brain short-circuited for a brief second, his grip on your calf tightening a fraction.
"That's…awful. I'm sorry."
You looked away from his intense gaze again, your heart doing something stupid in your chest. It was hard to miss the mix of anger and concern swimming in his eyes, the way his jaw clenched and shoulders tensed.
"That's modern dating for you." You let out a humourless chuckle, "some assholes even try to claim it's for the sake of feminism." You rolled your eyes with a sigh. "It's part of the reason I gave up on dating, I was hoping the guy today was going to be different." You couldn't help the self deprecating chuckle that slipped out.
"God, I didn't realise how bad it was out there."
Jack didn't know what else to say, couldn't think of much past the rage boiling his blood. A man had really said that to you? He wanted to show you that there were some redeemable men in the world, but by the sounds of it this wasn't this first time a man had said something like this to you.
His thumb swept across your shin soothingly, a motion he wasn't even aware of. But you were. It was all your body could focus on, every nerve ending rushing to the spot his rough skin was rubbing tenderly against yours.
"You reckon there'll be new gossip for people to focus on by my next shift?" It was your attempt at deflecting the conversation, talking to Dr. Abbot about your lackluster dating life wasn't exactly on your list of favourite things to do.
Jack jokingly checked his watch. "You're next shift is in what, fourteen hours?" He shot you a cheeky smile. "I'll make sure there's something else to talk about by then," he finished with a smooth wink.
It's something you've seen countless times—Dr Abbot's inherently flirty nature. You've seen it in the way he smiles at Samira, how he easily asked Dr. Al-Hashimi out for drinks when he first met her. You knew not to take it personally, he handed flirtatious comments out like they were as necessary as breathing.
Still didn't stop the hoards of butterflies wrecking havoc in your stomach.
"Thanks," you muttered, suddenly self-conscious from his gaze. It felt like he could see right through you, and you added it to the long list of things you hated about Dr. Jack Abbot.
"Don't mention it."
You both fell quiet as he continued his massage, the conversation coming to a natural end. His fingers reached the most sensitive part of your calf, right behind your knee where the muscles pulled on the joint. He pressed down on a knot, your hand shooting to his shoulder for stability as pain flashed from the tender muscle. He focused on the spot more, watching your face as a small whimper slipped through your lips. Your leg spasmed in his hold from the pain.
"That's the spot," he muttered absentmindedly.
He continued his ministrations, finding a handful of small knots just below your knee that provoked similar responses. Your hand didn't leave his shoulder, clutching his shirt tighter when he pressed on an extra sensitive spot. He started to file away new details that had nothing to do with your jobs or the hospital. The faint pained whimpers you let loose, the pinch in your brow when he worked on a sore spot, the way your breathing had shallowed. Those were all things that were making his scrub pants sit a bit too tight. Gradually, your leg relaxed in his hold and the pain evaporated from your facial expressions.
He rolled your scrub pant down your leg, the act feeling just as heightened as before. He gave your clothed shin an affectionate pat before lowering your leg to the ground. He stood from the stool and walked to the curtain, pulling it fully open. He needed to get back to work, needed to do something with his hands so he could get rid of the itch to touch you again.
"Thank you, Dr. Abbot." You said as you stood up, relief washing over you as the throbbing in your knee eased to manageable. You almost forgot what it felt like when it wasn't in pain.
"No problem, sweetheart."
Your head shot up to him at the term of endearment, another dangerous burst of heat rushing through your body—the feeling of sweet serotonin flooding your system. Your eyes bulged as you noticed the dusting of red climbing up his neck and cheeks. He cleared his throat and made his way to the open door, stopping with one foot out in the ED. He looked at you over his shoulder, still frozen next to the bed.
"Come find me next time it flares up, alright?"
You briefly nodded, feeling slightly light-headed from the whole ordeal.
"Yes, sir."
His shoulders tensed at your choice of words, a primal part deep down in his gut rearing it's head. He felt his cock twitch in interest and he knew he was fucked. You really shouldn't have said that to him.
He took a breath and rolled his shoulders back, a small limp to his step as he made his way back to the Hub.
You watched him as he left, a heavy feeling of dread and hopelessness washing over you. This was now past the point of an innocent crush on your attending. This was something you had to cautiously keep in check or else it could derail your whole career, ruin your reputation as an upstanding resident at this hospital.
Why the fuck did he have to be so hot, and be a decent guy on top of that. It wasn't fucking fair.
soooo...smutty part 2 anyone ?
jack abbot taglist: @lovelexi717 @buckysdecaflove @moonstoneandmoonlight @sheriff-bodecker + want to be added?
✶ pairing | jack abbot x f!reader
✶ word count | 5.2k
✶ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; fingering, biting, squirting, dry humping, mildly dubious consent, fwb, unrequited love but not really, idiots in love, hurt/comfort, mild angst with a happy ending, you attended college with jack who is older than you, unspecified age gap, pining, porn with plot, realization of feelings, pet names, jealous jack, possessive jack, praise kink, manhandling, simp jack abbot, miscommunication/misunderstandings
✶ summary | Loving Jack is the same as loving the ghost of a long-forgotten memory, and you are not content to warm yourself on hollow bones and cinders of affection.
✶ notes | un-betaed atm. i snuck in a reference to animal kingdom as well as some greek myths and a musical lmao 🤭 edit: OMFG i forgot to update the summary ffs. should be fixed now.
masterlist | ao3 | inbox | requests, taglist, submissions: open
The text comes through.
Blunt.
Biting.
No explanation offered or false platitudes found in the lifeless string of black letters. Simple and straight to the point - as expected from Jack Abbot himself. He wasn't known for his verbosity, and even less so for his love of texting.
Hell, it took years of pestering before he finally caved and switched from his dinosaur of a flip phone to something made within the last five years.
Whatever, it's fine.
Except as you chew on the fat of your cheek, re-reading it over and over again to glean some hidden meaning that isn't there, you admit to yourself (privately) there's no more avoiding the truth. It's been hovering over your shoulder for weeks like a shroud; an unwelcome guest no longer content to be ignored.
Jack's avoiding you. Has been for a while now, in fact.
Honestly, it was only a matter of time.
It shouldn't be surprising - shouldn't hurt. Maybe Robby's seven week itch finally rubbed off on him (though he never seemed capable of anything less than heart stopping loyalty).
But there's an ache that shouldn't be there roosted beneath your ribs, a rotten tangle of roots, and the backs of your eyes burn as you stare down at his text thread, the blinking cursor another insult to add to the injury.
This little arrangement is supposed to be casual.
A little fun between good, albeit lonely, friends. Nothing more, and nothing less. Besides, you've known Jack Abbot forever and a day; having met back in college. The pretty upperclassman with an infectious smile who made you laugh.
Your best friend once upon a time, and then he'd graduated.
Last you'd heard, he was a field medic while you roughed it in bumfuck Ohio - struggling to make ends meet as you tried to sort out your life after everything went sideways.
It wasn't until you'd moved back to Pittsburgh a lifetime later - a little older, wiser, and jaded - you ran into him by happenstance. Who knew the both of you were drawn to the same shitty little bar you used to haunt in your youth?
Almost like fate, you reconnected and it was as if no time had passed; slipping back into the same dynamic as one would slip into bed at night. Comfortable and easy.
Much had changed (the scars of war and the grief of a lost love leaving their scars), but beneath it all he was still the same Jack Abbot.
Nothing but a gangly boy whose future stretched its fingers out before him, limitless and undaunted. Who held your hand when you were scared, and took your first kiss when you asked.
But now...
This fucking sucks, you think.
A pit yawns into existence in the depths of your stomach, and you kiss your teeth. The night managed to be ruined before it even began. Truly a new record in a string of shitty luck. The only thing left is to decide how to respond.
While in the past, you used a plethora of options (each more inventive than the last), this time you're stumped. Bereft. Left standing on a foundation of shifting sand.
How do you correlate the sting of this offensive to the nature of your not-relationship — could you?
In the end, he owes you nothing.
You scrub a hand over your chest with a frown. This should be a non-issue, and yet... And yet.
What the hell's wrong with me?
Beside you, the bartender averts his gaze. Pretends the task of polishing smudged pint glasses is of the utmost importance while you suffer through an existential crisis.
You appreciate the curtesy, clumsy as it is.
Not like there's much else for him to do.
It's a slow night, the locals more interested in the newest blockbuster than sticky floors and cheap drinks with a heavy pour. The music's decent and the strobe lights they kick on after 10 PM aren't offensive enough to induce a migraine.
Moreover, it's quiet as far as bars go - one of the many reasons why it's a favorite meeting place of yours.
Because while its changed hands several times over the years, some things forever remain the same. Like the trashy, half-naked mermaids hanging from the rafters or the bright splashes of graffiti painting the walls in swaths of color... or the low booth crammed into the back corner; a hidden, tell-tale heart hosting an aged carving of yours and Jack's initials on the underside.
The lone vigil of a bygone life filled with coursework and exams, laughter shared over watered down lagers and the pressing clasp of warm palms.
Will we ever be like that again?
Nostalgia's a dangerous thing as you glance at your secret keeper. Makes it harder to avoid the lurch of your heart and the churn of your stomach; the tangled mess of strangleweed emotions threatening to steal the breath from your lungs.
You've been stood up.
Again.
Abandoned in a monument of your youth and surrounded by bittersweet reminders of a time when Jack cared. When he was tender and kind. When the distance between you didn't throb like an open wound.
This isn't the first time. It won't be the last.
Humiliation burns white-hot, sinks its fingers into the apples of your cheeks. It used to be so easy not to take his flakiness personally. He was a busy man with important things to do, even back in college.
When did that change? When did he stop saying sorry? When did he stop caring?
The desolation is much harder to shake off this time. You used to be so understanding but now it feels as if Jack's plunged a hand into your chest, scooped out any tender, soft thing he could find.
Goddamn it. What did you expect?
Jack Abbot is a screaming red flag.
He likes getting shot at for fun, plays cop by listening to a police scanner in his free time, flirts with death to a concerning degree, and bends the rules when it suits his needs.
A loose cannon, wild and untamed since his youth.
He reminds you of Icarus, constantly soaring to new heights. And like the boy with hope in his heart and wings made of wax, you live in fear of the day he'd get burned for flying too close to the sun.
However, you didn't expect to be plummiting towards the earth in his stead. And you don't share his knack for compartmentalization, instead thrown off-kilter by this recent disappointment in a long line of tragedy.
What’s going on with me, you think, regret bitter on your tongue. This is nothing new. Jack's doing what he's always done.
Hell, even after you fuck he never acts differently - as casual with you between the sheets as he is lounging on your couch with a carton of greasy Chinese food and beer.
It's been great.
It's been enough.
Why is now different?
Just the thought of going back to your empty apartment makes your skin crawl, knowing he'll swing by after his next shift with a half-assed apology and your favorite drink since you were a sleep deprived undergrad in hand.
Then he'll coax you into bed where you'll get lost in each other's bodies for hours.
He'll continue to take-take-take.
You'll continue to give-give-give.
On and on, a distant star orbiting a black hole - losing little bits of itself until there's nothing left but dust.
Then he'll leave your life.
First in inches, then in miles; a blurry after-image there and gone in the blink of an eye. You might be lucky if you get a check-up call once every three months.
After all, your lives went in separate directions before - what's stopping that from happening again?
Fuck, I - I can’t do this anymore, you realize, a shiver rattling down your spine, Because I —
An errant thought gains teeth.
Sinks deep and refuses to budge as an awful truth, one buried so well you forgot it was there - ever lurking in the shadows - rises to the forefront of your mind. Hysteria swells. A cold chill rakes gnarled fingers down the nobs of your spine.
Oh.
It’s because I love him. Because I’m in love with him. I always have been.
Suddenly it hurts to breathe, your lungs burning as you drown on the air itself. A steel band cinches around your ribs, threatens to crack you open. Your heart lurches. Despair follows on swift wings, and you have no one to blame except yourself.
Fuck, you scrub a hand over your face with a wane smile. How could I…
It'll never work.
Loving Jack is the same as loving the ghost of a long-forgotten memory, and you are not content to warm yourself on hollow bones and cinders of affection. Besides, there are too many hurts to soothe, and too many disappointments to name.
Should’ve known better — should’ve done a lot of things, I guess.
Now, you're in too deep.
Waiting without ever realizing you began to do so in the first place; a life on pause, surviving off of half-measures and maybe's, what-ifs, if-only's.
No more.
It's time to muster up some semblance of self, untangle the threads of connection so you can rediscover the pieces of your heart you left with him all those years ago. Relearn how to live without the taste of his kiss, the clench of his muscles, the thrust of his cock. Content yourself with his friendship and nothing more.
And it starts with a simple reply in the face of everything else you really want to say: Ok.
After, you grab the bartender's attention (not that it was ever on anyone else but you).
He pretends not to notice the tears brimming along your lash line."Ready to order?" he asks. "What'll ya have?"
"Uh, yeah - sorry, I was…"
The screen of your phone lights up with a notification. His mouth twitches. You waver, refuse to look. Everything is still too fresh, emotions scraped raw and tender.
A simple flick of your finger turns on DND, then you place the device face down where it'll remain until you call it a night. You're far too fragile - and sober - to think about reading Jack's reply.
“Vodka cranberry, double shot. Please.”
Maybe if you get drunk enough, you'll forget about the home he carved in your bones.
Bottoms up, bitch.
In hindsight, having this conversation with Jack face to face the day after you realized you've spent a significant chunk of your life in love with a man who'll never love you back isn’t the brightest idea.
But if last night showed you anything, it's that every choice you’ve made lately is a disaster waiting to happen. What’s another mistake to add to your long string of misfortune?
It doesn't matter if there's a tremor to your hands when you unlock the door to let him in. It doesn't matter if your stomach churns when he leans in for a kiss only for you to duck aside, his lips catching on the slope of your cheek. It doesn't matter even when he pauses and gives you a long, searching look before pro-offering the drink he picked up on the way.
It can't get any worse.
Right?
(It can. It does.)
When he heads towards your bedroom with a slanted quirk of his lips and a playful wink, his crow's feet crinkling, the hungry, molten mixture of rage and rebellion fueling you sputters before fizzling down to embers.
Your heart stutters.
In that moment, he reminds you so, so much of the fresh faced older boy you knew.
The one who dragged you out for pancakes at 3 AM after you crammed for an exam, soft eyes and tender hands. The one you explored your sexuality with, curled against his chest as you kissed and groped each other, lips clumsy and palms sweaty. The one who stole your heart before you realized how empty he'd leave you.
Anguish and despair nip at your heels when you follow him.
You step into the room. This is all you’ll ever be to him, you remind yourself. A fun time. Nothing serious. You have to break it off for the sake of your friendship.
“Did you have a good night?”
Any attempt at smiling falls flat; ill-fitting, the corners stretched too wide, teeth bared like a dog.
Jack shrugs and shifts his weight onto his good leg, glancing around at the decorations littering your dresser. “Nah, not really.” His gaze slides to you, traveling from your head to your bare toes in a slow once over. “I definitely would’ve had a better time with you.” He flashes you a smile. "Always do."
Swallowing roughly, you rub your hands over your arms and feel far too exposed in the light summer dress you haphazardly threw on, skin too sensitive for anything heavier.
“Hah,” you intone without humor, awkward and stilted. “Probably not. I was out by 11:30.”
Jack hums. “Mm, that’s not like you.” He steps forward, only stopping once he's in front of you. "You're acting weird."
Hands reach for your wrists, broad palms a heated brand as fingers encircle the bone like they're cradling precious china. A rough thumb strokes over your pulse point. Shivery sensation whispers at the touch, awareness dripping down your nerves.
"Is there anything you want to talk about, sweetheart?"
When you stitch together a chuckle, its mirthless.
Of course he'd notice.
“Nothing gets past you, huh?”
Jack grins, his eyes crinkling. "Nothing," he agrees.
With every inhale, your chests brush. The scant few inches between your bodies heats, electric. His torso is a tempting line of hardness begging to mold itself against you just like it has time and time again. It’s torture. It’s too intimate.
The glow of your overhead lamp highlights the glints of spun silver in his hair, the curling sweep of his lashes as he blinks slow and happy, his eyes the shade of kerosene and broken amber beer bottles. He's blinding - like looking at the sun.
Clearing your throat, you shrink back.
“Don’t do that. Where are you going?” He pleads with you to stay, his body curved towards you. A palm settles over your shoulder. “Stop hiding. You can talk to me about anything. Come on, I want to know what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”
Oh, his expression is so open, so soft.
What a terrible thing to destroy.
If only this moment, this memory could last forever suspended on a string.
Maybe once you beat your feelings back into submission…
Better to be quick otherwise you fear the words will get stuck around the bend of your throat like a noose. Resolved, you inhale and muster your courage. Steel your heart and do your best to ignore the ginger stokes of his fingertips.
You exhale, "We need to stop."
The world grinds to a startling halt.
Silence descends but for the rigid exhale through his nose, and all you can do is watch as Jack's eyes darken, scalpal sharp in the dim overhead light. Even still, his half-smile never wanes. Of course, it wouldn't be that easy. He's always been a greedy man. Wants what he can't have, and destroys what he does.
"What do you mean?" Jack asks (but he knows, there's no way he doesn't). "You're gonna have to be a bit more specific than that, sweetie."
You sigh and rub the bridge of your nose. "Jack, you know what I mean."
"Do I?"
"I just - I can't do," your voice cracks, your free hand motioning helplessly at him, "this anymore."
A vein throbs on the side of his neck, his stubbled jaw working side to side. Muscles bunch and release with every grind of his teeth. Tension impregnates the air, crackling between you like bottled lightening. The calm before the storm.
"You gonna tell me why? Or are you just going to ditch me - act like we," he catches himself, and re-phrases his sentence, "like it didn't fuckin' mean anything?"
“Jack…”
There’s a certain grief that can’t be spoken, gnarled roots burrowing deep in your chest. You wish this wasn’t happening. You wish you could take it back but this pantomime of a relationship isn’t fair. Not to you. Not anymore.
Though while you knew this conversation wouldn’t be fun, Jack's staunch denial still manages to surprise you.
“It didn’t mean anything though,” you say.
At least, not to you, you think. To me, it meant the world.
— And that’s the problem.
You need to stop whatever this is between you from building. He’s already shown he doesn’t share your desire for more in a multitude of ways. He’s been avoiding you for a reason, whether he was consciously aware of your feelings or not.
Undoubtedly, you trust him with your life but not your heart.
As sweet as he is - has been - he won’t treat it gently. He can’t contain his own commitment issues let alone make room for yours.
No, it’s better this way.
Let's what you have - had - stay a memory unmarred by the ugliness of your hurt feelings and bitter disappointments. At least, that's what you thought.
Except Jack's shoulders draw up towards his ears and his hands fall away from you. His gaze is glacial as it pins you in place. There's a shadow that lurks in the depths of his eyes, his lips curled into a cruel smirk.
Everything about him looks weighted down, adding years to his face.
If you didn't know better, you'd think it was heartbreak.
"Well, is there? I mean, shit, I think I deserve a fuckin' answer after all the years we've known each other." He scoffs. "At the very least."
“I’m not done with you,” you say. “I would never do that, Jack. I just - I can’t be with you like that anymore. I need space but I’ll still be around, I promise.”
He glares, a snarl rumbling from the depths of his chest. “Cut the bullshit. Tell me the reason.”
"Why does that - I -"
Words fail you when you need them most. Left scrambling for a reason to give while Jack looks so… God, you want to reach out and comfort him (the urge so strong you have to shove your hands under your arms to stop yourself). And then it comes to you, unbidden.
At the beginning of this mess, you only had one rule.
If there's someone you're serious about, you stop fucking. While made for your benefit more than his - barring the few flings after the passing of his wife - it comes as a handy lie. A believable excuse that'll stop any further questioning and save you from incriminating yourself. The last thing you want to do in this moment is be honest, and if he doesn't relent soon, you fear you'll crack under the weight of your grief and the fury in his eyes.
“I think I - I think I want to start looking for a boyfriend again.”
An expression flashes across his face, there and gone in the blink of an eye. But there’s no doubt he recognizes this for the goodbye it’s supposed to be.
This is it, you think.
You can put what you had to rest and move on, a memory on a shelf you’ll dust off years down the line when the hurt isn’t so prevalent. And hopefully, with time, you can relearn how to be his friend. Though the strange gleam to his eyes sends a prickle of apprehension down your spine, and then you find yourself being manhandled as he snaps forward, a snake coiled to strike.
Air flees your lungs as Jack shoves you with a firm palm, your feet stumbling over themselves as you trip backwards into your bed frame. Wood knocks into the backs of your knees, and you fold like a stack of cards. The sheets puff out around you, the scent of your laundry detergent tickling your nose.
You blink at the textured ceiling, mouth agape as you try to process what happened. This was supposed to be an amenable end to a dubious affair. It's quickly turning into anything but.
How? Why?
The empty space above you doesn’t stay vacant.
Jack quickly crowds you into the mattress with his weight as he settles over top of your body. The softness of your body knows the hardness of his, every curve has a matching divot. He molds himself to your front, his firm hips slotting themselves between your thighs as broad palms skim your sides. Warm and calloused, they ruck up the skirt of your dress.
"So that's it, huh?
"What—"
Reaching beneath you to grasp at the soft globes of your ass, Jack yanks you into him. Your pelvises slot together in a harsh clash of friction. Before you can stop yourself, a whine breaks free. The heat of his body sinks into you, and your lashes flutter. A bolt of awareness slices through you as your body responds to his proximity, liquid desire a slow kindling fire behind your navel.
He feels like home - like you're right where you belong beneath him.
Senses overwhelmed as he surrounds you, the heady, pleasent scent of his cologne flooding your lungs with every stuttered inhale. When teeth scrape along the delicate skin of your throat, sharp pinpricks of pleasure-pain lighting sparking sudden and bright, you squirm.
Then he's speaking, low and husky, "My girl's going to leave me for someone else? Think again, sweetheart."
“I’m not your girl. Never was.”
He doesn't need to know how your heart aches at your reply, every beat thrumming in your ears, screaming: it's you, it's always been you, only you.
A cruel mouth latches onto the corner of your jaw, teeth worrying at the flesh as blunt nails dig into the soft fat of your ass. "That right?" Jack asks. His voice rumbles through your torso, your nipples pebbling as they drag over the plains of his chest. "You think you're not my girl?"
The line of his cock ruts into you, dragging wickedly over your swollen clit. It's almost enough to make you swallow your tongue, retract every hasty word and beg for his forgiveness. "I know I'm not your girl," you bite out.
"Ah, so if you're not my girl," he grinds into the cradle of your hips taunting - teasing, "tell me what's got your pretty little pussy so fucking wet, sweetie. C'mon, let's hear it - I'm curious."
"Jack!"
Keening, you rock up into the firm pressure of his shaft. The angle's just right, spreads your folds beneath the thin cotton of your panties to expose your soaked core to the chill of your room. Mortification hooks behind your navel, a warm flush creeping from your crown down to the tips of your toes.
"Don't you know it's rude not to respond when someone asks a question." Jack presses a sloppy kiss to the side of your neck, following up with a stinging nip. His stubble drags over your skin, a path of raw tenderness left in the wake of his attention. "Should I take a guess?"
"I can't — ffuck!"
Blood thrums through your veins, rabbit fast. You're steadily losing all sense of control and rationality, the aborted rolls of your hips increasing in frequency the longer Jack keeps himself pressed against your pussy.
"Do you think some nobody can fuck you better than me?" A hand slaps the outside of your thigh. "Answer me."
A sharp burst of copper floods your mouth, your skin splitting open with how hard you’re chewing on it. Blood clings to the swell of your bottom lip, a ruby red bead you lick away with a nervous tongue.
Sweat dapples your brow, and it’s getting harder and harder to ignore the molten desire curdling your stomach.
“Shit, Jack, please,” you beg, hands tangling in the sheets by your head. “I don’t know what you want from me.”
You’re not sure what you’re asking for but at the same time, you’re not sure how you ended up here.
Again.
“I want you to tell me who your pussy belongs to.”
Fingers inch down to tease along the soft flesh of your inner thighs and play with the elastic of your panties. You tremble, gooseflesh dimpling the exposed skin of your arms as knuckles brush over the length of your soaked pussy. Your clit pulses, the pressure enough to tease.
“Come on, sweetheart,” Jack coaxes, working his way beneath the fabric clinging to your dripping folds, “tell me you’re my girl - always have been ever since college.”
His cock nestles into the crook of your hip, hot and heavy through his jeans as a darkened patch blooms across the denim crotch. The sticky wetness of his pre-cum smearing into your skin as arousal swells. A brief flicker of worry for his leg snakes through you before being knocked loose by the harsh rut of his hips.
“You just have to say it - say you’re my girl and I’ll be so, so good to you.” His breath warms the shell of your ear. “All you have to do is say it, and I’ll make you cum so hard you see stars."
Jack doesn’t give you a chance to cobble together a response, sliding a thick finger through your sticky folds and into your needy pussy just as your lips part to reply. All words leave you, your mind wiped clean as a low, broken cry echoes out into the room. Swallowed up by the sounds of city life outside your apartment as he works to stretch silken flesh open.
You clamp down at the sudden fullness, walls tight and puffy as they flutter around his finger. You can't help but wish it was his cock fucking in so deep the tip kissed your cervix with every thrust, hitting that spot just right to make you cum so hard you soak the bed.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Always so soft n wet n pretty for me.”
Whining in agreement, you give up any pretense of resistance, letting primal desire chase away the despair, the guilt that threatens to choke you. Wiping your mind clean of any thoughts until the only thing that remains is the stretch of his fingers and the ache in your cunt.
Your hands slip, scrambling for purchase with sweaty palms. “J-Jack!”
Your knees tremble where they dig into his sides, air rushing from you in heavy pants as the space between your bodies heats up. You know you won’t last long, already hanging on the edge.
Never in a million years did you expect to be so turned on by Jack's rough behavior. He usually treats you like something delicate.
Though he holds no such compunction now, raw in his desperate desire to make you cum.
Jack peppers kisses onto whatever skin he can reach, spreading your thighs wider with his torso. His knuckles strain against the fabric of your panties, stretching out the cotton and ruining them forevermore as he slips another finger into you.
Then his head bows, catching your gaze, and he says, “Hold on.”
Barely seconds after you anchor yourself to his shoulders, he starts finger fucking you to within an inch of your life. His forearm ripples with strength, the movements of his fingers pressing and rubbing against all the right spots. Curling up to massage at your g-spot until you’re shaking beneath him with hitched breaths.
“Shit, shit,” you gasp, eyes rolling back as your toes flex against his side, “Jack, baby, please don’t stop.”
He huffs a laugh, dark and amused. “Wouldn’t ever do that to you, sweetie.”
“S’good - I - I’m close.”
You sob, tears brimming along your lash line. The sloppy, squelching sounds of him fucking your pussy ring in your ears, as embarrassing as it is arousing. He’s making you gush, slick wetting your inner thighs, dribbling down your ass to stain the sheets.
“So close, gonna - hnnng - gonna cum.”
“Yeah, that’s it. Just like that, baby. Give me that squirt.”
You shake your head. “I can’t - I can’t!”
If you could, you’d suspend time so this moment never ends. The finality of your arrangement hovering just on the other side of pleasure. In the back of your mind, you know Jack's only behaving this way because he’s jealous. Angry.
He doesn’t mean it, and this is a mistake.
It’ll only hurt you in the long run but you’ll take what you can get.
After all, this is the last time you’ll be together like this.
“No,” he shushes, dropping a kiss to your sweaty brow, “No, don’t lie. I know you can. I’ll make you.”
There’s no escape.
He refuses to let you escape, using his weight to keep you pinned as he spreads his fingers open inside you, twisting and fucking so deep you feel a twinge behind your navel. And then you’re right there, crashing over the edge as the bubble of pleasure bursts, crackling through your limbs.
You cum harder than you ever have before. Nails sinking into his shoulders with a hiss as a wounded, broken wail scrapes its way out of your throat. Your pussy throbs, gummy walls sucking him deeper as a rush of cum gushes from you in spurts. Your ears ring with white noise, and you’re vaguely aware of the fact your hands have gone numb.
For several long moments, you float with a head full of cotton, only rejoining the atmosphere when warmth dribbles down your ass in sticky rivulets of squirt.
Jack's arm is curled around your waist, holding you close as his nose nuzzles into the side of your head. Tender lips dust kisses over your crown. His cock is still a heavy weight digging into your hip but he doesn’t seem to be in any rush to relieve himself.
“Jack,” you sigh, a wave of fatigue crashing over you. Your eyes sting when you close them, a lump building in your throat. You ache all over pleasantly, satisfaction settling deep into your bones. In spite of that, a rift opens in your heart. “Jack, I--”
He kisses your shoulder, shushing you. “Don’t ruin it. Just let me hold you for a little while longer… please.”
The tears are almost impossible to stop. “It’s already hard enough, don’t make me -- I can’t just…”
Jack squeezes you gently. “I love you,” he says, “but I swear to god you can be so fucking stupid sometimes.”
You jolt, eyes swinging up to meet his, wide and disbelieving. “What did you just - I - I don’t. ..Jack?”
“How could I not feel the same?” he asks rhetorically, tone resigned and wary. “Have since... since college - it just took me a little longer to realize it, that's all. Honestly scared the shit out of me.”
Me too, you think softly as something unfurls in your chest. Lighter than air; ridiculously buoyant with happiness - with hope.
Oh, how stupid.
He averts his gaze. “I almost fucked everything up too, but Robby helped me get my head on straight.”
“We're idiots, huh?”
Jack hums noncommittally, a boyish gleam to his eyes and a sheepish smile on his lips. “You said it, sweetheart.”
Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary: Dunk accidently mistakes Aerion's lady wife in his tent for a common whore because she did not arrive with the rest of the Targaryen party to the Ashford tourney. This is a oneshot, not related to any series.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, possessiveness, power imbalance, dubiously consensual situations, Aerion wants to roleplay, pregnancy mention, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas, breeding.
The morning of the tourney had dawned bright over Ashford Meadow, the kind of morning that promised glory and broke that promise before the sun reached its zenith. You had watched the Targaryen party arrive from the shade of the pavilion, your hands folded, your spine a straight line of practiced composure. The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, red on black, snapped in the wind, a sight that still made your stomach tighten.
Dunk, Ser Duncan, now, though it sat awkwardly on his broad shoulders, stood near the lists with his squire, a small, shaven-headed boy with sharp eyes. The hedge knight watched the procession with a wariness that bordered on rude, his great height making him impossible to miss among the crowd of lords and ladies and smallfolk alike. He had heard the whispers, same as everyone else. Prince Aerion Targaryen was coming to Ashford. Prince Aerion Brightflame, they called him. Some called him other things, though not to his face. This one, he had heard, was cut from different cloth entirely.
The prince was fair to look upon, all the Targaryens were, with hair like spun silver and eyes the color of violets, a sharp jaw and a mouth that seemed perpetually on the verge of a sneer or a smile, and it was difficult to tell which was which. He wore black riding leathers chased with silver thread, a cloak of deep crimson slung over one shoulder, and he did not look at the smallfolk who gathered to gawk. He looked through them, as if they were made of glass and of no consequence.
Duncan watched him dismount with an easy grace, handing his reins to a squire without a word of thanks. The prince stretched, rolled his shoulders, and cast a lazy glance across the meadow toward the rows of tents and pavilions that had sprouted like colorful mushrooms overnight.
“I am for my tent,” Aerion announced to no one in particular, though his voice carried well enough. It was a pleasant voice, cultured and smooth, with an undercurrent of something that made the hairs on Duncan’s arm prickle. “Tell them to bring wine. Something red, from the Arbor, if they have it. None of that Dornish swill.” He paused, and a slow, private smile curved his lips. “I, myself, shall be finding a pretty woman to share it with.”
Chuckles followed. A couple of Kingsguards shared a knowing look. Duncan frowned. He had heard, somewhere in the jumble of heraldry and gossip that accompanied any great tourney, that prince Aerion was married. To some lady of a lesser house, a match that had raised eyebrows among the high lords but had been pushed through by the prince’s father, Maekar, for reasons Duncan did not pretend to understand. A wife. And here the prince was, speaking of finding a pretty woman as if he were a knight with nothing but a horse and a sword to his name. Duncan’s sense of honour, simple and stubborn as an ox, bristled at the casual dismissal. A man wed was a man wed. He ought not speak so.
But Duncan was no fool, not entirely. He kept his frown to himself and watched the silver-haired prince stride off toward the largest of the black-and-crimson pavilions, his cloak billowing behind him, and he thought, not for the first time, that the blood of the dragon was a strange and unsettling thing.
You heard the commotion before you saw him. The Targaryen encampment was a hive of activity, servants hurrying with trunks and tapestries, grooms leading horses to the picket lines, guards taking up their posts. You had arrived a day earlier, traveling with your family, separately from your husband despite his insistence. The roads are dusty, he himself had said, after all, with that faint curl of his lip that might have been concern or might have been disdain. You will arrive fresh and rested. I will not have my wife looking like a Dothraki crone at her first great tourney. So you had come ahead with a small retinue, and you had waited.
Now he was here.
You remained in your chair within the pavilion, a book open on your lap that you had not read a single word of in the past hour. Your heart was beating too fast, a traitorous thing that had never learned to be calm around him. It was not fear, not precisely. It was something more complicated, something that knotted in your belly and made your breath come shorter and your skin feel too warm.
You heard his voice outside, giving orders, and then the flap of the pavilion was thrown back and he stepped inside, bringing with him the smell of horse and leather and something else, something that was just him.
“Wine,” he said to the air, not looking at you. He shrugged off his cloak and tossed it over a chest. “I told them to bring wine. If it is not here by the time I have removed my boots, I will have someone flogged.”
You said nothing. You watched him sit on the edge of the camp bed and work at his boots, his long fingers deft on the buckles. His silver hair fell forward. He was beautiful. You had thought so the first time you saw him, standing in your father’s hall with that faint, mocking smile and those impossible violet eyes, and you thought so now, even knowing what lay beneath the beauty. Perhaps because of what lay beneath it. You had never been able to untangle that knot.
A servant appeared, breathless, bearing a silver tray with a flagon of wine and two goblets. Aerion waved a hand dismissively. “Leave it. Go.”
The servant went. Aerion poured himself a goblet of deep red wine, swirled it, inhaled, and took a long drink. Only then did he seem to notice you, though you knew he had been aware of you from the moment he stepped into the tent. He was always aware of you. It was one of the things that made him so unsettling.
His violet eyes traveled over you slowly, from the crown of your head to the tips of your slippers, and you felt the weight of that gaze like a physical touch. You wore a gown of pale blue silk, cut low enough to be pleasing but not so low as to be vulgar, your hair dressed simply but becomingly. You were not a great beauty, you knew. You were pretty enough, with good skin and kind eyes and a mouth that smiled easily, but you were no silver-haired Targaryen princess. You were just you. And he was Aerion Brightflame.
“Well,” he drawled, setting down his goblet. His smile curved slowly, lazily, like a cat stretching in the sun. “How very fortunate. A pretty wench has finally found her way to my tent.”
Your spine stiffened. Your hands tightened on the book in your lap. “Aerion.”
“I wonder,” he continued, as if you had not spoken, “what brings you here. Looking to earn some silver for your services, perhaps?” He leaned back on his hands, his legs spread slightly, his entire posture one of indolent amusement. “I am told I am generous. When the service pleases me.”
Heat flooded your cheeks. It was anger, you told yourself. Only anger. Not the other thing, the thing that made your thighs press together beneath your skirts. “You are my husband.”
“Am I?” He tilted his head, feigning surprise. “I had forgotten. You must remind me. Wives and whores are so easily confused, are they not? Both warm. Both willing.” His smile sharpened. “Both so very eager to please their prince.”
You rose from your chair, the book sliding forgotten to the cushion. “If you wish to play games, Aerion, find someone else. I am not in the mood.”
“Oh, but you are.” His voice dropped, losing some of its mocking edge and gaining something darker, something that vibrated in the air between you. “You are always in the mood for me. I can see it in your eyes. I can smell it on your skin.” He inhaled deeply, theatrically, his nostrils flaring. “Like honey. Like summer. Come here.”
Your feet carried you forward before your mind could catch up. You hated that. You hated how easily he commanded your body, how your legs moved to his voice as if pulled by strings. You stopped a few feet from him, close enough to see the small scar on his jaw from some childhood mishap, the way his pupils had swallowed the violet of his irises.
“I am your wife,” you said again, quieter this time.
“Yes.” He reached out and caught your wrist, his grip warm and firm but not painful. He tugged, gently, and you stumbled forward until you were standing between his spread knees. “You are. And yet here you are, in my tent, dressed unbefitting your station, looking at me with those eyes. What is a prince to think?”
He released your wrist and patted his thigh. The gesture was casual, but his eyes were fixed on your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Come. Sit. Show me what a pretty wench does when she wants to earn her silver.”
You hesitated. The game was cruel, you knew. It was like him, to push and push until you did not know whether you wanted to slap him or kiss him, until the lines between anger and desire blurred into something indistinguishable. But beneath the cruelty, beneath the mockery, there was something else. You had learned to see it, over two years of marriage. A flicker in his eyes, a slight softening around his mouth. He wanted this game, yes, but he wanted you. He wanted you to play it with him, to meet him in this strange space he had created, where you were both more and less than husband and wife.
You lowered yourself onto his lap.
His hands came up immediately, settling on your hips, fingers pressing into the silk of your gown. “There,” he murmured, his breath warm against your throat. “That was not so difficult, was it?”
“I am not a whore,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.
“No,” he agreed, and his lips brushed the curve of your jaw, feather-light. “You are not. A whore would know what to do. A whore would have her hands in my hair by now, or her fingers on my laces. A whore would be rocking against me, seeking her own pleasure as much as mine.” His teeth grazed your earlobe. “You, my sweet wife, are sitting on my lap like a startled doe. It is charming. It is also, I confess, somewhat frustrating.”
You turned your head and met his eyes. They were so close, those violet eyes, and they were laughing at you. But there was warmth there too, a heat that had nothing to do with mockery. “Then teach me.”
Something shifted in his expression. The lazy amusement remained, but beneath it something kindled, something hungry and intent. “Oh,” he breathed. “I intend to.”
His hands slid from your hips to the laces of your gown. He did not fumble, did not hesitate. His fingers worked the knots with practiced ease, loosening the silk until the bodice gaped and cool air kissed your skin. You shivered, and his smile widened.
“First,” he said, his voice a low murmur against your collarbone, “a whore does not sit still and wait to be undressed. She participates. She wants the business concluded quickly, so she may move on to the next customer. She is efficient.” He tugged the gown down over your shoulders, baring your breasts to the warm air of the tent. “She does not blush like a maiden on her wedding night.”
You could feel the heat spreading down your chest. But you lifted your hands and began to work at the laces of his tunic, your fingers less deft than his, trembling slightly. He let you struggle for a moment, watching your face with those intense violet eyes, before he covered your hands with his own and guided them.
“Like this,” he said, and his voice had gone rough at the edges. “Slowly. There is no rush. The customer will pay for your time regardless.”
“You are the customer,” you pointed out, your voice breathless.
“I am.” He shrugged out of his tunic, letting it fall to the floor of the tent. His chest was lean and pale, dusted with fine silver hair, the muscles shifting beneath his skin as he moved. “And I am a generous man. I will pay for every moment.”
His hands found your breasts, cupping them, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they tightened into hard peaks. You gasped, your hips jerking forward instinctively, and he laughed, a low, pleased sound.
“There,” he said. “Now you are beginning to understand. A whore knows her own pleasure. She takes it where she finds it, because the night is long and there are many customers. She does not wait for permission.”
He shifted beneath you, and you felt the hard length of him pressing against your thigh through his breeches. Your breath caught. You rocked against him, experimental, and his eyes fluttered half-closed.
“Yes,” he breathed. “Like that.”
His hands slid down your body, gathering your skirts, pushing them up until they bunched around your waist. The air was cool on your bare thighs, and you shivered again, but it was not from cold. His fingers found the waist of your smallclothes and tugged, and you lifted your hips to help him, your body moving without conscious thought now, driven by a need that had been building since the moment he stepped into the tent.
“Now,” he said, his voice a dark purr, “you will take what you want. I am merely a customer. A paying customer. Do you understand?”
You did not understand, not entirely, but you nodded anyway. His hands settled on your hips again, guiding you, positioning you. You felt the blunt head of him pressing against your entrance, and you were slick and ready, your body traitorously eager. You sank down onto him, taking him inside you in one slow motion, and the sound he made, a low, guttural groan that seemed torn from somewhere deep in his chest, made your inner muscles clench around him.
“Gods,” he muttered. His head fell back, his throat exposed. “You are...you are...”
You did not let him finish. You began to move, rocking on his lap as he had instructed, finding a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine. His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but you did not care. You were watching his face, watching the way his composure cracked and crumbled, watching the mocking prince dissolve into something rawer, something more honest.
“Look at you,” he said, his voice strained. “My pretty little whore. Taking what she wants. Riding me like a...like a...”
His words broke off into a groan as you shifted your angle, finding a spot that made you both gasp. You braced your hands on his shoulders, your fingers digging into the pale skin, and moved faster. The tent was warm, filled with the scent of wine and sex and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. Outside, you could hear the distant sounds of the tourney grounds, horses, voices, the clash of practice swords, but they seemed very far away, from another world entirely.
He was watching you now, his violet eyes wide and dark, his lips parted. The mockery was gone. The game was forgotten. There was only this, the slide of your bodies together, the wet sounds of your joining, the way his hips bucked up to meet your downward strokes.
You leaned forward and kissed him. He kissed you back with equal ferocity, one hand leaving your hip to tangle in your hair, holding you close as his tongue swept into your mouth.
When you broke apart, gasping, he pressed his forehead to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed as if in pain. “I cannot...you are too...I need...”
You did not know what he needed. You were too far gone yourself, the pleasure building and building like a wave preparing to crash. Your rhythm faltered, became erratic, and you buried your face in the curve of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.
His arms came around you, crushing you against his chest. One hand splayed across your bare back, holding you close, while the other gripped your hip, guiding your movements. His mouth found your shoulder, and he kissed the skin there.
You shattered. The pleasure broke over you in waves, making you cry out against his throat, your body clenching around him rhythmically. He followed a moment later, his hips jerking up into you, a low groan tearing from his lips as he spilled inside you.
But Aerion, being Aerion, did not let up.
His grip on your hips tightened before you could catch your breath, holding you firmly in place atop him. You were still trembling, still gasping, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, when his voice came again: that same lazy, mocking drawl, as if nothing at all had happened between you.
"What a pretty girl you are," he murmured against your hair, and you could feel his lips curve into a smile. "So eager. So willing. If you please me well enough, I may take you back to Summerhall as my paramour."
You stiffened in his arms. He was still playing the game. Even now, with his seed still warm inside you, with your bodies still joined, he could not simply be your husband. He had to be this: this infuriating, impossible creature who needed to twist everything into something strange and sharp.
"Aerion..." you started, but he cut you off, his hand sliding up your spine to cup the back of your neck.
"I'll even put a babe in you," he continued. His other hand pressed against your lower belly, where his seed was taking root, if the gods willed it. "I would wager you would give me a beautiful child. Silver hair, violet eyes. A true dragon." His thumb traced a slow circle on your stomach. "A son. You would like that, would you not? To give a prince a son?"
Your breath caught. The words were part of the game, they had to be, but there was something in his voice, some thread of genuine yearning, that made your heart clench. He wanted a son. He had always wanted a son. It was the reason he had married you, or so he claimed. A wife to give him heirs. A warm body to fill with dragon seed. Nothing more.
But his hands on you were gentle now, even as his words remained cruel.
"You are so soft," he breathed, his lips brushing your temple. "So supple. I would wager you make good coin at tourneys. Rotating through tents, spreading your legs for any knight with silver in his purse." His hips shifted beneath you, a small, lazy movement that made you gasp. "But I would keep you for myself. I am a jealous man. I do not share what is mine."
You pulled back enough to look at his face. His violet eyes were half-lidded, his lips curved in that familiar mocking smile, but there was a tension around his jaw, a tightness that betrayed him. He was waiting for something. Waiting to see if you would play along, or if you would break the game and demand he be your husband instead of this strange, cruel stranger he pretended to be.
"A prince's paramour," you said slowly, finding your voice. "That is a generous offer. But I have heard the prince of Summerhall already has a wife."
Something flickered in his eyes. Satisfaction, perhaps. Or something softer.
"His wife," Aerion said, and his voice changed, the mockery falling away like a cloak dropped to the floor, "is a vexing creature who does not know her place."
There it was. The shift. You were his wife again, and he was your husband, and the game was over. Or so you thought.
"She came to Ashford days ago," he continued, and now there was a genuine edge to his voice, a sharpness that had nothing to do with play. "With her own house. Her own retinue. As if she were not a Targaryen. As if she were not mine."
You opened your mouth to protest, but he was not finished.
"I arrived today and found my wife already ensconced in my pavilion, wearing a gown of pale blue silk that any merchant's daughter might own." His fingers plucked at the fabric pooled around your waist, his lip curling. "Plain. Unadorned. No jewels. No finery. As if I had not bought her a dozen gowns finer than this. As if I had not given her rubies and sapphires and pearls enough to drown a lesser woman."
"I thought..."
"You thought wrong." His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb tracing your lower lip. His touch was gentle, but his eyes were hard. "You are a Targaryen now. My wife. When we travel, you travel with me. Not ahead, not behind, not separately. With me. At my side. Where you belong."
"I did not want to slow you down," you said quietly. "You said the roads were dusty. You said..."
"I said many things." He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, brief and fierce. "I am your husband. It is my right to complain about dusty roads while you ride beside me. It is my right to be irritated by your presence and comforted by it in equal measure. You do not get to escape me so easily."
You stared at him, your heart beating too fast. He was impossible. He was infuriating. He was looking at you with those violet eyes, and beneath the irritation, beneath the princely arrogance, there was something that looked almost like hurt.
"You were lonely," you realized aloud. "You arrived and I was not with you, and you were lonely."
His jaw tightened. "I was bored. There is a difference."
"Is there?"
His hand slid from your face to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder of his strength, of the power he held over you. "Do not presume to know my mind, wife."
But you did know. Marriage had taught you to read him, to see past the barbs and the mockery to the man beneath. A man who did not know how to say I missed you without wrapping it in thorns. A man who had been raised to believe that wanting someone was a weakness, and so he pretended he wanted no one at all.
"And this gown," he continued, his thumb stroking the column of your throat. "You will not wear it again. Not in public. I have bought you silks and velvets. I have given you the jewels to wear. You will wear them. All of them. At once, if you must. I will not have the realm whispering that prince Aerion cannot care for his wife."
"No one would think that," you said.
"They would." His voice dropped, and for a moment, the mask slipped entirely. "And what if someone had seen you, dressed like this? What if some knight or lord had mistaken you for a common wench, a camp follower, and dragged you to his tent?" His grip on your throat tightened fractionally. "What would I have done then? Burned the entire tourney to ash? Killed every man who looked at you? You are mine, and you walk about looking like anyone might have you, and I cannot..."
He stopped. His breath was coming faster, his chest rising and falling beneath your hands. His eyes were wide, wild, and you realized with a start that he was genuinely afraid. Not of losing you to another man, Aerion Targaryen feared very little, but of the rage that would consume him if anyone tried. Of what he might do.
"Aerion," you said softly. You lifted your hand and touched his face, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "I am sorry. I did not think."
"No," he agreed, but some of the tension bled out of him. "You did not."
He turned his face into your palm and pressed a kiss there, his lips warm and surprisingly soft. Then he kissed your wrist, the inside of your elbow, the curve of your shoulder. His hands slid down your body, over your ribs, your waist, settling once more on your hips.
"I will wear the gowns," you promised, your voice breathless as his mouth found the hollow of your throat. "And the jewels. All of them. I will look like a Targaryen princess."
"You are a Targaryen princess." His teeth grazed your collarbone. "My princess. My wife."
"And I will ride with you," you continued, your fingers tangling in his silver hair. "Always. I will not go ahead again."
"See that you do not." He lifted his head and looked at you, and the mockery was gone from his eyes, replaced by something fiercer and far more dangerous. "I will not be parted from you again. I find I do not care for it."
Before you could answer, his hands tightened on your hips and he guided you into motion again. You gasped, your body still sensitive from your first release, but he did not stop. He moved you slowly, rocking you against him in a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine all over again.
"Aerion," you managed, your voice unsteady. "I am...your breeches...I am drenching them..."
"Let them be drenched." His voice was rough, his breath coming in short pants against your throat. "I have other breeches. I have a hundred breeches. I will ruin them all if I must."
You could not argue. You could barely think. He was moving you faster now, his hips rising to meet yours, and the wet sounds of your joining filled the tent. His hands roamed your body: your breasts, your waist, the curve of your backside, touching you everywhere, as if he could not get enough of the feel of you.
"You are prettier than any wench," he panted, the words tumbling from his lips like a confession. "Prettier than any woman I have ever seen. My pretty wife. My sweet wife. You are always so...so warm...so perfect for me..."
His words dissolved into a groan as you clenched around him, your own pleasure building again. You buried your face in his neck and let him move you, let him take what he needed, because you needed it too. You needed this: this fierce, consuming thing between you, this fire that burned away all pretense and left only the raw truth of your wanting.
"I am going to..." he started, but he did not finish. His body arched beneath you, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and he spilled inside you with a broken cry. The sensation pushed you over the edge after him, your body milking him greedily, drawing out every last drop of his seed.
For a long moment, you simply breathed together, your bodies still joined, your hearts pounding in tandem. You expected him to release you, to let you slide off his lap and find your feet. Instead, his arms tightened around you, holding you in place.
"Aerion," you said, shifting slightly. "I should..."
"No." His voice was firm, though still roughened with pleasure. "Stay."
"But I am..."
"Stay." His hand pressed against your lower back, keeping you flush against his chest. "I like you here. Warm and soft and full of me. You will stay until I say you may move."
You squirmed, and his grip tightened. A small, cruel smile curved his lips, the first hint of the old Aerion, the one who liked to push and test and see how far you would go for him.
"Uncomfortable, my love?" he asked, his voice a lazy drawl once more. "Good. Think of it as penance. For leaving me to ride alone. For wearing that plain little gown. For making me worry."
"I did not know you worried."
"I did not know either." He said it lightly, but there was something raw beneath the words. "It was a most unpleasant discovery. I do not recommend it."
He leaned back on the camp bed, pulling you with him, so that you were sprawled across his chest. His hands roamed your back in slow, idle strokes, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist. His eyes were half-closed, his expression one of sated contentment, but there was an expectation in the set of his mouth, a silent demand.
You leaned down and pressed your lips to his throat, just below his jaw, where his pulse beat slow and strong. He made a small sound, not quite a sigh, not quite a groan, and tilted his head back, offering you more of his neck. You kissed your way along the elegant line of his throat, feeling the vibration of his hum of approval against your lips.
"That is better," he murmured, his fingers tangling in your hair. "My sweet wife. My dutiful wife."
You dragged your tongue along his skin, tasting salt and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. He shivered, and you felt a surge of power. He might command you, might order you about and mock you and play his cruel games, but here, in this, you had power too. You could make him shiver.
You kissed his jaw, the corner of his mouth, the high curve of his cheekbone. His eyes had fallen fully closed now, his lips parted, his breathing slow and deep. He looked almost peaceful. Almost gentle. You knew better than to believe it entirely, Aerion Targaryen was never entirely peaceful, never entirely gentle, but in these moments, after he had spent himself inside you, when your body was still wrapped around his, he came close.
He smiled, a real smile, not the mocking curve he showed the world, and pulled you down for a kiss. It was slow and deep and thorough, his tongue sliding against yours, his hand cradling the back of your head as if you were something precious.
When he finally released you, his eyes had sharpened again, a new hunger kindling in their violet depths.
"Now," he said, and his voice was a dark promise. "Let us see how sturdy this makeshift bed truly is."
Before you could respond, he rolled, taking you with him, and suddenly you were on your back on the camp bed, staring up at him. His silver hair fell around his face like a curtain, his eyes burning down at you, his body still joined with yours.
"Aerion..."
"Quiet," he said, but there was no cruelty in it. Only want. Only need. "You owe me. For the lonely ride. For the plain gown. For every moment I spent wondering where you were and whether you were safe."
He began to move, slow and deep, and you forgot how to speak.
The bed creaked beneath you, a rhythmic sound that matched the thrust of his hips. He braced himself on his forearms, his face inches from yours, his eyes never leaving your face. He watched every flicker of pleasure that crossed your features, every gasp, every moan, as if he were memorizing them.
You reached up and pulled him down for a kiss, and he groaned into your mouth. His rhythm faltered, became more urgent, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
The bed creaked louder. Neither of you cared.
"Give me a son," he gasped against your lips. "Give me a son, and I will give you anything. Everything. Just...give me..."
The bed gave way with a splintering crack that echoed through the tent like a thunderclap.
One moment you were beneath him, your back pressed into the thin mattress, your legs wrapped around his waist as he drove into you with that single-minded intensity that only Aerion Targaryen possessed. The next, the wooden frame splintered and collapsed, sending you both tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs and furs and broken slats.
You gasped, more from surprise than pain, your hands flying to grip his shoulders. Aerion barely paused. He grunted as the bed gave way beneath him, catching himself on his forearms before he could crush you, and then he kept moving.
"Aerion," you managed, your voice breathless and startled. "The bed..."
"I noticed." His voice was strained, his hips never slowing their relentless rhythm. The furs beneath you provided some cushion against the hard ground, but you could feel the broken slats of the bed frame pressing into your back through the layers. He shifted, adjusting his angle, and a broken moan escaped your lips.
"You are..." you started, but the words dissolved into a gasp as he hit that spot deep inside you, the one that made your vision blur.
"I am what?" His voice was a dark purr, his violet eyes gleaming down at you in the dim light of the tent. Sweat gleamed on his brow, and his silver hair hung in disheveled strands around his face. He looked wild. He looked beautiful. He looked like a dragon in human form, all fire and hunger and terrible grace. "I am your husband. I am a prince. And I am not going to let a poorly constructed camp bed prevent me from taking what is mine."
Your laughter surprised you, a breathless, slightly hysterical sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest. "The bed is in splinters."
"Then I will have lord Ashford pay for a new one." His hips snapped forward, hard and deep, and your laughter turned into a moan. "He should have provided sturdier accommodations for a prince of the realm. It is his own fault if his furniture cannot withstand proper use."
Proper use. As if this was proper. As if anything about Aerion Targaryen could ever be called proper.
Aerion did not slow. If anything, he seemed to find new vigor in the destruction, his pace increasing until you were gasping and clutching at his shoulders, your nails leaving crescents in his pale skin.
"That is it," he breathed, his forehead dropping to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration. "That is...yes...you feel..."
He did not finish the thought. His rhythm stuttered, became erratic, and then he was spilling inside you. You cried out, your back arching off the furs, your body clenching around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you.
You lay there, tangled together on the ruined bed, your chests heaving, your bodies still joined. Aerion's weight pressed you into the furs, and you could feel the hard edges of broken wood beneath you, but you could not bring yourself to care.
Finally, he stirred. He lifted his head and looked down at you, and there was something soft in his violet eyes, something that only ever appeared in these private moments, when the mask slipped and the real Aerion peered through.
He pulled out of you slowly, and you winced at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. But before you could mourn it, he was moving down your body, pressing kisses to your skin as he went. Your throat. Your collarbone. The valley between your breasts. Your ribs. And then, when he reached your belly, he stopped.
His hands framed your hips, his thumbs tracing slow circles on the soft skin there. He pressed his lips to the curve of your stomach, just below your navel, the place where, if the gods were kind, a child might one day grow.
"This," he murmured against your skin, "will surely have a babe put in your body."
Your breath caught. You lifted your head to look at him, at the silver hair spilling across your stomach, at the reverence in his touch. He was not mocking now. There was no cruelty in his voice, no sharp edge of humor. Only want. Only hope.
"A son," he continued, his lips brushing your skin with each word. "A strong son. A dragon. I will fill you every night of this tourney, and every night after, until your belly swells with my child. Until the maesters confirm what I already know, that you were made for this. Made to carry my heirs."
Your hand found his hair, your fingers threading through the silver strands. He kissed your belly once more, lingering and soft, and then he lifted his head. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw everything: the loneliness, the fear, the desperate need to prove himself, to leave a legacy, to be more than just a second son with a dangerous reputation. You saw the man beneath the prince, and your heart ached for him.
Then the moment passed. He sat up, stretching with the lazy grace of a cat, utterly unbothered by his nakedness or the wreckage surrounding him.
"We will sleep in lord Ashford's castle tonight anyway," he said, waving a dismissive hand at the ruined bed. "This was merely for the afternoon. A place to rest between the lists and the feast. It matters not if it is broken."
You looked at the splintered wood, the torn mattress, the furs scattered across the ground. "The servants will talk."
"Let them talk." He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, utterly unconcerned with his nakedness. His body was lean and pale, muscled in the way of a man who trained daily with sword and lance, and there was a fine sheen of sweat still glistening on his skin. He looked like something from a tapestry: a warrior, a prince, a creature of myth made flesh. "Let them whisper about the passion of prince Aerion and his lady wife. Let them wonder what we do behind closed tent flaps. I care not."
He found his breeches, miraculously intact, unlike the bed, and pulled them on. Then he turned back to you, still sprawled on the furs, and something flickered in his eyes.
"You should dress," he said. "I am going to find more wine. The servants here are incompetent, and I will not suffer dry throat because of their laziness."
He crossed to you, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to your lips, brief but thorough. Then his hand found your hip, and he pinched, just hard enough to make you yelp.
"That," he said, straightening with a smirk, "is for breaking the bed."
"I did not break the bed. You broke the bed."
"The bed broke because of your..." He gestured vaguely at your body, still disheveled from his attentions. "Your enthusiasm. Your movements. Your inability to lie still while your husband takes his pleasure."
You stared at him, incredulous. "You were the one..."
But he was already gone, sweeping out of the tent with the arrogance of a man who had never been forced to finish an argument he was losing.
You lay there for a moment longer, staring at the tent ceiling, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. Then, slowly, you sat up and began to put yourself to rights.
The gown was a lost cause, crumpled and stained and likely unwearable until it could be properly laundered. You found a simple shift in one of the trunks and pulled it on, then a robe of soft grey wool to ward off the afternoon chill. You combed your fingers through your tangled hair, doing your best to tame it without a proper brush, and splashed water on your face from the basin in the corner.
When you emerged from the tent, the afternoon sun was warm on your face. The tourney grounds sprawled before you, a sea of colorful pavilions and snapping banners, of knights and squires and smallfolk milling about. The sounds of the lists drifted on the breeze: the clash of practice swords, the shouts of men, the whinny of horses.
You found a camp chair just outside the tent flap and settled into it, careful not to stray far. Aerion's words echoed in your mind. You will not leave my side. You will stay where I can see you. You had promised, and you meant to keep that promise, even if he was not here to enforce it.
The sun was warm. The chair was comfortable. You let your eyes drift half-closed, your body still pleasantly sore from the afternoon's activities. A small, secret smile curved your lips.
Footsteps approached: heavy, hesitant footsteps, the tread of a man who was very large and trying very hard to be quiet. You opened your eyes and found yourself staring up at a veritable giant of a man.
He was tall, taller than any man you had ever seen, easily seven feet, with broad shoulders and thick arms and hands the size of dinner plates. His face was plain and honest, with a strong jaw and kind eyes and a thatch of unruly brown hair. He wore a simple tunic of green and brown, well-made but not fine, and he carried himself with the careful awkwardness of a man who had never quite grown accustomed to his own size.
He was also staring at you with an expression of profound discomfort.
"Begging your pardon, my lady," he said, and his voice was deep and rumbling, like distant thunder. "I did not mean to disturb you. I was looking for...that is, I was trying to find..."
He trailed off, his brow furrowing. He looked at the tent behind you, the black-and-crimson Targaryen pavilion, and then back at you, and something like confusion flickered across his honest face.
"You are the hedge knight," you said, because you had noticed him earlier. Everyone at Ashford had noticed him, if only for his size. He towered over every other man in the camp, a great shambling giant with a boy squire at his heels and a look of perpetual bewilderment on his plain, earnest face. "The tall one. I saw you near the lists this morning."
"I am," he confirmed, and he seemed surprised that you had noticed him at all. "Ser Duncan, if it pleases my lady. Though most call me Dunk." He hesitated. "I was looking for...there was a knight I knew once, Ser Arlan of Pennytree. I thought someone here might remember him. I have been asking at the tents, but I fear I have lost track of which ones I have visited and which I have not."
"I am sorry," you said gently. "I do not know the name."
His shoulders slumped, just slightly. "No one does. It has been many years. I thought perhaps...but it does not matter." He made to leave, then stopped, his brow furrowing again.
"My lady," he said slowly, "are you…are you well?"
You blinked. "I am perfectly well, Ser Duncan. Why do you ask?"
He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his big hands opening and closing at his sides. "It is only...I saw prince Aerion enter this tent some hours ago. And I heard him say...that is, I could not help but hear..."
"I am well," you said quickly. "Truly. There is no cause for concern."
But Ser Duncan was not a man who let things go easily. His honest face was troubled, his brow deeply furrowed. He took a half-step closer, lowering his voice as if afraid of being overheard.
"Was he...did he hurt you?" The words seemed to cost him something. His jaw was tight, his eyes earnest and worried. "The prince. I know his reputation. I know what they say about him. If he was too rough with you, if he forced you..."
"Ser Duncan." You held up a hand, stopping him. Understanding was dawning, slow and strange and almost amusing. He did not know you. Aerion had most likely said something vulgar, and then he had seen you - a woman in a plain gown, no jewels, no finery, enter that same tent. And he had drawn the obvious, if incorrect, conclusion.
He thought you were a whore. He thought you were a camp follower, a woman paid for her services, and he was concerned, genuinely, deeply concerned, that the prince had been cruel to you. That he had hurt you. That you might need help.
It was so earnest. So kind. So utterly, completely mistaken.
"The prince did not hurt me," you said, and you could not quite keep the amusement from your voice. "I assure you, Ser Duncan, I am quite unharmed."
He did not look convinced. "If you are afraid to speak, my lady, I understand. Princes are...they have power. They can do things. But I would not let him harm you further. I would..."
"Ser Duncan." You leaned forward slightly, your voice gentle. "What do you think I am doing here?"
He hesitated. His face flushed a deep, ruddy red. "I...that is...it is not my place to judge, my lady. A woman must do what she must to survive. I know that. I have known many good women who..." He stopped, clearly floundering. "I only meant that if the prince was cruel, if he did not pay you what you were owed, I would speak to him. I would make it right."
You stared at him for a long moment. Then, despite yourself, you laughed.
It was not a mocking laugh, you did not have it in you to mock this earnest, well-meaning giant of a man. It was a laugh of genuine, surprised delight. He thought you were a whore awaiting payment. He thought Aerion had used you and cast you aside. And he, a poor hedge knight with nothing but his honour and his size to his name, was offering to confront a prince of the realm on your behalf.
"You are a good man, Ser Duncan," you said, wiping your eyes. "Truly."
He looked confused, and faintly wounded. "I do not understand. If you are not...then why are you..."
Before you could answer, a familiar voice cut through the afternoon air like a blade.
"What is this?"
Aerion emerged from between two neighboring pavilions, a flagon of wine in one hand and two goblets in the other. His silver hair was still disheveled, his tunic only half-laced, and his violet eyes swept over the scene before him with a sharpness that belied his casual posture. He took in you, seated in your camp chair in your plain grey robe. He took in the enormous hedge knight looming over you, his big hands raised in an awkward, abortive gesture.
"I leave my wife alone for a handful of minutes," Aerion said, his voice soft and dangerous, "and I return to find some great lumbering stranger hovering over her like a vulture over carrion. Explain yourself."
Ser Duncan went pale. He took a hasty step back, nearly tripping over his own feet, and raised his hands higher in a gesture of surrender. "Your Grace, I meant no harm. I was only...I did not realize...that is, I thought she was..."
Your mind raced. You saw the path this conversation was about to take: the hedge knight's earnest confession, Aerion's cold fury at being thought the kind of man who would pay for a whore when he had a wife, the potential for humiliation and violence that would follow. Ser Duncan did not deserve that. He had been kind. He had been concerned. He had offered to help a woman he believed to be in need.
"He was lost," you said quickly, rising from your chair and stepping between the two men. You placed a hand on Aerion's chest, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. "He was looking for a tent, someone he knew once, a Ser Arlan of Pennytree, and he lost his way. He stopped to ask me for directions. Nothing more."
Aerion's gaze flickered from the hedge knight to you. His eyes narrowed. "Directions."
"Yes." You kept your voice light, pleasant. "He is new to tourneys of this size, I think. The camp is a maze. Anyone might lose their way."
Ser Duncan, to his credit, was not a complete fool. He latched onto the lie with the desperate gratitude of a drowning man seizing a rope. "Yes," he said quickly. "Yes, that is it exactly. I was lost. I asked the lady for directions. Nothing more, Your Grace, I swear it. I would never...I did not mean..."
"You should be grateful to even gaze upon her," Aerion interrupted, his voice dripping with bored disdain. He did not look at the hedge knight. He looked at you, and some of the tension bled from his shoulders, though his posture remained rigid with proprietary pride. "Let alone speak to her. She is a princess now, by marriage if not by birth. Her face is not for the likes of you."
"I am grateful," Ser Duncan said, and he sounded it. "Truly, my prince. The princess was most kind. Most generous with her time. I thank her. I thank you both."
"Yes, yes." Aerion waved a dismissive hand, already bored with the interaction. "You have gazed. You have spoken. You have been granted more than you deserve. Now fuck off."
Ser Duncan did not need to be told twice. He sketched a hasty bow, awkward and unpracticed, the bow of a man who had never quite learned the proper forms, and retreated with impressive speed for a man of his size. You watched him go, disappearing between the pavilions, and felt a small pang of sympathy. He had meant well. He had been kind. And you had lied to protect him from your husband's wrath.
Aerion's hand closed around your wrist. "Inside."
He did not wait for your response. He tugged you back into the tent, letting the flap fall closed behind you. The ruined bed still lay in splinters on the ground, the furs scattered, the evidence of your afternoon's activities plain for anyone to see. Aerion ignored it. He set the wine and goblets on a chest and turned to face you, his arms crossed over his chest.
"A hedge knight," he said flatly. "A great lumbering hedge knight, looming over my wife, making her laugh."
"He was lost," you said again, keeping your voice soft. "Nothing more."
"He was looking at you." Aerion's jaw tightened. "The way men look at things they want."
"Aerion." You stepped closer to him, reaching up to smooth the collar of his unlaced tunic. Your fingers brushed his throat, and you felt his pulse leap beneath your touch. "He was a poor hedge knight who lost his way. He asked for directions. I gave them. He was grateful. That is all."
"He wanted you," Aerion said again, but some of the sharpness had faded from his voice. "I saw it in his eyes."
"He wanted to know if I was well." You rose on your toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "He heard sounds from the tent. He was concerned. That is all."
Aerion's hands found your waist, pulling you closer. "Concerned. About my wife. As if I would ever harm what is mine."
"You play rough games, husband. You cannot blame a stranger for misunderstanding."
"I can blame anyone I like. I am a prince."
You laughed, and the sound seemed to ease something in him. His grip on your waist gentled, his thumbs tracing slow circles through the wool of your robe.
"This gown," he said. "This grey wool thing. You look like a septa. A very pretty septa, but a septa nonetheless. I will not have it."
"It was the first thing I found. My other gown was..."
"I know what your other gown was." His smile curved, sharp and satisfied. "I remember removing it. I remember every moment of removing it." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your throat. "But you cannot wear this to lord Ashford's castle. You cannot wear this to the feast tonight. You cannot wear this anywhere that anyone might see you and think I do not dress my wife as befits her station."
"Then take me to the castle," you said, your voice soft and coaxing. "Lord Ashford has given us chambers. Let us go there now. You can rest properly before the tourney tomorrow, on a real bed, not this splintered mess." You gestured at the ruined camp bed. "And I will try on every gown I brought. Every jewel. You can choose which one you would like to see me in for the feast."
His eyes darkened. "Choose?"
"Choose." You reached up and traced the line of his jaw with your fingertips. "I am your wife. I should dress to please you. Should I not?"
He stared at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, his lips curved into that familiar, dangerous smile. "You are playing me."
"I am pleasing you. There is a difference."
"Is there?"
You smiled and said nothing.
He kissed you and then released you. "Very well. To the castle. But if I am to rest properly, wife, you will be resting beside me. I did not travel all this way to sleep alone."
"I would expect nothing less."
a/n: You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
a/n: Aerion is not as nice here as in Growing Strong series because nobody can train him quite like lady Tyrell!reader.
Summary: Jack has a soft spot. He didn't expect you to be the one to find it. (6.9k words) read on ao3 here
Pairing: Jack Abbot x f!reader
Warnings: NSFW, porn with plot (the storyteller within me can't help it), unspecified age gap, hurt/comfort for both of them LOL, canon typical gore? medical stuff? idk, panic attacks, trauma, angst, power dynamics (reader's a med student), suicidal ideation, Jack being flustered, oral (m receiving because he needs it), big dick Jack, fingering, rushed sex despite how long this fic is i'm sorry, unprotected PIV sex, Jack's sort of a soft dom, semi-public sex, praise kink, competency kink, lots of fleshy bodily words in here to describe lust idk
AAAAA i just spent all day writing this yes i'm embarrassed <3 also haven't posted my writing in like actual years at this point.... anyways be nice to me
It’s unlike you, Jack thinks to himself, to look so out of it.
GSW to the chest. A young girl in her early twenties maybe. She’s lost a lot of blood. Her blonde hair somehow already matted with it, so much so that she could pass as a natural brunette. It’s gone dark with oxygen and coagulation.
Your team huddles around her, as do the other units around the dozens and dozens of gurneys being brought in one after the other, unrelenting and without promise to end soon.
All protocols you’ve learned in the last year are out the window. Disregarded for the mass casualty event that was PittFest. None of the residents had ever seen anything like this, you’d never seen anything like this. This was the most action you’d ever witnessed and suddenly you felt like there was a balloon in your own chest, compressing air flow or blood flow or something to your head.
All the blood, the smell of metal inescapable no matter which section of the ER you were suddenly rushed to.
Your knees go weak, they shake, your hands shake. Everything’s wrong-
“She’s going white Abbot pull her out.”
You hear your attending huff from right behind you before his hand finds your bicep, curling around it and pulling you from where you leaned over the patient. You can hardly protest, your mind elsewhere and your feet blindly follow Dr Abbot who leads you to the family room.
“Robby I need you to cover over on the GSW to the chest for a sec.” He calls over, his voice ringing in your ears, your mind trying to focus on one single thing but everything’s registering all at once. His hand on your arm, all the beeping, the cries of agony, tubes being intubated and balloons being puffed into chests. It all seems a lot further away when Abbot closes the door.
You never thought you were particularly his favourite. You’re much younger and typically too upbeat. You clash naturally, he’s not drawn to you and you’re not drawn to him.
Dr Abbot is unafraid of correcting you in front of your peers. After a year now of him being your attending you’ve become familiar with his ways but that doesn’t mean you’re any more appreciative of the public humiliations.
There’s something about these older ex military men, the ones who joined too young and have been in the system ever since, climbing up and up the ranks, hardening at each level to a point where disassociation is expected. Hold it in, hold it together. There’s is no I in team. All for one and one for all. All that bullshit.
Dr Abbot wasn’t really that guy to a T but hell was he uncrackable, unshakeable, hard as stone. No doubt it’s helped him here in the ER, you’ve never seen someone as laser focused and capable as Dr Abbot. It’s almost effortless for him, it seems. Like he doesn’t have to think twice about anything. His confidence is unmatched and you’d always admired that, no matter how much you thought he disliked you. So yeah it was kind of surprising when he was the one to pull you away for a time out.
Jack never meant to become so attuned to you. He didn’t do it on purpose. He blames it on being your attending for a while now, he’s worked with you the closet over this past year and he knows how you work, how you operate. He didn’t mean to but it happened. He feels like he can read you like an open book, you wear your emotions on your sleeve, on your face. You’ve never been one to conceal how you were feeling, unlike him. So when you stopped talking, stopped making little remarks and little jokes, nearly frozen and clearly dissociating, he knew what was happening long before the resident called for you to be pulled out. He wanted to give you a moment to bounce back as you usually do.
Dr Abbot closes the curtain to the family room, shutting the door. He turns around and finds you still awkwardly standing there, eyes far off, elsewhere. He had expected you to take a seat immediately, he doesn’t know what you’re still doing up considering how close you look to collapsing.
“S-sorry I don’t know what’s happening, I-” You stammer, embarrassed yet not in control of whatever’s taking over your mind and body.
“Hey, hey stay with me, kid. Don’t go to that place.”
Abbot puts his hand softly on the middle of your back, guiding you to the chair. You sit down reluctantly, unable to move your body in a coordinated way for some reason. He kneels in front of you, groaning as he goes down and his knees cracking.
“Listen, don’t tell anyone but I’ve had my fair share of panic attacks, okay?”
“Is that- is that what’s happening?” You ask dumbly, squeezing your eyes shut. You suddenly feel dizzy. Not enough oxygen to the brain.
“How does your chest feel? Can you breathe?”
“I feel like I can’t.”
“Then yeah, that’s what’s happening.”
Your lip wobbles despite how much you’re still trying to hold it together, that much Abbot can tell. You’re fighting like hell against this panic attack which might only threaten to make things worse. He grabs your hand in his, squeezing lightly. You’re barely able to return it.
“What are five things you can see?”
“W-What?” You sniffle.
“Tell me five things you can see, come on.” He squeezes your hand again, reassuringly.
You try to take a deep breath but your diaphragm spasms and it comes in all shaky, causing you to hiccup like a child.
“Y-you.”
Against all odds, Dr Abbot smiles. Incredibly small but you see it.
“That’s right. What else?”
You try to take a deep breath again. “Uh, the paintings on the wall.”
Abbot nods. You continue.
“The curtains. The chairs. The door.”
“Good. That’s good. What about four things you can touch?”
“Your hand.” You say most obviously, since he’s still holding your clammy hand in his. You’d be embarrassed if you weren’t so shaken up.
Dr Abbot squeezes your hand again and this time you squeeze back, a silent thank you of sorts.
“Um, my scrubs, my hair on my neck, the wind from the fan.”
“Okay, now three things you can hear.”
“Your voice.” Dr Abbot chuckles, like he was expecting it.
“Sure.” He nods.
“You’re breathing.” You take a deep breath now, as if it reminded you. Abbot breathes deeply with you.
You try to motion lazily to the door, “The doctors outside, I can hear them talking.”
“That’s right, and they’re being pretty loud, aren't they?” He tries to joke, to lighten the mood.
You nod your head, yeah.
“What about two things you can smell?”
You go to open your mouth but Abbot cuts you off again.
“And don’t say me, we’re about an hour into this shift and I know I’m not smelling too pretty right now.”
You laugh, you actually giggle a bit, albeit a bit breathless, your body still trying to catch up to your more relaxed mind. Jack smiles.
“I can smell metal and disinfectant.”
“Okay and one thing you can taste.”
Your cheeks burn a bit. You know it doesn’t mean anything but when you started each sentence with something relating to him… You can’t help but think.
“My stale gum.”
Jack chuckles a bit, shaking his head. What were you doing with mouth in your gum. It’s not allowed on shift but everything had started so suddenly you hadn’t had a moment to toss it and you got scared on choking on it if you swallowed it.
Abbot clicks his tongue at you in disapproval, holding out his open hand near your mouth. You look at him confused, but he just gestures to his outreached hand.
“Spit it out, let’s go get you a new one, hmm?”
Your face burns again, but you do what he says for some reason.
Because he asked.
He closes his palm around your gum for a moment before easily tossing it into the trash can in the corner of the room.
Dr Abbot stands back up, knees cracking again. He helps you up, holding your elbows in each of his hands. You’re still a little wobbly, weak in the knees from your body’s sudden breakdown. You haven’t yet regained all your strength.
You try to steady yourself, your hands gripping his forearms, trying to concentrate on the strength of him holding you up.
You suddenly feel oddly close to him. Not just physically seeing as how close you two are standing but in the air, it feels like something’s shifted, like something’s irreparably been changed between you two. He’s just seen you at your most vulnerable, talked you through your first panic attack and even admitted to having experienced them himself. How many people in the ER can say they know that much about Dr Jack Abbot.
Maybe you’re just over analyzing what’s transpired.
“How you feeling?” His voice sounds out and you realize you had your eyes squeezed shut, when you open them Jack’s peering down at you, trying to give you the softest look he can muster.
“I’m okay.”
“Yeah? You don’t have to be.” You shake your head no.
“No, no I’m good. Promise.”
“I’ve got my best med student back?”
You can’t help but look at him quizzically, laughing a little.
“I don’t think I’m your best med student but sure, I’m back.”
“Come on, take the compliment.” He quips and it surprises you. You didn’t think he’d press your objections.
“I actually thought you-” Hated me, you want to say.
“I know.”
Oh.
“I know I’m hard on you. But I only do it because I know you can take it. I think it makes you better.”
Your lips go into a hard line, you nod. Right….
“I mean, it doesn’t hurt to be told I’m doing good every now and then. I do think I’m tough, you’re right, but I don’t know… I like this side of you.” You admit before you can stop yourself.
Now it’s Jack’s turn to blush. His cheeks go red in that boyish way and it blossoms all the way to the tips of his ears. Your heart leaps a bit.
If you weren’t back to yourself before, you were now. You’re suddenly very aware of how close you’re standing even though you’ve both let go of each other. It was sobering.
“Alright kid, as long as you don’t tell anyone.” He winks.
You burn.
“Promise.”
/
Things did, in fact, change after that.
Dr Abbot pulls you for huddles, just you and him now for feedback, no longer doing it in front of the other med students, doctors or attendees.
You stand closer to him, he stands closer to you in general.
He’s not afraid to grab your hand and stop you from doing something. Or start something. The amount of times he’s guided you through a procedure you’d never done before with his steady hadn’t engulfing yours, guiding a blade smoothly through a patients skin or a thin tube through an incredibly small incision.
You wondered if anyone noticed. If anyone had become attune to the fact that you followed each other around like each other’s shadows. Never one without the other. You could see Princess and Perlah whispering to each other whenever you stood close to Dr Abbot, you couldn’t help but smile at the fact that at least someone noticed how he’d picked you as his favourite and warmed up to you. It made you feel special, all girlish and giggly even though it absolutely shouldn’t.
A new unusual sound had started to fill the ER. Jack Abbot’s laughter, even quiet giggles fuelled by none other than you. Not even Robby, once his rival now best friend in the ER, could get that sound out of him as often as you do.
Jack gets you sandwiches, juice boxes from the cafeteria when you look particularly out of it or if the moment granted a quick escape for food. He’d find a chocolate bar or anything to perk you up on days where you weren’t doing so hot, or had a particularly anguishing patient. Death was inescapable in the ER, everyone knew that but not everyone handled it well, it didn’t matter how well versed or experienced you were in the medical industry.
Not even Jack himself.
The night shift was now coming to a close, meaning the clock was close to striking 7am. That awkward time before the day shift shows up and the night team goes home to sleep through the day, all to start again in 12 hours.
It was weird working in the off hours, you felt like a vampire or a bat, you thought to yourself as you climbed the steps to the roof, trying to find Jack. You knew him well now, and you know where he goes to run away when he can’t handle the weight of the shift anymore.
You open the door, it creaked open annoyingly loud, announcing you rather ungraciously.
Jack drops his head low at the sound of the door opening. He knew it was you coming to find him. He leans back against the railing behind him.
“What are you doing up here?” He asks, calling out to you without turning his head. The wind carries the sound of his voice to you.
The sun is threatening to come up over the city line, light only beginning to spill upwards into the sky, painting the clouds all pretty shades of light blue, pink and orange. You struggle to take in the beauty due to the night that just transpired.
The vet hit and run. It was a hard one on Jack. He’d known guys like that in the military. They seemed untouchable, surviving tour after tour. It was never easy to watch one go, especially the ones that made it home and get taken out in some seemingly avoidable way.
Some church bell tolls in the distance. You approach him, unsure how to answer what you’re doing up here. Checking on you, wanting to make sure you’re okay, everyone’s worried but the reality was no one batted an eye at him escaping after spending the last two hours coding this guy into the system. This was how Jack operated. Disassociate, dissociate until he couldn’t anymore and his feet carried him up to the roof. Contemplating.
So you don’t say anything, you just stand behind him.
Jack’s skin looks golden up here. The light passing through his curls, catching the greys. Your heart tightens.
“It’s always a rough way to end the night.” You offer, unsure of what else to say.
“I must’ve had a reason at one time to keep coming back but… I can’t think of it right now.” Jack grips onto the railing, leaning forward and looking down below him.
You instinctively reach out to him, your hand going for his bicep, it’s closest to you. Despite the cool early morning air, his skin was still hot to the touch, still coming down from what had just gone down in the ER room.
“Jack…” You can’t help but sigh, silently pleading with him to stop.
His head turns, dark eyes meeting yours. God he looks so sad, a man worn down.
And you realize you’ve never called him by just his name. Just Jack.
“D-Dr Abbot, I mean- sorry.”
He doesn’t correct you. He doesn’t particularly care right now. And the way you said it makes his heart tight like your hand is on his arm. Palms clammy with being so high up and so close to a ledge. You never liked heights and you hate that he’s always flirted with them.
He clicks his tongue, sighing before crouching down and reeling himself back over to your side of the railing. You sigh in relief, you hadn’t realized you were holding your breath.
Jack is completely distraught. He looks wrecked, broken.
Your hand still on his arm, he comes to face you, standing so close but you can’t find it in you to step away from him, not when he’s like this.
Jack drops his forehead to your shoulder, you try not to freeze up at the sudden extreme closeness.
“Are you okay?” You ask dumbly, voice gone quiet because of how close he is. Your lips ghost over the shell of his ear, plush flesh on soft cartilage. Jack shivers, turning his head slightly and his nose pushes into your neck.
What else is there to say to such a quiet man, lost in his own solitude of reflection.
“No.” He says simply, plainly.
Your heart aches for him.
Your hand is still on his arm, you flatten it and trail it up to his shoulder, squeezing him there.
He presses himself closer to you. You hold your breath, your heart threatening to leap up out of your throat. You swear he must feel it beating through his own chest. You think you can feel his.
He trails his nose along your neck, up your ear. You can feel that subtle white beard that carves the angles of his face so sharply, so perfectly, colour so soft and white it nearly blends into his skin seamlessly. They catch at your skin in that scratchy way and its almost too much.
His hands, they move and suddenly they’re on your waist, sliding around the circumference of you until he’s enveloped you in his strong arms. You can feel how sturdy he is, how solid and strong from years of exertion and force and yet you feel like you could blow away at any moment. This cannot be real. You can smell his hair, the remnants of his cologne peaking through the smell of antiseptic and disinfectant. You can smell him.
He knows this shouldn’t really be happening. You both do. You’re both very much aware of that fact. Even though its just a hug its just a hug. Jack had been aware of it ever since that day in the family room when he first worried about you. Because that’s what friends do… they worry about each other, right? Friends….
Jack lets his nose travel higher, along your hairline behind your ear, relishing in the closeness of another living, breathing human being. Warm flesh against flesh, closeness of muscles and organs. Hearts, beating. When was the last time this happened? When was the last time he let his walls down like this? You both wondered.
“I’m sorry.” He offers lamely, voice quiet and matching yours. He tries to pull away from you but his body doesn’t get the memo, he stills clings to you. He’s afraid of what would happen if he were to let go now. Surely he’d crumble into nothing off this roof.
He moves his head, nose against your cheek as your hands move to his chest, bunching up the fabric of his shirt in your palms. You don’t want him away either. You need him close, suddenly very close. Despite your breathlessness at the closeness, you think you’d stop breathing if he were to pull away now. You wouldn’t bear it.
You shake your head no, “Don’t be.” You reassure him, voice still quiet.
Something posses you and you nudge your nose with his, Jack sighs loudly, arms tightening around you and you sigh too. Your mouth opens in an innocent way, trying to get more oxygen to your brain. But you can feel his breath on yours, feel it fanning against your lips and you lean closer, pushing your nose into his again and he has to use every iota of strength within him to not lunge into you.
This shouldn’t be happening, he reiterates to himself. All the alarms are going off in his head. He shouldn’t be touching you like this, he shouldn’t have grabbed you, you shouldn’t be letting him. You could both get in serious trouble for this.
But you fist at his shirt, hands trembling against his chest, feeling him, muscles under supple flesh. Your lips part, small breath fanning against his lips and he breaks. He’s just a man.
Jack presses his open mouth to yours, and you let him again for a reason he doesn’t quite understand. It’s sloppy in a desperate way, passionate and sad. You could cry if you weren’t so wrapped up in the feel of being completely encompassed by him, his soft lips on yours.
You open your mouth wider, your hands moving from his chest to wrap your arms completely around his neck, hauling his body into yours as if you couldn’t get any closer. You wanted to meld into him. Bone fusing to bone. You let your tongue poke out and suddenly he’s right there with you, his tongue going as far into your mouth as it possibly can, trying to get to every inch of you. Jack whines and you burn at the pathetic sound. A grown man, whimpering for you. Your knees threaten to buckle.
His body flush with yours, you can’t help but feel how his body reacts to you. Hard and solid against your hip, your leg as your bodies writhe against the other, pleading to get closer.
“Jack,” you whimper into his mouth, unsure, testing.
Jack lets his lips travel to the corner of your mouth, kissing every inch of you that he possibly can, your teeth as you say his name, your cheek, earlobe, the spot underneath your ear.
“Tell me to stop.” He groans, hands moving back to their spot on your waist, trailing down to your hips where he grinds you against him, making that aching part of him known.
You whimper again, eyes threatening to roll into the back of your head like the sun threatens to come over that edge and catch you both where you ought not to be.
“I don’t want you to stop.” You admit, face burning even though you’re both as debauched and pathetic sounding as the other.
Boldly, you let one hand travel down from his neck, down his body to softly touch in between his legs, feeling where he’s hard, aching between his legs. He groans again, this time absolutely pained, his forehead dropping to yours.
“W-We shouldn’t be doing this.” He admits, like you both don’t know that already. He’s practically begging you to give him a reason to stop this now, even though he knows he’s already too far gone to do anything at this point. You’re too warm, too welcoming and soft and willing. Salvation.
“Especially not here.” You manage to laugh a little. Suddenly you pull away from Jack and he thinks that’s it, you’re calling it. His instincts propel him to check his watch to check the time. T.O.D. Time of death. He’s being dramatic.
You pull him to the opening of the stairwell, creaking open that squeaky door once again and you lightly press him against the wall furthest away from the stairs.
It’s an enclosed space, a room up on the roof. You have to open another door to get to the stairs which lead all the way down to the ER, blocked by another set of doors. If someone were to go into the stairway, you’d hear them from a mile away. At least that’s what you hoped.
Jack let’s you move him, lets you press your body against his and kiss his tanned, freckled neck. Your hand finds its spot on his crotch, feeling him through his pants. God he hasn’t gone down an inch. He feels huge, painfully hard. You can’t believe you’re feeling him like this. You can’t believe The Jack Abbot is letting this happen, you can’t believe he wants it. With you.
“Can I?” You ask, already lowering yourself to your knees.
Jack just looks at you in complete and utter disbelief, mouth agape as he watches you get down on your knees, pressing your face to his clothed dick, kissing him through the fabric. Kill me now, he thinks. If anyone were to find you both like this…
He feels like a dirty old man as you pull his cock from his pants, watching it spring up and slap his belly with wide eyes, like you need it, like you’re suddenly starving.
His cock is huge. You don’t know what you expected but it wasn’t this. You try not to look frightened by it, by the prospect of shoving it into your mouth and hopefully, your cunt.
He’s your attendee, you try not to think about that. Try not to think about how you’re his subordinate and he’s so much older than you, experienced, well versed. This is all completely wrong, incredibly fucked up but fuck if it doesn’t turn the both of you on just a little more in the worst way.
His dick is hot in your hand, skin like silk and you salivate at the pure sight of it. You look up at him, his face flushed all the way up to his ears and down to what you can see of his chest poking out through the small v in his shirt. Skin on fire.
You give him a sort of inquisitive look and he realizes he never answered you. You looking up at him with those big, needy eyes. He can only bring himself to nod his head, at a lost for words.
You smile up at him, hand already gliding up and down his thick length. Jack hisses at the near foreign sensation, in this moment he can’t bring himself to remember the last time this happened, let alone a time when it wasn’t his own hand. Yours is much smaller, more delicate than his, you can barely wrap it around the entirety of him and suddenly he feels dizzy.
You lean forward, kissing the tip of him and he squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, they open and close into fists at his sides. God does he want to touch you, to have you let him take what he wants but he’s afraid. Afraid of over stepping, afraid of scaring you.
Suddenly you’re opening your mouth and kissing at the head of him, licking at his slit, collecting whatever’s pooled there and humming to yourself at the taste. You’re worried you’ll become addicted to this.
More of him slides into your mouth, all the way until he’s hitting the back of your throat. Suddenly his hands are flying to the side of your head, holding you there. His eyes open and he looks down at you, eyes intense, mouth set into a hardline like he’s barely hanging by a thread. You make eye contact with him and he groans, loud. You’ve only ever seen him like this leaned over a patient, intense focus, blinders on to anything except the task at hand. But this time its you. Your pussy throbs.
Jack let’s himself thrust into your mouth a couple of times, eyes squeezed shut again, head leaned back against the wall behind him in complete surrender to you and your mouth. He says your name so broken, like its the only thing he can remember, the only thing keeping him grounded.
You wonder if he’ll let you fuck him.
A few more thrusts and suddenly Jack is pulling you off of him, looking back down at you again and hauling you back up to your feet. You give him the saddest eyes and he swears his heart breaks.
“I’m- I was gonna cum if you kept that up.” He sort of laughs to himself. Jack’s never felt more out of practice than he does now, pants down around his ankles, cock heavy and begging still in your hand, and a young, pretty girl looking at him with wet eyes, hungry for him.
What did he do in a past life to deserve this?
“That was kind of the idea.” You smile, bitting your lip and your hand continues to move up and down on his aching length.
Back face to face now, Jack can’t believe he has you like this, lips plump and swollen with exertion and slick with spit. Your eyes are dark with greed, hunger for something else. He never though this would happen, not between the two of you. Not that he ever explicitly thought about it but there were moments of weakness. Moments where he let his mind wander as he held your hand in his, guiding you through a procedure, noticing your body and its proximity, its warmth, that girlish smell you carry around you. You’ve always been intoxicating, a temptation just begging to be indulged in. Had he mentioned how wrong he thought all of this was?
“Jack?” You ask, pulling him out of this thoughts.
“Hmmm?” He basically slurs, distracted by the continuous movements of your hand on his cock, it was on the verge of turning painful.
“I asked you if you’re gonna fuck me.” You ask, devilish grin plastered on your face like you’re the cat who got the fucking cream. Or is at least trying to.
Jack lets out a broken laugh, voice cracking from your particularly harsh grip on him.
“Is that- Is that what you came up to the roof for?” He jokes but suddenly you think he’s being serious.
You worry thats all you thought of him, of this. A quick fuck, a need for release, a need to forget what happened tonight.
“No, Jack that’s not- I swear-” You struggle to find your words.
Jack smiles at you, it alleviates some of your worries. His hand moves and finds the waist band of your pants, he shoves it down until he’s cupping your sex. You gasp, his hand hot, feeling your hotter core and whats embarrassingly seeped out of you ever since you pulled him from the railing.
Jack clicks his tongue at you, like he always does.
“Yeah, I bet you want me to fuck you, alright. You’re soaking for it.”
Oh fuck.
You whimper, leaning easy into his touch, letting him feel you.
“Fuck, baby.” He groans, his fingers gliding easy through your glossy folds, playing around in the mess you made. Its embarrassing. So much so that you almost miss him calling you baby.
Jack doesn’t fight the temptation long, no matter how much he wants to tease you about it. His two fingers find your hole and push in steadily, afraid to hurt you. You gasp, body falling into his, letting him hold you with his other arm. Your hand on his cock stutters but is determined to keep pleasuring him.
You moan when he pushes his fingers all the way in, crooking them to press up against that spongey spot inside of you, your eyes nearly rolling into the back of your head.
“Fuck-” You choke, head heavy on his shoulder, your lips grazing his neck as he thrusts his fingers in and out of you, switching it up between that and toying with that fucking spot inside of you.
“Jack, I’m-”
“Oh I bet you are.” He chides and you burn.
This could have been so humiliating if you chose it to be. How quickly you folded for him, how badly and desperately you needed him. As if he hadn’t folded just as quickly, if not faster, for you.
Suddenly his fingers are ripped from your core and he’s ripping your pants down along with your underwear. You step out of them quickly, letting him manhandle you around to get you were you wants you.
“Look at you listening to me so easily now.” Jack remarks, turning you around and pushing you up against the wall.
“I always listen to you.” You admit, voice breathless and breaking and sounding completely debauched.
You feel him step in to your space, you arch your back instinctively and Jack basically purrs all soft for you. You feel the head of his cock at your entrance, threatening your folds. You whimper, shiver. You try to push into him but his hand flies to your neck, holding you still where you are.
He leans over your back, rucking your shirt up with the hand that was holding his dick. He hadn’t meant for this to happen like this, all dirty and rushed and in his fucking workplace. He thinks about the rest of you, hidden under your scrubs, how he’d kiss every inch. Maybe that was for another time. Hopefully.
“I know you do.” He praises, kissing the back of your neck and pushing into cunt in the same breath. You both groan way too loudly, pure relief coming over the both of you.
Jack breaches you slowly, he knows he’s big. He’s not even being any type of way about it, he just knows its a lot from past…. flings. But God do you take him like a champ. You push your hips back into his, needing him to fill you completely you’re fucking whimpering for it.
But Jack’s still got his hold on you, pinning you down so he can work you onto his cock slowly, at his own pace. He’s in control here.
You both moan again once he reaches the end of you, fully seated in your velvety pussy. His head falls onto your back, his arms wrapping around you to hold you to him, anything to get closer. You scramble to gain purchase on anything, the wall, his strong arms, anything. You feel dizzy, you feel full, you feel drunk.
“Always so good for me. Such a good girl” He moans, hips pulling back to just thrust back in punishingly. It punches a moan out from your gut.
You nod your head, unable to speak. I try to be good, I try to be.
Jack doesn’t wait, this has to be quick anyways, you both have been gone for far too long, he’s suddenly reminded that the day shift will be showing up in a matter of minutes and God knows Robby will be looking for him up here. His dick throbs at the thought of being caught balls deep inside of you, his little med student.
He pulls you back by the ass to meet his hips, pumping himself in and out of your creamy pussy at a brutal pace, his eyes nearly rolling into the back of his head. He says your name, you’ve never heard him say a name quite like that and it breaks you.
“I-Is this good?” He asks, trying to be sexy but it comes out broken, desperate and pathetic.
You nod your head frantically again, trying to turn your head to look at him and Jack’s heart soars at the sight. Your pupils blown black, eyes big and watery from the feel of his cock filling you up to the absolute brim, hair matted to your sweaty forehead. He wants to lick the sweat from you. Next time, next time.
Jack leans closer, kissing you on the open mouth and you moan debauchedly into him. As he moved closer to you to keep kissing you it pushed his cock that much further into you, his hips grinding into your ass and his cock into the absolute end of you. You can barely keep yourself standing, you’re thankful for Jack’s strength keeping you up, you could’ve had both feet off the ground and you’d have no idea.
His cock pummels into you, moan after moan being punched from your chest, your gut, the deepest part of you.
You whimper into his mouth at his sweet kisses in contrast with his harsh thrusts, it was enough to make your head spin, your pussy clench, threatening to burst.
“Tell me it’s good, need you to say it for me.”
“S-So good, Jack. You feel-”
“Yeah?”
You cry, you think a lone tear falls from your eye and maybe Jack kisses it away or licks it but his cock doesn’t stop and suddenly you’re cumming, completely surrendering your body to his. You shudder and twitch and your pussy squeezes his dick so tight he nearly sees stars, it takes everything in him to not blow his load inside of you in that instant.
That would be bad, that would be really bad, that would be messy and irresponsible and fuck he’s not wearing a condom how could you both have been so stupid and drunk off each other to not grab a condom. It’s not like you have them in your scrubs but theres a dispenser in the bathroom and -
“Jack please,” You beg, voice so small and worn out. Your hand reaches out behind you, grabbing for him and suddenly he’s pulled back to the very real reality where he is fucking the shit out of you and he’s about to cum about it.
“Please what?” He asks, needing to hear you say it.
“Need you- need you to cum for me. Please Jack.”
Fuck, he doesn’t want this to be over, he needs this to go on forever, needs you to suddenly be his salvation, he’s not quite sure how he’s gone on this long without you but he knows he can’t go forward without it.
Jack’s body tenses, his cock somehow gets impossibly harder, you feel it thicken inside of you and you moan again, another orgasm threatening to rip through you.
But suddenly he’s pulling himself out of your greedy hole, his voice breaking as he spills himself onto the concrete floor beneath the both of you. Your cunt pulses, desperate to have him fill you again. Before you can protest his fingers lunge up into your abused hole again and he grating at that spot inside of you, the one that has you seeing stars.
“Need another one, yeah?”
“Jack- fuck!” It complete takes over you.
Somehow without having to even tell him, he felt the way your pussy spasmed and cried around him right before he pulled out, he knew you were close to cumming again. And ever the gentleman he is, he’s going to give you another one.
He’s unrelenting, just like he was with his cock. His two fingers crook up against that spot again and suddenly you’re seeing stars.
Jack’s arm wraps around the front of your shoulders, hauling your back straight against his chest, holding your trembling body to his. You can feel his slowly softening cock against your lower back, cum still dripping from it onto your ass.
“Do it, please.” He begs of you this time, the muscles in both arms trembling from his own orgasm.
Jack feels your pussy spasm again, feels the way your chest quickens its breathes, the way your feet nearly kick out from under you with the strength of it all and your cumming on his hand, your eyes going black and blind from the force of it.
You slump back against him, letting him hold you once again. Jack wraps both his arms around you, swinging you around so that his back is pressed against the wall so he can lean on something. You both try to catch your breath, clinging to each other with leftover desperation.
Greedily, he lets a hand swipe through your abused folds, collecting what you’ve given him. You whimper, leaning your head back to hide it in his neck, embarrassed.
“Jack,” you whine in a pathetic attempt at protesting.
He clicks his tongue at you, “Let me.” He tells you, plainly.
His fingers linger, scooping up what he can and bringing it to his lips. He licks everything, groaning at the taste and letting his eyes close. You whine, pushing your face further into his neck, smelling him. He smells manly, like sweat, cologne and sex. You let it envelop you.
Jack holds you like that for as long as he humanly can. Before the thoughts of getting caught inevitably come crashing down upon him again.
“We have to move, kid. Can’t stay like this forever.” He tells you in a sad tone. You press a final kiss to his neck, breathing him in before pulling away.
“I know.”
You both pull yourselves back together. Jack puts his own pants back on as he watches you pull your underwear on slowly. Mindlessly, he reaches for your pants and holds them out for you. You put your hands on his shoulders while you step into them.
“Thank you.” You tell him, voice gone quiet again, like you already have to be hush hush about this.
Jack kisses the top of your head sweetly. You wonder what’s to come after this. You look up at him and he gives you that slick side smile you’ve only seen him throw Robby or Dana.
“Didn’t know you could make noises like that.” He smiles and you push him back against the wall you were both just fucking up against, your face absolutely burning. This motherfucker likes making fun of you.
“Jack I swear to God-”
He grabs you and kisses you again, holding your face to his. You let him kiss you, fighting the want to just melt back into him and stay here.
Jack pulls away first. His anxiety getting the best of him.
“Can I drive you home?” He asks, unsure of what else to say. He needs to get you out of the workplace and have a normal fucking conversation with you that doesn’t revolve around grief and dying kids and elderly on life support.
And besides he knows you take the bus.
“Yes please.”
/
okayyy i literally had to cut it short because this shit was getting too long LOL, i had a full final act outlined but maybe that could be a shorter part two if anyone's interested..... lmk <3
summary: a little harmless flirting never hurt anyone, right? you've been on jack abbot's mind a little too often lately and he's starting to suspect the feeling is mutual. after a late night out at the bar, you're determined to show him just how mutual that feeling is.
content/warnings: age gap, inappropriate work crushes, i don't even bother pretending like i know how a hospital works, jealous!jack, masturbation mentions, garsantos crumbs, alcohol consumption, smoking cigarettes, reader wears a dress/heels/make up, soft dom!jack, dirty talk (jack's got a filthy mouth), kinda degradation if u squint, praise, oral (f + m receiving), jack abbot is a munch duh, fingering, unprotected piv, some breath play, cream pie? NSFW + MDNI! 18+ ONLY!
wc: 7.5k (got away from me lol)
notes: this is like the first proper thing i've written in several years and probably my first real smut ever, but i couldn't stop thinking about jack abbot's tits. purely self indulgent because i know for a fact that he talks you through it lol he's just so yummy. enjoy my old man brain rot
credit: gif taken from this set by ho-ii :)
—
Jack hasn’t been able to focus since you joined the night shift.
You seem to be everywhere. Ever since that first day, he hasn’t been able to shake you. Any corner he turns, every trauma room he enters, there you are. Even when he can’t see you, you still haunt him. He picks up the faint smell of your shampoo, sometimes. Hears your laughter ringing somewhere in the halls and can't help but turn his head towards it.
It’s worse when you’re next to him. You’re great at what you do, there's no denying that. But it's been difficult to work alongside you, elbows and arms brushing while you crowd over whatever patient is bleeding out on the table in front of him. His brain just can't keep up, sometimes. Not with the warmth of your body next to his. Commands come out a little slower than usual. He hesitates for a second longer than he usually does.
However, it's the worst when you’re batting your eyelashes at him when you finally have a moment of downtime. Handing him some coffee from the break room, letting your fingers linger on his for just a beat too long. Casually laying a hand on his bicep when you talk to him, leaving him tingling for an embarrassing amount of time after you leave. He knows exactly what you’re doing. That you know exactly what it does to him. He’s got scars older than you, but that doesn't stop his gaze from following you as you flit around the ER. And he knows you feel it. You’re real young, you’re real fucking pretty and you’re real fucking capable.
Which is why it feels like a cruel joke that you’re always flirting with him. Especially since he’s pretty sure you’d never actually see him in the way that he sees you. Honestly, it makes this inconvenient attraction he has towards you all the more complicated. Jack can't help but notice the way you chew your lip when you’re deep into charting. The curve of your neck when you adjust your hair. When you look up at him with those big eyes, just eagerly waiting for him to tell you what to do next.
Fuck, he’s hard just thinking about it.
His thoughts always wander in that direction when it comes to you. He finds himself at home, thinking of the way that you looked at him earlier in the day or when you swept a slow thumb over your bottom lip absentmindedly, lost in thought. Jack feels filthy when he thinks of you like this, but he still can't help but palm himself through his pants when the thoughts come. Which is more often than he'd like to admit.
When he thinks of you outside of that, however, he’s not entirely sure how he feels. It’s more than just something carnal. He wants to take care of you. And he does, sometimes. Leaves a protein bar by your hand when he hears you complain about how hungry you are, and steps in when patients start being rowdy or handsy with you.
It’s an entirely different feeling while he watches a doctor get handsy with you instead.
It's the early hours of the morning, and the day shift has started to trickle in. It was always interesting, crossing paths with them. The night shift attracted a certain kind of person. Someone who prefers working under the cover of darkness. Jack noticed that the people on the night shift always played their cards closer to their chests, had a little more hidden depth. Maybe that's why they all worked well together, moving like a unit, fluid and unspoken.
The day shift on the other hand was, well, bright, in a sense. They were all dazzling smiles and caffeinated energy, bouncing from one patient to the next. They clashed like nobody’s business, bold and brash. There were exceptions of course, like Mohan, who Jack had grown fond of and even attempted to convince to join the night shift on more than a few occasions. (She always said no.)
Then there were the textbook examples. And no one embodies the day shift more than Robby’s prodigal son, Frank Langdon.
Frank Langdon, who was standing just a little too close to you, elbow propped on the nurse’s station as he gave you one of his signature smiles. Jack was too far away to hear exactly what he was saying, but he didn't miss the way his fingers played with your badge, the light glinting off it as he fiddled with it and examined your photo. Jealousy twists in Jack’s gut, but he can't make himself turn away. He just grips his tablet harder, listening to you giggle at whatever Langdon had to say. It’s the same giggle that you give him when he's just a little too sarcastic in an attempt to make you laugh. That was his giggle.
A hand on his shoulder snaps him out of his daze.
“What'd the tablet do to you?” It’s Robby, looking at Jack expectantly to begin their hand off for the day. Jack can't curb his jealousy fast enough and the other man follows his gaze right over to you and Langdon. He can see the gears turning in Robby’s mind, piecing everything together until he barks out a laugh and shakes his head. “You’re so screwed, brother.”
“I don't know what you’re talking about.” Jack grumbles, and Robby raises a disbelieving eyebrow at him. He’s still gripping onto the tablet, probably moments away from cracking the damn thing in half.
“Right…” Robby has to basically wrestle it out of his grip and Jack finally drags his eyes over to his friend, who looks thoroughly unimpressed. “So you’re just here, burning holes into Langdon for no reason.”
“I’m not,” Jack says, a little too indignantly for his liking. “He’s married. He shouldn't be flirting like that.” Robby laughs at him again, which is really starting to get on his nerves. He knows that it’s a terrible lie, but his mind is too foggy from his overnight shift to think of a better one. He wishes his friend would cut him a little slack here.
“Sure. And it’s got nothing to do with her, I’m guessing,” Robby nods over in your direction, and Langdon is still there. He’s leaning on the nurses station, still talking away while you nod, full attention on him. Doesn’t this guy have a job to do? A beat of silence passes, and Jack doesn't answer. “Okay, well, good luck with that then.”
With that, Robby takes his leave, but not before he grabs Langdon by the scrubs, wordlessly hauling him away. You seem shocked at the sudden intrusion, waving goodbye to the dark haired doctor just a moment too late.
It seems like his best friend can cut him some slack, after all.
—
You’re already two drinks deep when Jack Abbot walks through the door.
You’re in the day shift’s favourite bar, squished into the booth seat next to Trinity. She’s yapping away and gesturing wildly to Robby and Garcia who are sitting across from you, looking equally as squished. Truthfully, you’d tuned her out a few minutes ago; it was a story about Dennis and the farm girl she’s told you a million times before.
Your eyes are wandering across the bar, drifting over your friends who are scattered around as if they own the place. Samira and Cassie are perched on stools at the bar, Parker is trying and failing to teach Dennis how to play pool. Movement catches your eye and your gaze drifts towards the door, where John strides in, with Jack in tow.
You can't even pretend to notice Shen, not when Jack catches your eye right away. He’s got his typical black shirt on, tight in all the right places. His hands are shoved into his pockets as he saunters in, looking confident as always. You swear that you’ve never seen him look out of place before. Everywhere he enters, it feels like all heads turn in his direction.
Well, yours does at least.
And it’s really irritating how fucking good he looks all the time. Scrubbed up, in his civvies and in that unbelievably hot uniform that he rolled up in on the fourth of July. He really has you feeling a lot of things you definitely shouldn’t be, considering that he’s your attending. But that still doesn’t stop your eyes from wandering across his broad frame, up his freckled arms to the grey stubble on his jaw. You practically have to physically stop yourself from biting your lip.
“Oh my God, drool much?” Trinity says in a low voice. She’s clearly stopped telling her story, as Robby and Garcia are now engaged in a conversation of their own. Trinity has caught you checking out Abbot on multiple occasions and she never gives up an opportunity to bemoan you about it. “He’s like, geriatric.”
“Not geriatric. Kind of like, silver foxy?” You laugh, shaking your head. “Plus, I thought we kind of had a thing for older people?” You gesture not-so-subtly at Garcia, who’s taking a sip of her drink and nodding along to whatever Robby is saying. Trinity rolls her eyes at your comment and slips past you, out of the booth.
“Okay, well, I’m gonna get another drink,” She tells you, waving her empty glass. Before she leaves, she sneaks a peek over her shoulder and then leans in closer to you, her breath tickling your ear. “He’s heading your way. So try not to cream your pants, huh?”
That makes you sit up straight as Trinity saunters off and Jack comes into view. He’s looking down at you in a way that makes you squeeze your thighs together. He stares, but only for a moment before sliding into the booth across from you, next to Robby. Garcia seems to have slipped off to get another drink as well. What a coincidence.
‘Well, look who finally made it!” Robby gives Jack a slap on the shoulder as he settles in, whiskey glass in hand. He gives his friend a nod, glass extended in an invitation. Robby accepts, clinks his bottle against his cup and both the men take a sip. You can’t help but be drawn to Jack’s hands, much like you always were during surgery. There was just something about them — the way his fingers were nice and thick maybe, and you couldn’t help but wonder what exactly they would feel like skimming your body.
You almost let your gaze trail down to his mouth, but you shake your head in a daze as Jack sets down his drink. He still catches you though, the ends of his lips quirked up in an almost smirk. Your heart pounds in your chest as you look down at your hands to avoid any further eye contact, but you can still feel the heat of his gaze on you. It’s dangerously enticing and fuck, are you enticed.
He opens his mouth to say something to you but Dennis plops himself in the spot next to you, interrupting. He’s looking around, beer hugged close to his chest. “I think if I missed one more time, Ellis would have actually killed me.” He says, and you glance over at the pool table where Shen has gracefully slipped into Whitaker's role instead, much to Ellis’ delight.
The conversation takes off again and you can't help but wonder what exactly Jack was going to say to you. He’s wrapped up with Robby and Samira, who has floated her way down to your booth and is looking as angelic as ever. She’s perched on the corner of the table, all long legs and sweet smiles. You watch the way Jack talks to her; smooth, easy and familiar. You’re sure your smile twitches and you give Dennis a tap on the shoulder.
“I think I’m going to get another drink too.” You say, both to Dennis and to no one in particular. You stand and Samira gives you just a bit of a liquored up grin as she helps you adjust your short dress. You thank her with a smile of your own, turning around. There’s hope blooming in your chest at what feels like Jack’s eyes on your back as you walk away, but you're too cowardly to look back and see for yourself.
Trinity is standing at the bar, looking about as dishevelled as you expected. She quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything as you approach.
“Your drink is taking a long time, huh?” You nudge her with your shoulder and she just rolls her eyes. Ignoring her attitude, you rest your elbows on the bar, trying to get a look at where the bartender fucked off to.
“Don’t worry about it,” Trinity is reapplying her lipgloss and attempting to tame her hair, using her phone to assess her reflection. You try to help and she gives you a grateful smile in return. She nods towards the bartender, who is still kind of ignoring you. “I already got one for you.”
“You’re the best,” You’re still smoothing down her hair, giving her a big smile back. “Should we, like, kiss?” You fake going in for a kiss, and she pushes you away with a laugh.
“Please. You wish,” The bartender finally slides two drinks towards Trinity, who hands you one of the glasses. The chill from the glass is definitely welcome against your warm flesh, flushed from the drinks previous. Trinity shoots you a smirk as she grabs your hand to lead you back to the booth. “Besides, don’t you have a silver fox to catch?”
The two of you arrive at the booth and in the short time you’ve been gone, the people seem to have rearranged themselves. Robby and Whitaker have disappeared and Samira has taken your place, McKay beside her. On the other side is still Abbot, nursing his whiskey. Heads turn at your presence and the pair of you are greeting with excited chatter and big smiles from the girls.
It takes you a minute to realize that the only open spot is next to Jack.
Trinity gives you a small push and you claim the seat next to him. Trinity slides in after you and it’s a bit of a tight squeeze, leaving you thigh to thigh with the attending you definitely don’t have an inappropriate workplace crush on. You can feel the heat radiating off him — his arms, his thighs. You swear you feel him stiffen for a second, but the moment is over as quickly as it happened. He smells woody and warm, and it’s got you basically swooning. Is that just the way he smells, or is it cologne, body wash? You resist the weird, perverted urge to take a sniff of his neck and take a sip of your drink instead.
Conversation comes easy for you guys, especially as the drinks continue to flow. People come and go: Ellis, Shen, Dennis — everyone shuffles through, exchanging seats and manoeuvring around each other as easy as they do on the floor of the hospital.
You and Jack though, you don’t move.
Your two stay pressed together, even when Trinity is long gone. Eventually, everyone thins out and spreads across the bar instead, leaving you and Jack alone together. It’s getting hard to ignore the mirth swimming in his eyes, your faces just a little too close together for the conversation you two are having.
You trace what’s left of the condensation from your empty glass with your finger, savouring the feel of the cool water. Is it hot in here? Or is it just you?
“How about I get you another drink?” Jack offers, the timbre of his voice lower than usual. “On me?”
It feels like he’s getting closer, close enough that you can smell the whiskey on his breath. It’s probably inappropriate to want to kiss your boss, right? Especially one almost twice your age? The prospect of the situation makes you almost dizzy with want, especially when he’s looking at you like that. Or maybe that’s just the alcohol rushing to your head.
Yeah, it’s definitely just you.
“Actually, I think I need a smoke.” You manage to utter, like the responsible adult you are. You need to remove yourself from the situation, fast. He retreats from your space slowly, and you immediately feel the absence. It takes everything in you to suppress the urge to lean back into him again, instead giving him a shy smile as you exit the booth. Jack lets you leave wordlessly, and this time you’re certain his eyes are on you as you walk away.
The cool breeze outside is a welcome reprieve from the overwhelming heat inside and you take a moment to let it wash over you. You press your back against the brick of the bar and pull out your pack from your purse and stick a cigarette between your lips, fishing around for your lighter. After some digging, you finally find what you were looking for and you cup your hand around the cigarette, flicking the lighter on until you see the familiar cherry red at the end. Things seem a bit less hazy when you take a deep inhale and exhale slowly, grey smoke curling around the dark sky.
You close your eyes and rest your head against the wall, feeling the tension leave your shoulders. Taking another long drag, you review the night in your head. You’ve always enjoyed flirting with Jack, sure, but Jack also flirts with anything that has a pulse. You never really expected anything to come of it, except maybe something to think about later in the night while you were alone. Lately though, it’s been feeling different. He’s always brushing against you, placing his hand on the small of your back as he squeezes past you. The way he looks at you recently is glimmering with something you can’t exactly place. The way he looked at you when Langdon was trying to charm you.
You lift your hand to take another drag when the cigarette is suddenly plucked from between your fingers. Your eyes flutter open and there stands the subject of your thoughts, Jack Abbot, who has your cigarette between his lips now.
“Whiskey makes Jack a bold boy, eh?” You tease, watching as he takes a drag. It’s unfair how good he makes it look. He gives a small chuckle at your comment but doesn’t reply, letting silence settle between the two of you. Instead, he extends the cigarette towards you and you take it back. Something is painted on his face, like he’s mulling something over, but you don’t ask. You two continue this for a while, just enjoying each other’s company for a moment, taking turns until you finally hit the filter. It’s easy to admire him in the quiet you share. The flex of his biceps, the way he shifts his weight between his prosthetic and his good leg. He’s so broad and handsome, especially when he’s in his tight shirt and cargos. It’s got you wanting to drop to your knees right then and there.
You don’t miss the way he’s looking at you either, though. It’s common knowledge that Jack’s got a staring problem. It makes you flustered at the best of times and wet at the worst, but this stare was different. You can see the want in his eyes as his hazel eyes basically bore into your soul. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that he was giving you bedroom eyes. Every so often his eyes flicker down to your lips instinctively, especially when they’re wrapped around the cigarette the two of you are sharing. You’re sure that you’re probably doing the same.
“So, can I buy you that drink now?” He asks huskily as you put out the smoke, tossing it into the garbage can behind you. Your eyes flick between the door of the bar and your phone; the numbers flashing at you indicate that you’ve been out longer than you’ve anticipated and it was late.
“I was actually kind of thinking of pulling an Irish goodbye. I live pretty close,” You say sheepishly, tucking your phone back into your purse. He almost looks disappointed, and you revel in the feeling. You’re not sure if it’s the drinks you’ve had or the way that he was staring at Langdon like he wanted to strangle him with his bare hands for flirting with you the other day, but the words slip out of your mouth before you can really think it through. “Want to walk me home?”
Your tone is shy but warm, an airy lilt at the end of the invitation. Or at least that’s what you aimed for. Realization spreads across his face, until it’s replaced with a smirk. You know it’s an offer he can’t really deny. Even if he didn’t want to fuck you, Jack Abbot was nothing short of a gentleman. He’d never let you walk home alone so late at night. “Of course.”
“Why thank you, Doctor Abbot.” You give him a smirk of your own as you push off the wall, enjoying the way that he watches you move languidly. He scoffs at your joking use of the professional title you call him at work, tongue darting out to wet his lips. You adjust your dress and you two look at each other for a moment; him staring down at you with that obnoxiously smug look on his face, and you staring up at him half lidded like you don’t know what you’re doing.
“Lead the way, sweetheart.” He gestures with a sweep of his arm, breaking your staring contest. You start off in the direction of your apartment, shooting him a cheeky look over your shoulder as he takes a minute to follow behind you.
“Think you can keep up, old man?”
—
He hangs back, just for a second, to admire the view as you flounce away, your heels clicking against the pavement. He can’t help but appreciate just how good you look, dress hugging your figure in all the right places. It doesn’t help that he caught a glimpse of your panties earlier when you left the booth, and he’s been thinking about taking another peek ever since. He’s so distracted that he barely catches the words you throw at him.
“Watch it, kid.” He warns, starting off after you. The night is just cool enough that he can feel the alcohol flowing hot through his veins as he reaches you, matching your stride. The nickname was just a slip of the tongue, something he calls you when you’ve made the right call when treating a patient or when you’re offering to refill his coffee in the break room. You give him that look that you’ve been giving him all night, the one that’s got him in this mess in the first place. Blinking through your eyelashes, like you want to climb him like a tree. It does make him feel like a bit of an old man in a way, chasing after a girl basically half his age.
But you’re the one that invited him, right?
“I’m not sure what you mean.” You say innocently, another flutter of your eyelashes. He gives a chuckle at that, rolling his eyes. The night is quiet at this hour and the tension is thick between you two as you walk alongside each other. Jack’s got his hands tucked into his pockets, watching as you walk a bit unsteadily and he’s not sure if it’s the drinks you’ve had or the shoes that you were wearing. Before he could ponder on it any longer, your heel skids and you stumble over a small lift in the sidewalk.
He grabs your waist instinctively, catching you before you go down. You’re closer to him now and the scent that he’s become so familiar with fills the air, masked a bit by the perfume you wear, all floral and ambery. The proximity between you two almost makes him stumble as well.
“Careful, sweetheart,” He says, voice low, still affected by just how close you are. “Don’t think you’d like to make a detour back to work before your next shift.” He hauls you upright and you give him another sweet smile. Jack can’t help but give you one back.
“Why would I need to?” You recover much faster from the stumble than he does, smoothing your dress down with the palms of your hands. “You wouldn’t patch me up? I’d be in very capable hands, no?” You tease, smirking. He knows you’re joking but the idea of getting his hands on you, being able to touch you beyond the feather light touches you have shared, makes his heart beat in want.
“Yeah, you think so?” He smirks and you slow to a stop in front of a building that he assumes must be your place. You answer his question with a small nod, suddenly shy. He can see you scanning his face, looking for some kind of answer in it. You press your lips in a thin line and finally speak in a small voice.
“Walk me up?”
He should say no. Any sort of gentleman would leave it here, say good night. Especially one as old as he is.You’re staring at him, not breaking eye contact as you await his response. He should definitely say no.
“Sure.”
Goddamn it.
You give him a smile as you turn, pulling the door to your building and he grabs it, holding it open for you. The climb to your place is quiet, the click of your heels against the stairs punctuating the terrible choice he’s making. But the choice doesn’t feel as terrible as it should when he gets to watch you climb the flights of stairs, getting the flash of your panties that he was desperately wishing for earlier.
You approach your door, fumbling with your keys for a second before he hears the soft click of the lock. He’s got his forearm resting against your doorframe, watching as you slowly pull the door open. Jack catches a glimpse into your apartment for a second before you face him; it’s a small studio, lived in and inviting. It smells like you.
You’re just staring at him for a moment and he’s staring right back. The thought that this is a terrible idea is swirling in his mind somewhere, but the heat pooling in his gut as you look at him seems to be all he can focus on right now. You cock your head and enter your apartment, door still wide open. Jack’s body moves before he can even think about it, one foot after the other, crossing the threshold. Something he can’t take back.
He closes the door behind him with a gentle hand, like any loud noise might snap one of you out of a trance. You’ve got your windows open and you’re bathed in the moonlight, the same way you were outside the bar. That exact vision of you has hijacked his better judgement tonight and landed him in the apartment of a pretty young girl. He tries to push the thought aside.
Jack opens his mouth to speak, maybe even tell you how bad of an idea this is, but you’ve already hooked your fingers in his belt loops, pressing your lips against his before he can get a word out. He can taste your lip gloss and it makes his knees buckle a bit, the words suddenly dying on his tongue. You don’t hold back, all dirty and desperate, slipping your tongue into his mouth. He can feel you sigh and pull him closer, hands resting at his stomach now. Your nails scratch against the skin above his waistband and it makes all his blood rush downwards.
You let out a shaky moan into his mouth and his resolve just breaks. His hands finally move and take what he’s been wanting, cupping your jaw for a minute before moving down, rough, skimming down and pulling you flush against him, hands coming to a rest on the curve of your ass.
It’s intoxicating the way you kiss him, like you just can’t fucking get enough. Your hands are wound in his hair, carting through the grey curls. You pull away all too soon, chest rising and falling quickly in an attempt to catch your breath. It sends a shiver down his spine when he sees the sultry look on your face and you grab his hand and pull him deeper into your apartment.
He lets you lead him and come to a stop at your couch. Jack must be drunker than he thought, because you barely push his chest and he lands on the couch behind him. It’s a sight to see when you drop down to your knees without a word, dress rucking up at your waist. He can’t help the moan that slips out from between his lips as you look up at him, the same way you do at work. Waiting for him to tell you what to do. His legs part involuntarily and you slip yourself between them.
“Fuck, baby,” He can’t help but take in the moment, cupping your cheek as you lean into his touch. “ You want to suck my cock that fucking bad, huh?”
You nod —eagerly, he can’t help but note— and he grabs a fistful of your hair loosely. He gives you a small nod, giving you permission to go ahead. Biting your lip, you trace a soft finger over the bulge in his pants and he can’t help but shiver. You take your time unzipping his pants and pulling him out, hand wrapped around the hard length of him. It’s fucking delicious watching you like this, pumping his cock slow, a wicked grin on your face.
You press a kiss to his tip and his hips stutter at the sensation and then you’re pressing the flat of your tongue against him, licking him from root to head. He lets out a loud groan, grip on your hair tightening ever so slightly. He takes in the scene in front of him, you on your knees just for him. It feels perverted in a way, like he’s way too old to be this undone, especially for a woman so many years his junior. But then you place him between your soft lips, lip gloss all smeared from the sloppy kisses you two had shared earlier and he can’t really bring himself to care. Your hands skim down the sides of his bare legs, not even pausing when you feel the heat of skin turn into cool metal on one side.
Your mouth is so warm and wet and it’s got him wondering what your pussy will feel like if your mouth already feels this good. Honestly, he can’t remember the last time someone has had him like this. Your hand is soft where it grips him at his base, spit dripping onto your knuckles and you take him deeper and deeper, until he almost hits the back of your throat.
“Such a good girl for me.” He drawls, voice shaking as you swallow around him. You’ve settled into a rhythm now and Jack is happy to hold you by the hair and let you take control. It feels so fucking good that he can’t help but thrust into your mouth, a crooked grin forming when you gag and drool for him. He can't help but praise you. “You look so pretty on your knees, drooling all over your tits like that.”
That earns him a moan from you and he can feel the vibration of it around his cock. He thinks it can’t get any better than this, and then you look up into his eyes, lips still wrapped around him and a guttural moan rips its way from his chest. This seems to invigorate you as you begin to suck harder, cheeks hollowed as your other hand sneaks its way up to his balls, rolling them in your palm. It’s sloppy and wet and loud —the only sounds in your apartment are the loud, filthy way you’re taking him deep into your throat, and Jack's soft pants and utters of your name. His brows are burrowed in pleasure and it takes all of his focus to not cum in your mouth. He’s basically dripping from your spit, wet all the way down to his balls.
He pulls you up by your hair, rough. You let out a small whimper, like you’re real sad that he’s not letting you suck his dick like you were trying to suck his soul out of it. His lips are parted and his pupils are blown with lust, the hazel of his eyes barely visible around the black. His voice is husky when he speaks next.
“Get on the bed, sweetheart.” The apartment is small, and the bed is just behind him. You’re still wearing your heels and the sound of them reverberates in the cramped space. You don’t bother to pull your dress down this time and he soaks it all in as he pulls off his shirt, trying his best to kick off his boots and pants that have pooled around his ankles at the same time.
He catches up to you in no time and he knows you’re teasing him, walking all slow and sexy like that. Then he decides you’re teasing just a bit too much and he grabs you by the waist and tosses you onto the bed. You land with a soft bounce on the mattress and he crawls on right after you, pulling you towards him.
He’s nosing at your pussy through your panties, the dampness forming for him to see. You smell so fucking good that it makes him throb and he can’t help but wrap a fist around himself and pump loosely a few times.
“You’re soaked for me,” He says gruffly and you mewl, desperate for him to touch you more. “Should I have a taste?”
Now he’s running his fingertips over your covered slit, and your hips buck. Jack can feel the heat of you just under the thin cloth, radiating through the lace and he briefly wonders if you’ll let him keep them after.
“Yes…” You breathe, and he takes a peek at you from between your legs. You look absolutely wrecked, propped up on your forearms, staring down at him through half lidded eyes.
“Why don’t you ask me nicely?” He coos and you groan, head tipping back. He loves having you like this, nice and pliant under his hands. You’re better than he imagined when he was alone, touching himself to the thought of you. “Tell me how bad you want it.”
“Please, Jack,” Your voice cracks as you plead, hips rolling, craving some kind, any kind of friction. “I want it so fucking bad, please…”
“You always listen so well to me, sweetheart. So obedient.” Jack can’t deny you when you whine for him all breathy like that, so he pulls your panties to the side and does exactly what he said he would do, taking a taste. He laps at your pussy like a man starved, your wetness smearing all over his chin, gathering in his stubble.
He feels your hands grip his hair as you pull him in deeper, wordlessly asking for more. Obliging, he dips his tongue into your cunt and you tighten around the muscle, making Jack’s eyes roll back into his head. He’s sure he’s moaning just as much as you are, one hand on your hip, the other one stroking his cock roughly.
Once he’s had his fill of fucking you with his tongue he lets his fingers take over, sliding two of them into your sopping entrance. Your hips buck again at the intrusion and he lets out a deep growl. “You taste so good, baby —could eat you all fucking night. You like having my fingers buried deep in your cunt?”
The whiskey has worn off by now but he’s drunk with lust, his head spinning as he ducks his head back down, sucking your clit softly. He can feel you fluttering around his fingers, getting tighter as he fucks you rough. He’s caught you staring at them more than once and your little comment about his hands earlier hadn’t gone unnoticed by him.
He can tell you’re close by the way you’re moaning and the way you’re gripping his fingers; he can barely pull them out. The pace he sets is brutal and then you’re coming on his hand and face before he even realizes. The taste of your cum is heady and he’s licking it all up like it’s his last meal.
You’re catching your breath and he flips you over without a word, ass up for him. His hands are rough and calloused on your soft skin, pulling down the top of your dress to expose your breasts. You both moan as he tweaks a nipple between his fingers, before palming your ass and yanking your soaking panties down your thighs.
“Fuck…” Jack curses. He’s rutting against you, coating his cock with your cum, moving infuriatingly slow. You’re pushing against him, pleas falling from your lips as he places a hand on your bare back, pushing you deeper into the mattress. Jack has half a mind to hope that your apartment walls aren’t as thin as he thinks they are. He’s busy trying to sear this moment into his memories to care all that much about it though; you’re under him, moaning his name, begging for him. “Still think I’m an old man? That I can’t keep up?”
He’s throwing your words back at you, the frantic shakes of your head as you rut back into him going straight to his ego and his dick. Jack can't resist the sight any longer as he drags himself up and down your entrance, tapping on your clit a few times and loving the way you jump at the sensation. He’s barely got the tip in when you start moaning for him again, breathy and desperate. Ignoring your begging for him to start moving faster, he pushes in nice and slow instead, mesmerized by the way your pussy just sucks him in.
Gripping fabric of your dress that has bunched up around your waist, he sinks in deeper until he’s fully bottomed out. He stays still for a moment, letting you adjust to his size and schooling his breathing so he doesn’t cum embarrassingly fast. You’re so tight and he can’t help but think you’re one hundred percent better than what he imagined and one thousand percent better than his fist that he fucks into when he thinks of you. Sharp pain interrupts his thoughts, your nails scratching at his thighs as you try to get him to finally move.
“Feels like you’re made for me, sweetheart. So fucking tight for me.” Thoughts are spilling out now, pleasure taking over and loosening his filter. As much as he wants to savour this, savour you, he’s on the fringes of his self control. You’re gripping his cock in a way that makes his head spin and your small pants have him feeling downright sinful. He tries to start slow, he really does, but he just can’t resist. He’s been thinking about having you for so long, the way you would look under him, and now that he has you, he’s not letting you think about anyone else again. Jack wants you to think about him every time you crawl into bed without him.
He fucks you in earnest, the wet slap of skin on skin just spurring him on. He buries a fist in your hair again, yanking your head up so you’re on all fours for him, back curved. The frame of your bed creaks quickly in time with his thrusts, the same way his thrusts are punching small gasps out of you each time. He loves listening to the noises you make and he pulls your hips up higher, balls slapping your clit as he buries himself deeper. Your moans are getting louder, walls squeezing him tight and he pulls out quickly before his vision goes white.
“Jack, please!” He can tell you’re getting tired of the way he’s been teasing you all night, thinking that he just might edge you all night. But really, he just wants to see what your face looks like when you cum around his cock. He flips you over easily, biceps flexing. Before you can even muster out a squeal he’s back inside you, filling you up to the hilt. Your lips part and your eyes roll back into your head, and he can’t help but smirk as he begins to move once more.
This time the pace he sets is punishing, determined to make you cum before even thinking about chasing his own high. Jack can tell by the way that you’re squeezing him like you don’t want to let him go that it won’t be long. He allows his eyes to sweep over your body appreciatively, your thighs, your stomach, the way your breasts bounce, how absolutely blissed out your face looks.
It’s hard to resist the temptation to splay a hand just below your neck, gauge your reaction, so he doesn’t. His hand is so large against the base of your throat and the way your eyes flutter in pleasure makes his dick twitch. He lets it rest there for a moment, then dips two fingers between your lips, tongue swirling around the tips of them like it was around his dick just a little while ago.
Leaving a wet trail down your chest, he makes his way down to your clit, drawing tight circles around with rough fingertips. He lets out a growl at the noise you make, deep and primal. He glances down, noticing the cream gathering around the base of his cock, his happy trail covered in your slick. His legs shake at the sight, his climax suddenly a lot closer than he anticipated. He can guess that yours is too, judging from the way your cunt is fluttering around him and that you’ve seemed to stop caring who can hear just how good he’s making you feel.
“You gonna cum on my cock, baby?” You’re nodding loosely, like you barely even registered the question. He loves seeing such a capable girl come apart in his hands like this. “Yeah? Cum for me then.”
And you do, as he should have expected, since you always do what he tells you to.
Your cunt is milking his orgasm out of him, and he can feel his hips stutter. He barely squeezes out the words, asking you where he should finish, half aware that he’s not wearing a condom. You look up with shiny wet eyes, fingers tangling in the curls at the base of his neck and he nearly cums at the sight.
“I want you to fill me up.” You say, and yeah, that makes him want to cum even more. A few more messy thrusts and he gives a low groan, spilling deep inside you. He’s hutched over your form, body shaking in pleasure, loving the heat that’s radiating from your body. After a few moments the haze of sex dissipates and you two are left chest to chest, your nipples brushing his chest with every breath.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, sweetheart.”
—
Jack cleans you up, all nice and sweet, with a warm rag from your bathroom. The action is tender, especially compared to the way he just wrecked you. It makes you feel taken care of, which is not something you would admit aloud to him for now. You’re a little confused about the position that this puts you in with your attending. The only thing you can really make sense of is that the entire situation has gotten about a million times more complicated than it was eight hours ago.
But when Jack looks at you, eyes soft in a way you’ve never seen before when you offer to help him remove his prosthetic, you decide that you don’t really care. You’d give anything to have him look at you that way again.
And now he’s here in your bed, freckled back to you and breathing even. He’d fallen asleep soon after you asked him to stay the night, which you thought was sweet. Old man was up way past his bedtime.
Your phone vibrates on your nightstand and you flip it over, squinting at the bright light. You’d pretty much ignored it when you left the bar with Jack, pretty one track minded. You’d miss a flurry of text messages from everyone else: Garcia asking if she could bum a smoke, Samira asking if you left and then following up asking you to let her know you got home safe, Robby wondering if you had seen Abbot anywhere, Dennis just sending you a blurry picture of the bar floor, which you assumed was a drunken accident.
Trinity has sent you the most recent text, sitting atop of your stack of notifications.
trinity: thank u for winning me the betting pool. will buy u a drink ;)
you agree to open your relationship after your boyfriend kept begging. at first he's on the apps getting absolutely zero matches, but then he gets a date. And the first time you go out with your friends with the full intention to find someone, you meet jack abbot. and he is hell bent on making sure you do not forget him.
genre: jack abbot x tattoo artist!reader, strangers to friends to lovers, best friend trinity, smut 18+ nsfw, lots of dialogue. sorry, i got carried away lmao
word count: 5500
(a/n: in writing this, i came to the unsurprising revelation that this character will have me in a chokehold for a while. and i'm okay with that. he's mine. that's mine. )
part 1
You had convinced yourself the guest room was a real contingency and not just a lie you’d been telling yourself to justify staying in this bed for as long as you had. Jack’s voice cut through the dark. "When did you stop?"
You turned your head, the friction of the pillow loud in the quiet. He wasn’t looking at you, he was staring at the ceiling. "Stop what?"
"Choosing things for yourself."
You tried to find an answer, but your throat was dry, your mind a terrifying blank.
You had chosen Derek. It felt like a single, monumental decision at the time, but you realized now it was actually a thousand tiny surrenders. Incrementally, year by year, you had rearranged the furniture of your entire life to fit around the shape of him.
"I don't know," you said finally.
Eventually, you did go. You waited until his breathing evened out into sound of deep sleep. You lay there long enough to know that if you didn't move in this exact heartbeat, you’d be anchored there forever.
You gathered yourself, slipping out from under the covers and retreating to the guest room. The bed was cold. You lay there, staring at an unfamiliar ceiling, while his question sat open in the center of your chest.
When sleep finally pulled you under, you didn't dream about Derek.
...
It was Friday morning, two days after you’d got up and left Jack’s place early in the morning without a goodbye when he texted.
Jack: Hope your ceiling situation is getting sorted.
He was giving you an out, a way to be normal about it all. You stared at the blue bubble for a long time, the memory of his question still echoing in the back of your mind.
You: Ceiling is getting sorted. Thank you again.
His response came while you were in the middle of setting up for your first client of the day.
Jack: For you? Anytime.
An open invitation, or you guess, a door to him? You felt a traitorous curve of your lips before you could stop it.
"Stop smiling at your phone." Bella said. She was across the room, snapping on a pair of nitrile gloves.
"I'm not!" you said, quickly locking the screen and sliding the phone into your pocket.
…
Just when you thought you’d finally managed to stop the constant loop of him in your head, the texts would come in.
They were always casual, aggressively so, but they still did something to you. They made a warm feeling stir in your belly.
Jack: How are you doing?
"Fine." you typed back. Then, you paused. "Fine" felt dishonest, and for some reason, he was the last person you wanted to be dishonest with.
You: Better than fine. How are you?
Jack: Just got off. Long night. Good coffee though. Small victories.
You: Very small.
Jack: The smallest. Get some sleep tonight.
It felt mundane. The assumption that you probably hadn't been sleeping. Which you hadn't.
You: you too.
Jack: Already on it.
…
Then, a photo. A medium sized dog of indeterminate breed standing outside the hospital entrance, wearing a bright yellow raincoat.
You laughed out loud in your empty apartment.
You: Why is he dressed like that.
Jack: It's raining!
You: It is not raining enough for that.
Jack: Tell that to his owner.
…
This one almost did you in. A voice note, which surprised you. You stood outside in the afternoon sun with your phone pressed to your ear, listening to his voice.
"I'm outside a bookshop. There's a display in the window. Botanical illustration, old prints, the kind with the Latin names at the bottom. It's on the block past the coffee place. Thought you should know it exists."
You listened to it three more times before replying.
…
It was late Friday night. You were still up, not for any particular reason, just the insomnia of a brain that wouldn't stop moving, when your phone buzzed.
Jack: Are you awake?
You: yep. are you working?
Jack: I am. Thinking about food though. There's a place near my apartment that does breakfast at midnight. Eggs and everything. I've been going for years.
You looked at the text, the intimacy of the routine bleeding through the screen.
You: That's either the best or worst thing I've ever heard.
Jack: Best. Definitely best. You'd like it.
You: I do appreciate eggs at midnight.
Jack: I knew it. Then, sometime?
You: Sometime.
Jack: Good. Go to sleep.
…
The last one before everything changed came on a Thursday evening. It was ordinary in every way except that it wasn't. You were locking up the shop, keys in hand, when the phone buzzed.
Jack: I know you said that it was one night, but I would be upset with myself if I didn’t say this once. I'd like to keep seeing you. In whatever way you will have me. I just wanted to say it once. Just so you know.
You just stood there. Keys in hand. Mouth agape.
…
Derek came back from Portland all smiles. He hugged you at the door, and the first thing you noticed was the scent. An unfamiliar floral of someone else’s laundry detergent clinging to his jacket.
Over dinner, he talked about Sienna. He did it with an enthusiasm that was trying very hard to be considerate of your feelings, but his carefulness mostly just confirmed the obvious. His heart hadn't made the return flight. It was still somewhere in Portland, tucked away in a coffee shop or a rainy park with a girl you had never met.
For some reason, you did not tell him about Jack.
You were allowed to.
That was the whole point of the arrangement, the freedom you had both negotiated to keep the edges of your relationship from fraying into resentment. There was no rule against telling him. In fact, there was an implicit expectation of honesty. A pact that neither of you would have to carry the weight of a secret.
And yet, you still didn't tell him.
The words stayed locked in your throat, not because you were afraid of his reaction, but because telling him would make Jack part of the arrangement. It would categorize what was happening between you and the doctor, making it something manageable and defined. And for some reason, you weren't ready to let Derek touch whatever it was that was growing in those texts and shared photos.
…
Jack asked you to lunch a week later.
Jack: I have a two hour window free before my shift. Lunch? There's a place near your shop I've been told has good noodles.
Jack was already there when you arrived, hair tousled and he had a little tiredness settling around his eyes.
"You look tired." you said, sitting down across from him.
"I am. But feeling better now for some reason." he said smiling, his voice seemed to settle right under your skin.
He slid a menu across the table toward you. "How many times have you been here?" you asked.
He picked up his own menu, his eyes meeting yours. "A lot. I'm a creature of habit when I find something worth repeating."
A thrill went through your spine at the way he said it. You were starting to understand that with Jack, almost nothing was a throwaway line.
The pho arrived, steaming and fragrant. It was extraordinary, and when you told him so, he looked quietly pleased, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You ate for a while in a comfortable quiet that you still hadn't fully gotten used to. The fact that silence with him didn't require anything from you.
"Can I ask you something?"
He looked up. "Anything."
"The army." You kept your voice even, curious rather than probing. "How long?"
"Eight years." He set his chopsticks down. "Enlisted at twenty two. Medic."
"What made you stay in medicine after?"
"I didn't know how not to," he said finally. He looked down at his hands. Those large, careful hands, then back at you. "It wasn't a career decision, exactly. It was just the thing that made sense to do." He paused searching your face. "You understand that."
"Yeah," you said quietly. "I do."
"When did you know?" he asked. "That it was going to be tattoo work."
"Sixteen," you said, a small smile forming. "I watched an artist work at a shop near my mom's house. Just through the window, I never went in. I went back every day for two weeks." You could almost feel the cold glass against your forehead. "She finally came out and said, 'Are you going to come in or just haunt the place?'"
Jack laughed "And?"
"I went in. I watched her work for three hours. She let me try a practice stroke on a piece of fake skin and I was terrible at it." You turned your chopsticks over in your hand, lost in the memory. "I knew right then that I was going to do it until I wasn't terrible at it."
"How long until you weren't terrible?"
"Two years of being pretty bad. One year of being okay. Then something clicked." The afternoon light moved across the table between you. "Do you miss it?" you asked. "The army."
He turned his water glass once on the table. "Parts of it. The clarity of it, sometimes. Knowing exactly what the job was. The people, too."
"The SWAT shifts.." you said. "What’s that about?"
He looked at you, and his expression shifted, hardened slightly. "The ER is..it's good work. Important work. But you're always waiting for the thing to come to you." He considered his words. "The other work, you go to it. There's a difference in how that feels."
"You like going toward things." you said.
His eyes held yours across the table, dark and certain. "Yes."
…
Outside, the afternoon was shifting into evening. His shift would be starting soon.
"Same time next week?" he said.
This was supposed to be a one time thing. You were not supposed to be in Jack Abbot’s orbit anymore. You were supposed to be safe in your own lane, tending to your own life. But as you looked at him, you found it very hard to come up with a single reason why you shouldn’t.
And you could think of more than one reason why you should. The top one, the one that caused your heart to swell when you looked at him, was simply because you wanted to.
"Yeah." you said, the word feeling like a small, reckless surrender. "Okay."
He nodded once, his smile softening the hard lines of his face. "I'll find somewhere new."
…
Trinity showed up at your apartment with a bag of groceries and the clear intention of spending her day off horizontally on your couch with bad television and zero obligations. You took one look at her and knew that you were going to tell her.
You waited until she was settled. Feet up, blanket appropriated. From the kitchen, you started the coffee. You kept your back to her, it felt safer that way. "I have to tell you something."
"Okay.." Trinity said. Her voice had shifted into that careful, neutral tone of someone who had learned in residency to assess a situation before reacting to it.
"I met someone."
"Define met."
"At the bar. The night we went to Dillon’s." You heard the rustle of the blanket as she sat up. "After you left."
"Y/N. That was six weeks ago."
"I know."
"You've known something for six weeks and you're telling me now?"
You poured the coffee into two mugs. Your hands were steady, which surprised you. "It wasn't..I didn't know what it was. I still don’t entirely know what it is."
You brought the coffee into the living room and sat on the opposite end of the couch. Trinity had pushed the blanket off, her feet were flat on the floor, fully turned towards you. "Tell me." she said.
Trinity listened. She was very good at listening when she wanted to. When you finished, the silence in the room stretched out. Then Trinity asked, "What's his name?"
"Jack." you said. "Jack Abbot."
Trinity went completely still. "ER attending?"
You looked at her, something curious moving through your chest. "How did you.."
"Y/N." Trinity set her coffee down very carefully on the coaster. "Jack Abbot is an attending at my hospital."
"He’s..what?"
"PTMC. He’s been there for years." She stopped. She pressed her hand briefly over her mouth and looked at you with disbelief, hilarity, and something almost reverent. "How bad is it?" she asked. It wasn't really a question.
"I drew his hands." you said. "From memory. So do with that what you will."
Trinity closed her eyes briefly. "And Derek?"
"Derek is in love with someone in Portland," you said. "He doesn’t know it yet. Or he does, and he’s waiting for me to..I don’t know. Release him." You looked at your hands. "It’s what we’ve been doing for a long time, I think. Waiting for the other one to say it first."
Trinity remained quiet, letting you find the rest of it.
You turned the mug in your hands, feeling the lingering warmth of the ceramic. "I think I’m the one who has to. I think I’ve been ready for longer than I want to admit, and I just didn’t have a reason to know it."
"And now you have one."
…
Derek came home in a mood you didn't recognize at first.
He came through the door, put his keys down, and stood in the entryway for a moment longer than necessary. It made you look up from the couch. "You okay?" you asked.
"Yeah." He came in, but he didn't sit next to you. He sat across from you at the kitchen table. "Sienna, uh.." He stopped, rubbing the back of his neck. "She met someone. Someone in Portland. So she ended it, with me."
"I'm sorry." You meant it. You were not a person who wanted Derek to hurt, even now, even with everything shifting beneath your feet.
He nodded, eyes fixed on the grain of the wood. "It's fine. It was.." he exhaled, a tired sound. "I don't know. It’s fine."
You’d ordered takeout earlier, optimistically, and the containers sat on the counter. You looked at Derek and he looked lost. Like someone who had reached for something and come back empty handed, unsure of what to do with his hands now.
The old version of you would have moved to fix it. You would have smoothed it over, sat beside him, and made it easier without being asked.
But you stayed where you were. "Derek."
He looked up.
"I need to tell you something."
A wariness arrived in his expression.
"I met someone," you said. "A while ago. Before Portland, before any of it got serious for you." You kept your voice even. "It started as one night. That’s all it was supposed to be. And then it just.." you paused, finding the honest word. "It grew. Into something I wasn't expecting. Something I realized I actually wanted."
Derek was very still. "Who?"
"That doesn't matter right now."
"Who." His voice was harder this time, an edge of demand bleeding through.
"His name is Jack. He’s a doctor. I met him at a bar." You held his gaze. "He's a good man. He makes me feel like someone worth paying attention to."
"That’s what this is supposed to be." Derek’s voice snapped, tight and frustrated. "It’s casual. It’s just dating, it’s just.." he stopped, shaking his head. "We were always going to come back to each other. That was always the deal."
You looked at him, the word echoing in the small kitchen. "What deal?" you asked quietly.
"That’s..you know what I mean. That’s what this was. We try things, we come back. That’s how it works."
"Derek." You kept your voice gentle. This wasn't about winning. "That wasn't a deal we made. That was an assumption you had."
"We’ve been together for ten years."
"I know how long we’ve been together."
"So you can't just.." he gestured, a frustrated, sweeping movement. "You can't just check out because you met someone at a bar."
"I'm not checking out because I met someone at a bar," you said. "I'm checking out because I spent ten years not knowing what I was missing, and then I found out. And what I'm missing isn't Jack specifically." You couldn’t help but laugh a little. "It’s being chosen. It’s someone who notices me. It’s feeling like I matter in my own relationship.”
Derek looked like he’d been slapped. "That’s not fair," he said. "I love you."
"I know you do," you said. "I love you too. But love isn't.." you started again. "You suggested this because you wanted the freedom to look around while keeping everything exactly the same at home. And I said yes because I always say yes. But I looked around, too. And what I found was a relationship that looks completely different from what we have. And I think I've wanted that for a long time."
Derek was quiet for a while. You let the silence take up the space it needed. "When did it go wrong?" he asked finally.
The honest answer was a thousand small moments where you had made yourself smaller to fit a shape that no longer fit either of you.
"I think it was over the moment you suggested this," you said gently. "Because that was the moment it became clear we were wanting completely different things."
His jaw worked. His eyes were bright, holding himself together like a man who intended to fall apart later, in private. "So that’s it?" he said.
"I think so." you said.
You reached across the table and put your hand over his. He looked at it for a moment, then turned his over and held yours, briefly. Ten years, the good parts and the long middle and the quiet end, closing softly in a kitchen on a Tuesday night.
…
Trinity: I need you to bring me my sweater. It’s an emergency. The grey one. From your apartment.
You: Why is your sweater at my apartment???
Trinity: Y/N it’s an emergency. I'm freezing.
You looked around your apartment. You were in the middle of doing nothing in particular, which was a feeling you were still getting used to. The wide open quiet of an evening that belonged entirely to you. Just you and whatever you wanted to do with it.
You found the sweater draped over your desk chair. Grey, soft, unmistakably Trinity’s. She left things at your place all the time like breadcrumbs, a trail of her belongings scattered across your life.
You: fineeee I’ll drop it off.
At the ER, you saw her turn around the corridor and spot you. She was in her usual scrubs, stethoscope around her neck, looking not even remotely cold.
"You texted me for a sweater and it feels eighty degrees in here."
"I run cold!"
A sound came from down the corridor. A laugh that you were starting to know well. A laugh you loved in fact.
You turned slowly, and there he was. Thirty feet away, in scrubs, chart in hand, laughing at something the woman beside him had said. He turned, his eyes found you, and he went still. You could see the math happening in his eyes as he walked over.
His voice was even, but his eyes were warm and confused. "How do you.." He looked at Trinity.
Trinity extended her hand. "I hear we have a person in common. Y/N’s best friend in the entire world, nice to meet you."
Jack looked at her. "Santos, I know who you are."
"She didn't know." Trinity said. "Until recently that you worked here. With me."
Jack looked at you. And you just tried to look as normal as you could. You could feel the heat crawling up your neck. "Small world," he said softly.
"Apparently." you managed.
Trinity finally took the sweater from you hands. "You're such a good friend!” Then she made it a point to speak directly to Jack. “We're taking Y/N out tonight. She broke up with her boyfriend."
You watched Jack’s face. He didn’t say anything at first. But the smile that broke across his face was quietly, deeply pleased. He absolutely could not hide it. "Have fun." he said.
Trinity was already taking your arm, steering you toward the exit. "Goodnight, Dr. Abbot!" she called.
You looked back once. He was still standing there, still smiling, and when he caught you looking, he didn't look away. You let Trinity pull you through the doors. "You are the worst person I know."
"I'm the best person you know," she said. "Also, you're welcome."
…
Jack, true to his word, had let you be the one to come to him. He’d been patient this whole time while your world shifted.
Finally, you decided you’d had enough of waiting, so you called him.
"Hi," you said. "Are you home?"
"Just got in. You okay?"
"Yes." You sat on your couch in your apartment. Fiddling with the loose fibers in the seats. "I want to see you.”
"When?" he said.
"This week. Whenever you’re free. I don’t.." You paused, laughing slightly at the nerves you hadn’t expected. "I’m not usually like this."
"Like what?"
"Nervous."
"You're nervous?" he said. There was something in his voice, a smile that wasn't laughing at you, but with you. "I find that extremely reassuring."
"You’re nervous too?"
"I’ve been nervous since the day I met you." he said.
You couldn’t help but smile. Biting your bottom lip between your teeth. "Friday?" you said. "Dinner. Somewhere I pick this time. And Jack?"
"Yeah?"
"This isn't a one night thing."
"No." he said quietly. "It isn’t."
…
Dinner was the most fun you'd had in a long time and after, Jack walked you to your car. He reached up and tucked a piece of hair back from your face. "I'd like to take you out again." he said. "As many times as you’ll let me."
"That could be a lot of times." you said.
"Good." His hand dropped to your jaw, warm. "I told you. I’m thorough.”
…
The door hadn't even fully latched before Jack had you pinned against it. The air in his apartment was cool, but his body was a furnace against yours. There was only the sound of your combined breathing and the frantic slide of hands over skin.
He guided you to the sofa, his mouth never leaving yours, tasting like the red wine from dinner and the promise he’d been making you with his eyes all night. He pushed you back onto the cushions and dropped to his knees, parting your legs with a force that made your heart hammer against your ribs.
"I’ve been thinking about this all night." he said, his voice thick and rough.
He didn't waste time. He stripped you and when he saw you, he let out a sound of approval. He leaned in, his hot breath ghosting over your sensitive skin. "Your pussy is so wet, sweetheart. So beautiful."
Then he moved in, eating you like a man starved. He used his tongue with a relentless, lapping intensity, broad strokes followed by sharp, flicking pressure that had you crying out and arching your back off the sofa. He didn't stop when you shook. He gripped your thighs tighter, drinking you in until you shattered against his mouth.
You were still gasping, your senses blurred, when he pulled you to your feet. He didn't lead you to the bedroom. He didn't want the comfort of a mattress, he wanted you right here.
"Lean over.” You obeyed, gripping the back of the sofa, your knuckles white. You heard the sharp sound of his zipper, and then the heat of him was pressing against your opening.
He drove into you in one steady, uncompromising motion. He filled you so completely it took your breath away. "You are mine." he said into your ear, his hands finding your hips to anchor you.
He began to fuck you slowly. It was deep and deliberate, each thrust a claim. He reached around to find where you were most sensitive, his fingers working in tandem with the slide of his cock, pushing you toward a second, even more delicious peak. You watched your own reflection in the darkened window, seeing the way he moved behind you, until the world narrowed down to just the friction and the heat.
…
Two hours later, the adrenaline had faded into a delicious ache. You woke up in the master suite and followed the sound of hissing water to the bathroom. Jack was sitting in the shower, his built in chair positioned under the spray.
He didn't say a word, just reached out, his hand wrapping around your waist to pull you toward him. Joining him under the warmth.
Being seated gave him a different vantage point, his eyes level with your chest, dark and appreciative. He pulled you into the space between his knees, his hands sliding up your thighs.
He guided you to straddle his lap, your knees resting on the edges of the chair. As you lowered yourself, he reached down to guide his cock into you in one deep, unhurried slide.
"You feel even better like this," he moaned, his fingers digging into your hips.
He used his arms to pull you down onto him while thrusting upward, a dual pressure that made every nerve ending scream. The chair was solid beneath you, providing a grounded leverage that let him fuck you without worry.
The water sluiced over both of you, masking your gasps as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his movements becoming faster and more urgent until he filled you completely.
…
In the morning, Jack was at the stove, shirtless, the muscles of his back working as he moved. You were wrapped in one of his heavy button downs, sitting at the kitchen island.
He set a plate of eggs in front of you, but he didn't pick up his own fork. Instead, he watched you take a bite, his gaze dropping to your bare legs.
"Jack, eat your breakfast," you murmured, though your voice lacked any real conviction.
He pushed you to lay flat against the island and parted the hem of the shirt.
The cold air hit you for only a second before his mouth replaced it.
Right there in the morning light, with the coffee steaming and the sun rising, he went down on you again.
He was relentless, his tongue finding every sensitive spot with the ease of a man who intended to spend the rest of his life learning exactly how to make you come.
You gripped the marble edge of the counter, your breakfast forgotten, as he claimed you for the third time.
…
one year later
You had tattooed a lot of things on a lot of people.
You had never once been nervous doing it, until now.
"You're holding my hand very tightly for someone who is about to put a needle in it." Jack said.
"I'm positioning you." You looked up at him. He was watching you with those eyes, completely unbothered, which was both reassuring and deeply annoying. "You're not nervous at all?"
"No."
"This is permanent, Jack."
"I know what a tattoo is, Y/N."
"I just want to make sure you've.."
"Hey." His free hand came up and tilted your chin gently. "I know what I want."
You looked at him for a moment. Then you looked back down at his hand in yours, his left hand, ring finger, the spot you'd cleaned and prepped and stenciled with a single clean letter. Your initial. Small and precise and permanent.
He didn't flinch. You hadn't expected him to, this was a man who had been through things that made a tattoo needle a deeply unremarkable experience, but still.
Something in your chest did the warm aching thing it did sometimes when Jack was being exactly himself.
You finished in two minutes. Clean lines, your steadiest work.
You wrapped it. Told him the aftercare instructions he didn't need because he was a doctor and knew perfectly well how wounds healed, but you told him anyway because it was your job and also because you needed something to do with your mouth that wasn't saying something embarrassing.
When you finished your own and wrapped it, you looked at your finger. His initial. Small and clean and permanent.
He brought your hand up and pressed his mouth to your knuckles, just above the fresh ink, careful not to touch it.
…
Trinity and Dennis came over a few weeks later.
This had become a thing, somehow, over the past few months. A loose gathering at your apartment that involved whatever food Dennis decided to bring, which was always something excellent.
"These are incredible," Trinity said, around a dumpling. "Where did you get these."
"A place." Dennis said, a man who protected his sources.
"That's not an answer."
"That's the only answer you're getting."
You smiled at your drafting table. Jack appeared from the kitchen with two mugs and set one beside you.
When you reached for it, Trinity stopped and stared at your hand wrapped around the mug. "What is on your finger."
"Nothing," you said.
Trinity sat up fully pointing at your left hand "Is that a J?"
Dennis looked up. "Let me see."
Jack came out of the kitchen. Dennis looked at him. Looked at his left hand and then at yours.
"Is that.." Trinity started.
"Those are.." Dennis said.
"Y/N! Are you married to Jack Abbot?" Trinity grabbed your hand now, fully staring down at it.
You looked at your finger. The small clean J sitting there.
You looked at Jack and the smile that moved across his face was warm and held a mix of pride and mischief and you felt the matching one on your own face bloom and made no effort at all to stop it.
synopsisa patient tells you older is always better, Jack wants to know if you can confirm that.
warningsSMUT. MDNI. Oral (f and m receiving) fingering, dirty talk, slight dom Jack, penetration, p in v. language
authornotei dont even think god will take me after this one. this aint proofread
“So you think older is better?”
“Like anything good,” said Lu as you cleaned out her leg, pulling the light over to find the grit. “Like cheese... wine... sex.”
Your lips quipped up and you nodded. You didn't know how you started talking about this- you'd only asked what she was doing and how she fell. Date with an older guy, she said, was walking back from his when I fell. It must have been more of a tumble, roll and fall from the state of her leg that had got her through the waiting room and triage.
The next thing you knew she was highlighting how good sex was with an older man.
“It's like they have the experience and the confidence and they care more about getting you off than they do themselves,” she said.
“How many dates have you been on with the guy?” you asked, only trying to keep conversation while you plucked out the gravel. Trying to distract yourself from thinking about sex and older.
“Oh, this was the first one,” said Lu, laid back on the bed with a dreamy look in her eyes. “We've been talking for a few months on this app for older guys to meet women who are younger and interested. We met tonight and I had the best sex ever.”
The pling of gravel on the metal tray echoed out.
“You got a boyfriend?” she asked you.
You were silent, acting as if you were focused on the gravel. “I don't.”
Lu smirked at your silence. “But you got somebody?”
To that you had nothing to say. Maybe you did have somebody- or at least someone came to mind. Grey hair, stubbled chin and dark eyes in the shape of a doctor.
“Oh you got somebody,” said Lu.
You managed two more pieces of gravel and glass before she opened her mouth to speak again, to probably ask you another question but at the same time the door opened, bringing with it a small snap of the bustling sounds of the Pitt at night and the faint air of woodland and grease.
“How we doing in here?”
Jack walked in like he was un-aware to how you'd thought about him and then he came like you'd conjured him up. His grey hair, short stubble at the chin that he quickly rubbed at and dark eyes evaluating.
You betrayed yourself in looking to Lu.
“Is this him?” she asked, eyes lighting up.
Jack looked between the two of you. “Talking about me again, doc?” Jack asked.
You were focused on the task at hand but you didn't need to look to find him at your side, diligently watching you work.
“All good things,” said Lu.
He huffed out a little smile, hands held behind his back. His eyes bore into your head. “I'm Doctor Jack Abbott, I see you're in good hands here. How're her bloods?”
“Bloods are all clear though blood pressure is a bit high, we wanna keep an eye on that,” you said.
Jack nodded. “Well I'm sorry you're night took an unfortunate turn, Miss Marigold.”
She shrugged, rumpling her black dress. It was sleek and fit her in ways you could never imagine the dress fitting you. “Meh, it was pretty much done anyway.”
You were too caught up in the gossip she had been giving you that you didn't think about Jack not being informed. “He kicked you out?”
“No,” she said. “I left. Didn't want that awkward after sex small talk.”
“That's called aftercare.”
It was such a thrown away comment in Jack's words. He said it like he was prescribing her morphine. But the words rushed to your body, jolted you awake and alert to his presence.
Aftercare to some may have been normal, you didn't know other peoples sexual habits- you only knew yours and aftercare wasn't part of it. Your... sexual partners were few and far between and also loved to use your bathroom and sleep it off. Besides that was months ago before you started night shifts. Now your sex life was nothing but dry dry dry with the only occasional fantasy of your attending keeping you going.
“How old are you, Doctor Abbott?” asked your patient.
You caught Jack's smirk.
“Don't you know you should never ask a gentleman his age?” he said.
“Forties? Fifties?”
“Well I'm glad you ruled out thirties.”
You laughed.
“Are you single?”
“You asking?”
“And what do you think about younger women?” Lu asked with seemingly no shame. You carried it all in the blaze of heat in your cheeks.
“I don't know if this is an appropriate conversation to be having,” you said, trying to deflect. Looking between them, you found Lu waiting with curious eyes, not at all uncomfortable and Jack... surprisingly much of the same.
“You mean how do I feel about dating younger women?” asked Jack, standing at the other side of her bed.
In your eyeline.
“There's this app, called 'Always go older' it's catered for men over forty meeting younger women with similar interests. Go on dates, have long term relationships, or just sex.”
You couldn't believe the conversation you had been having with her before Jack came in, making the small space of the exam room even smaller. Having it with him in the room was your idea of a nightmare.
Jack nodded slowly, considering. “An app for... sugar daddies?”
You looked up at him. “You know what sugar daddies are?”
He pursed his lips at you in disappointment. “I'm old, I'm not clueless.”
“If you're interested I can get you a great discount,” said Lu like this was a business meeting. “Both of you.”
Jack looked at you but you missed whatever his eyes were trying to convey when you realised this app cost.
“You have to pay?”
“To be a member yeah, there can be a lot of creeps out there and they do real good work to make sure they're not in the club. You interested?”
“Not if I have to pay,” you said, thinking first of your bank account and nothing else. You only realised once you'd said it what it sounded like.
That you were interested. That older men and dating for you were hand in hand.
You looked up hoping at least Jack wouldn't have noticed. His eyes were on you, an amused tilt to his lips. “Okay!” you stood up, pulling off your gloves. “All the gravel and glass is out but I'm gonna get another blood test in to check your alcohol levels. I'll call a nurse to dress you up and we'll keep you for observation on that blood pressure.”
She nodded. “Do you think I could do a pregnancy test too? Just, while I'm here.”
Jack approached your side, watching you again. His head was tilted up but his eyes were down on you. He was attending but as always he waited on your say. He never overstepped, never made assumptions, always let you lead with your gut.
You wondered if that was what younger women were looking for...
“Sure, I'll get you a pot for a urine sample and we can get those tests.”
“Were you practising safe sex?” asked Jack.
Lu stretched out on the bed, pulling at the seams of her dress at her cleavage. “It feels better without.”
Jack seemed un-bothered, if anything understanding as his head slowly bobbed in a nod.
You'd never had sex without a condom before. Never wanted to risk it.
Jack held the door open for you, letting you lead the way out.
It was noisier and busier yet it was easier to breath. At least for a second before Jack's body brushed yours as he walked next to you.
“Is she a cop? Feel like we were being interrogated in there.”
“That or she gets paid to promote the app.”
You slid into a chair desperately trying not to look at the clock. You had a bad habit of doing so and the night would drag on. You pulled up her chart and distracted yourself with repeating what you'd already said to avoid the inevitable conversation you were gonna be having with Jack.
His mouth opened and you beat him to it.
“I swear we just started talking about that, I was just asking her how she fell and she told me about the guy and started talking about sex and the date and the app, I... I did not invite that conversation.”
He nodded. “It's okay if you did.”
“I didn't.”
“Okay.”
There was silence between you. Your finger moves quickly over the keyboard and Abbott stayed stood there, watching.
“If you're interested-”
“- I'm not,” you said, quickly, without really knowing what he was asking for.
Jack held his hands up in surrender. “Older men aren't too bad.”
“Oh no, I'm-I'm sure they're great, I have nothing against age, you know, old's great! Like.... like wine! Or-or cheese! I just, I mean, my love life- sex life is kinda, urm-” you stumbled over your words. It was annoying how Jack just stood there, letting you, without stopping or helping. “I just don't really have the time for dating.”
You worked nights and in the day you were catching up on sleeping and eating. The furthest your date life got was phone calls with Jack when he was grocery shopping and wanted your opinion, or sometimes in the morning when you got breakfast together before heading back.
He always walked you home, even if it meant an extra half hour before he got home. He was a gentleman like that.
He was still calm as he held his hands behind his back and watched you. “Are you looking to date?”
You chuckled. “Ha, you know a guy who works as crazy shifts as me?”
Jack's eyes lowered to yours. “Maybe. Might be a bit older though.”
You realised what he meant just as an ETA was called in.
The ETA had turned into five and for the rest of the night you and Abbott were too busy with the rest of the team to brush by each other. Every move was a hard move of shoulders to not bump or ripping of the gowns off and the harsh change of gloves. There was no time to talk about anything through the night, let alone whatever the hell had happened at the start of shift.
Your small reprise came when a man dressed in the makings of a rushed man walked in as the clock was striking past five in the morning.
“Excuse me, I'm looking for Lu Mari-gold?”
His hair was silver and growing at the back of his neck. It was brushed back handsomely and though he clearly must have been in his fifties (at least) he had a head full of hair and stubble growing on his chin.
He was handsome and even more so when you saw the bouquet of flowers he held in hand.
“Are you- are you family?”
“No I'm uh- I'm her partner.”
So you escorted him to her room, letting him in and giving him a small update on her care. He set the flowers next to her and you lingered, diligently checking her chart.
“Why'd you leave, honey?” he asked, sitting on the edge of her bed and petting back her hair.
“Oh you know,” she said, casually. “Didn't want to do the whole awkward morning after thing.”
“There'd be nothing awkward about it. I was gonna make you breakfast, had plans to make love two you in the morning.”
Your cheeks flamed up as he said it so casually, like he was laying out a list for morning plans which.... he well was.
You decided to give them some privacy and save yourself form listening. You gently closed the door over and watched them through. He kissed her gently on the forehead, cradling her and Lu soaked it all in in adoring eyes and gentle touches.
It was a sort of tender touch you weren't used to even seeing, let alone feeling.
“Hey,” there was a ghost of a touch on the small of your back and Jack came to stand next to you. “That her boyfriend?”
“Yeah, though I don't know if they're their yet,” you admitted. “They only met tonight- well, last night. But she ran out.”
“And he came to her,” observed Jack. “They'll be just fine.”
“How'd you know?”
“The way he looks at her.”
When you looked at Jack he was already looking at you.
The thousand moments between the two of you played out. The gentle ghosts of a hand, the watchful moments but Jack was like that with a lot of people, attentive.
Your eyes fluttered as you looked away from him to the scene playing out again. “Are you some sort of relationship whisperer?”
He huffed a small amused laugh and followed your eyes to look ahead. “I just know things.”
It wasn't long before Lu and her partner were walking out, the flowers in hand as his arm was around her waist, supporting her.
They stopped off by the nurses counter where both you and Jack lingered working on separate cases.
“We just wanted to say thank you,” said Lu. “And here. There's a ninety percent success rate.”
She handed you a business card with the app name and promo code applied.
“Oh, er, thank you,” you said, un-sure on what to say other than a thanks.
Lu smiled kindly, leaning in to you as subtle as possible. Her eyes lingered somewhere over your shoulder. “Though I don't think you'll need it.”
You turned, catching sight of what she was watching.
Jack stood with Crus who was thrusting a tablet to him but he was looking at you.
“I'll- er- put it to good use. I'll see you in a couple days to check out those stitches.”
Slowly they left and you were stood frozen, staring down at the card. Ten dollars a month wasn't so bad if you didn't count the subscriptions you already had at the student loan and bills and such. You got three months half price, maybe three months to meet the love of your life or at least get some-
The card was plucked from you fingers.
Jack twirled it around. “You thinking about it?” he said, an edge to his voice.
“What? No- I don't know, she just- it was a parting gift?”
He nodded, reading the card. “Always go older,” he read.
“It's the app, younger women with, um, older men.”
“Interested?”
The way he looked at you felt more like an invitation than a general question. His eyes were hooded as he looked at you. It was the way he always looked at you but it felt weighted.
“It's just an app,” you excused.
Jack held the card out between the two of you, letting you chose.
It should've been your choice but it felt like there was a right and wrong answer.
Slowly, you plucked it from his fingers.
Two days later you found Jack Abbott on the app.
You were scrolling in the bathroom on your three minute pee break. You'd got the app that morning, caving in after spending a night tossing and turning and dreaming. You could say the dream was any old man, a faceless sort but even if that were true you felt the hard press of the chest, the tickle of the stubble. You imagined the freckles along the arms and the low rumble of his voice in your ear.
“That's it... that's it... take me in... all the way... god you feel beautiful,”
You woke wet between your legs and hot all over with little to no time to do anything about it.
You were desperate, you told yourself as you hastily built up a profile, picking what small pictures you had of yourself not in scrubs.
You hadn't had time to check it until the bathroom break and you don't make it three profiles before you were faced with Abbott.
The pictures of him were pictures you'd seen before, a selfie with his stupid smirk, the peek of army uniform there. There was another of him that seemed to a couple years ago and the third and final was a picture of him in scrubs.
It was a picture of the night shift but you could tell there were several cropped out, but you who stood next to him were still there.
You stared down at the picture of you two, his arm was thrown over your shoulders casually. He was grinning at the camera and you had a small smile to, your body leant into him. You hadn't even realised you did that.
Didn't Abbott know it wasn't a good sign to have a picture of another woman on the dating app? Unless it was your mother and you were a mamas boy.
There was knocking on the bathroom stool doors.
“Have you coded in there?” Crus called out.
You huffed and got off the toilet, pulling up your pants and pocketing your phone.
“If only.”
The night continued as usual, abdominal pains, charting, lacerations, charting, traumas and charting.
You'd hardly got a look at Jack when it was turning to six in the morning and day shifters started piling in.
You were passing the break room when the door swung open.
Jack popped out, catching you, his arms braced at the door. “Get in here, now.”
You were worried, reading through every patient you'd seen that day. You were sure you dealt with them all attentively, you'd never misdiagnosed someone before and today couldn't have been the day.
Jack closed the door behind him, checking nobody was on their way to find you before speaking. He was calm as he walked over to you, leaning his hand on the table and crowding you. “Why do you think I need to talk to you?”
You tried to think of something you'd done wrong. Anything. “Trauma came in, I er, didn't intubate quick enough?”
He shook his head and you tried to think again.
Before you could hazard a guess, he spoke. “I thought if you were interested, you'd have said something.”
There was a beat of silence.
“Interested?”
Jack's chest rose and fell in a deep breath. “In going older.”
“In going-” your mind short-circuited to his profile. If you'd seen him just a few hours ago, he could have seen you before then.
“I thought I had made my invitation clear,” he uttered.
“Invitation?” you repeated, feeling like a stuck record player.
“To go older,” Jack stepped closer and you could feel the warmth of his breath. “I was inviting you to try it.”
His breath somehow still smelt of mint freshness whereas you were sure yours was coffee stained from the three cups you'd already drunk.
“And not through the app,” he added.
You gulped. “You saw me on the app?”
“I saw you on the app.”
“But you're on the app,” you pointed out, eyes flickering up to his.
“I got it two days ago to make sure you didn't get it,” he said. His eyes weren't focused on yours. They were flickering between your eyes and your lips.
You wondered if you were still dreaming. If you were still in your bed, still dampening your panties and sheets with this crazy dream of him. You pinched yourself slowly but you felt the pain and didn't wake.
You squeezed your eyes shut and opened them and he was still there. Still calm. “You want to have sex with me?”
Jack's jaw clenched. “Honey, I want so much more than that.”
His finger was light as it brushed the back of your hand that rested on the table there.
“I want what you want, and maybe even more,” said Jack, his hand cradled your face. thumb dragging over your cheekbone. “You just got to tell me what you want and I'll make it happen.”
You'd thought that being with an older man meant being told what to do, that you wouldn't get a word in edge ways and yes, it was hot to think about.
You imagined Jack would be that, gently guiding you through your pleasure like he understood it better than you did. “You, I want you.”
Jack's lips were soft on yours, his head tilted at the perfect angle that meant he reached every edge of your lips at once. He didn't push against you, annoyingly so, he just let you feel the press of his lips like a fresh summers breeze.
It was your hands that fell on his chest, it was you that tilted your head back so he could reach deeper. It was your tongue tracing the bottom of his lips to get in deeper.
The door clattered and you jumped from Jack like he'd scorched you.
Jack only opened his eyes slowly, turning.
Robby leant on the door frame, arms crossed over his chest and a smirk on his lips as he sipped from his coffee cup. “Good morning, brother.”
Jack took you home to his and carefully man handled you through the door. Once it was closed his lips sort yours in a hunger even a twelve hour shift couldn't kill.
He breathed against you hard as he kissed you, stirring you through his house with his hands migrating from your cheeks, to your neck, to your waist, to your hips, to anyplace he could get a hold of you.
Your hands made his neatly combed hair a mess as you leant against him, letting yourself be moved around like a rag doll.
“Is this your house?” you asked against his lips. You couldn't look around to study his space, he was hardly letting you go to catch your breath let alone turn your head.
He nodded, kissing you. His tongue entered the warmth of your mouth and he moaned into you. “We didn't break and enter, baby.”
“But you-” you gasped as his hands travelled under your shirt, sending a chill. “You don't rent.”
This wasn't your best dirty talk.
Jack smiled against your lips. “No, I have a mortage.”
You kissed him again, holding him close as your hand slithered to the back of his neck.
He was still navigating you through his house till you felt your back hit a wall. “Does that turn you on?”
Slowly he pulled at the ties of your scrub pants and he slid his hand in enough to get a feel of the warmth of your cunt through your panties. You were wet, impossibly so just by kissing him.
“Yeah,” he said, breathless. “It turns you on.”
Jack's teeth scraped down your neck, his tongue soothing where he nipped.
You tilted your head back, a silent invite for more.
A thigh of his slotted between your legs and you fell onto it.
“You wanna- wanna tell me about tax returns next?” you teased.
“Maybe,” he said, lifting his head back to yours. “I kinda wanna taste you first.”
With strong hands on your hips he turned you and pushed you through the open door into a master of a bedroom. The bed was in the middle, a four postered type thing with clean and made sheets. There was nothing messy about it, nothing to signify the exhaustion of a night shift.
Jack held your body into his, hips rutting against yours.
You acknowledged somewhere in the back of your head that he'd told you years ago he moved into a bungalow. No stairs- easier on his leg.
“Do you know how many times I've touched myself thinking about you, on that bed?” he whispered into your skin, kissing the words there.
“You-You have?”
You felt his hair tickle you as he nodded. “Do you like knowing that?”
“Yes.” You reached over, cupping the back of his head till your tongues were meeting in a sloppy kiss.
Jack's hands slipped down your waist, down your underwear and spread at your cunt till he could easily slip in a finger.
You gasped against him, body curling in pleasure you'd never felt.
He moved with you as if he was chasing you, sucking on your bottom lip.
“You like that?” he uttered, dragging out your bottom lip.
You nodded as he slowly withdrew his finger to slip another in.
“Need to hear you like it, baby.”
“I like it, Jack, like your fingers inside of me.”
The fingers on his free hand moved to wrap around your neck, tilting your head back till it rested on his shoulder. With this advantage he could like on the skin, feel the heat of you and the jump of your pulse as he slowly worked his fingers in and out, curling at the spots that got you shaking.
Your held onto his arm, fingers digging into the skin.
“You're gonna like it,” he whispered. “You're gonna like it so much you'll never go back, never want anyone else.”
His fingers worked quicker as you felt him leave marks at your neck, in places you knew people would be able to see. “Still like my fingers inside of you?”
“Yes, god, yes!”
“How'd they make you feel, baby?”
“Good, so good.”
Jack withdrew his hands and turned you, guiding you up on the bed. He leant back on his knees, slowly undoing the ties of his scrub bants.
You'd never been happier that they were black, showing the outline of his cock, hard and begging for attention.
“Take your top off.” He gestured.
You did and his eyes grew darker though didn't know how that was possible. Your hands trembled with eager excitement to get your hands on him or for him to get his hands on you. You moved to un-clasp your bra but Jack shook his head.
“Keep it on. Take my shirt off.”
His chest was broad and slightly defined. Freckles dotted around and one or two scares you'd never seen before were littered there too.
It was instinct to move in to his neck to kiss him but his hand wrapped around your neck and pushed you down till you bounced off the mattress.
“Eyes on me, keep your eyes on me.”
You followed his order as he slowly dragged down your scrub pants and panties, getting a glimpse of how wet they were before they were chucked aside.
Hopefully that was the time Jack let you see all of him. No.
Like a prized possession Jack laid you out and spread your legs.
It was suddenly all too real. The haste of the drive over, his hand on your thigh, everything he said about being with an older guy and how Lu had told you how experienced they were. Would he expect something you couldn't deliver? Did you expect something?
“Jack,” you said only his name but you didn't know what else you were trying to lead on anyhow.
His eyes were earnest though clouded by desire as he pushed your legs up till you were sprawled out for him. “I'll stop any time you want.”
You watched him get closer to your heat. Felt yourself cry out for his attention.
“You're gonna like it, gonna love it,” he promised, eyes focused on you as he slid his middle finger inside of you. “Relax... relax.”
You tried to but as another one of his fingers slid into you, creating a slow thrusting pattern and his other hand kept playing with your cunt to get your lips spread you could do anything but relax.
Your breathing kicked up, your pulse was high.
As Jack leant down to slowly flick his tongue against your clit you threw your head back and moaned.
“Oh shit, Jack- Jack!”
His gaze flickered up to you, daring you to try to speak.
When you did it came out as another moan, his tongue flattening against your bud of nerves.
He played with you like that, moulding your legs around to where he wanted them. Flat on the bed, over his shoulders, up in the air. Anything to get him deeper inside of you.
All the while you alternated between watching him and falling back on the bed in aches of pleasure.
Jack watched where his fingers disappeared inside of you. “Swallowing me up, can't wait to get my cock inside of you.”
“Want it.... want it....” you mumbled, head back on the softness of his quilt.
“Yeah?” he whimpered.
Your hand fisted the quilt that smelt like him and you smothered your face in it as his fingers curled.
“Oh my god, honey... yeah....” Jack moaned before you felt the wet of his tongue on the heat of you.
You couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. Whether it was his spit on your cunt or your want that was pooling into wetness on his sheets.
There was no warning, only your moans, as you came around his fingers and tongue. You had no idea you could come so quick, had no idea it could be pulled from your head to your toes.
Jack let your orgasm play out, pulling back to watch it leak. “Oh yeah... yeah...” his fingers swept up the mess lightly. “You're so sweet, oh yeah... moan like that...”
His tongue went in, licking up all the mess around you.
“Jack please, I can't- I can't!”
Your body was trembling beyond your control and he was still playing around with you and your sensitive bud. Your arms wrapped around yourself as if you could hold yourself together from breaking out in cries.
You hadn't noticed your eyes were screwed shut until you felt him move and heard the demand in his voice.
“Look at me.”
When you did you found Jack standing at the foot of his bed, scrub pants deserted and hand wrapped around his own cock.
You looked at him and then some.
“Touch me, touch me,” he said gently, prying your hands away from your chest with care.
With guidance he helped you sit up and helped you feel his cock.
You'd done this before but your mouth had never watered by the idea, your body never wept with the need to suck another guy off. Nothing about him disgusted you. Not the scars around his knee where he lost his leg, not the hair that dusted the base of his cock in tamed grey.
It moved you on.
You only jerked him off slow, only a little at first but his breath became laboured.
Jack's eyes closed as he grabbed a hold of your legs like they were his anchor.
You wanted to speed up.
“Go easy on me,” he said with a drunk grin. “It's been a while.”
You moaned and inched your body closer to the edge of the bed, your heat wanting to swallow him up.
Jack's eyes watched as you withered. He held onto your wrist that stayed wrapped around the base of his cock. “No, no, no, don't put it in yet.” Slowly he came to lean over you. “I want you to suck on it. You want it? Want to suck this old mans cock?”
In answer, the two of you moved quickly till he was lying flat on the bed and you were over him, slowly taking the tip in your mouth.
“Oh my god... oh yeah...” he moaned. Jack petted back your hair. “Take the tip.... take the tip... swirl your tongue...”
You took in his tip and swirled the tongue just as he said, watching him as you took him deeper with his careful help.
A string of 'oh yeah, don't stop' fell from him like a mantra as you took him deeper and faster, the need growing in you again.
“It's not- it's not too much?” he checked in, his head falling back.
You only took yourself off him to shake your head before sucking him into your mouth again, holding the base of him and working what you couldn't manage.
Jack groaned, hands flying to his head as his fists clenched. “You're so good... oh you're so good, baby.”
You took him deep and hollowed your cheeks.
Jack lurched. “Fuck! Fuck- shit, don't do that,” he moaned, guiding you off with pink cheeks. He chuckled, guiding you up to him. “I'll finish if you do that.”
He kissed you, never minding the both of your arousal on each other's lips. “They're are so many ways I want to be inside of you.”
You moaned against his lips. “I want you inside me, Jack.”
“I know, I know.” His brows pulled together as he seemed to have a battle in his own mind about just how to have you.
You didn't make it easier. In temptation you lied back on his bed and spread yourself out. All the while he was still caught up in thinking.
You almost started playing with yourself to relieve the build up when Jack grabbed your wrist and guided your fingers into his mouth.
He gently kissed the pads of your finger tips. “Turn around.”
Jack lied next to you, your back flush with his chest. He lined his cock up with your cunt, slowly sliding the length of it between your folds.
“Con-condom?” you mumbled, dreading the feel of anything that wasn't completely him.
Jake kissed your shoulder. “It feels better without. I'm clean.”
You nodded, breathless at the promise of feeling him. All of him. “I'm clean and I have a, an IUD.”
He kissed you again as he nudged the head of his cock into you.
Your moans echoed around the room as he held onto you, inching himself in further and further.
Only once you'd just got the feel of all of him he was slowly retreating to push back in again. For a moment it was only the sound of the both of you breathless and the gentle sounds of skin on skin as he moved at a steady pace, growing needier, getting deeper by every thrust.
“Oh my god... oh my god...” you moaned.
Jack's hands grabbed your hips, helping you meet his thrusts in urgency. The sun was just peeking through the blinds and a thin layer of sweat glowed off both your bodies.
You tried to grind your backside into him, desperate to feel relief as his pace remained steady.
Jack gripped your hip, leaning into your ear. “Don't rush it, don't rush it,” he nipped at your ear. “Don't be greedy, we'll go slow.”
You didn't want slow. You wanted fast. You wanted hard.
The slow drag of his cock through your walls drove you mad. He reached around, fingers circling your clit as his other hand finally un-hooked your bra.
It wasn't long before Jack was slamming into you, harder, your body rocking with his movements and the head of his bed hitting the wall.
“God, it's been so long.... you feel amazing...” said Jack as his fingers circled your clit hard.
“Jack I'm gonna-”
At the warning he stilled himself inside of you.
“Not yet, honey, not yet.”
You whined, hand moving round to grab at his ass and hold him in.
Jack groaned and bit into your neck. “I know, I know. Just gimme a minute.”
You had no choice as he slid out of you and moved you around so you were flat on the bed. You felt his fingers thrust inside of you again harder than before.
His breath was hard, chest rising and falling quickly. “I wanna make you come in so many ways I can't chose how.”
He was a man starved, ravenous as he dedicated time to licking you up again, if only for a minute. But he moaned around you, sucked in your nerves and released it to the mercy of his fingers.
“Jack!” you yelled, screw the neighbours.
There was a growl somewhere in the back of his throat as he loomed over you.
“You wanna fuck me?”
“Yes, Jack, bad so bad!”
“Okay, okay honey, fuck me then, come one baby.... I know you can.”
Jack pushed into you as the both of your eyes clashed watching the pleasure in each others eyes. He set a brutal pace, holding a leg up as he peppered kisses along your chest.
“J-Jack-”
“Tell me how good I feel.”
“So good.”
“So good, yeah baby, so good,” he gasped. “Oh fuck, god baby!” He reached over and gripped the headboard, body tight in pleasure.
You arched off the bed.
“I need you to come,” he announced, eyes screwed up in pleasure as he thrusted into you hard, the slap of his balls on you.
You watched where he met you as your legs shook.
“I need you to come so I can come.... one more time, baby.... one more time, please....” he begged.
The sight of him sweating, his body rigid, eyes shut in pleasure and mouth hanging open only to voice obscene moans was enough to have you coming over the edge.
Your walls tightened.
Jack must have felt it as he steadied himself over you, fingers falling between your bodies to work you through it. “That's it.... that's it.... that's it...” He kissed along your collarbone.
You released over him, gasping, body melting into him as Jack rode out your orgasm.
“Arg... oh god... you feel so good, I-urg-”
Dirty words spilled from your mouth as Jack latched onto your mouth and let go inside of you.
The both of you were a panting, sweating mess as he calmed down, slowly slipping out of you but kissing away every whine and protest.
Your breathes slowed and slowly Jack slipped out of you, watching his release leave you.
His eyes flickered back up to you, brushing away hair that had stuck. “I've never come like that in my life.”
You were still catching your breath, still waiting for the race of your heart to dull. “Your welcome?”
Jack chuckled, falling beside you and throwing an arm over you. “I think you can delete that app now.”
You groaned with a wave of embarrassment, covering your face. Gently, Jack pried away your hands and kissed the palms of them. You turned on your side. “Are you going to delete it too?”
“Honey I only got it cause I couldn't stand the thought of you getting it, and some other gut thinking he can treat you better.”
“I always hoped it would be you.”
Jack kissed you tenderly. “So?” he asked against you. “You think older is better?”
pairing: jack abbot x f!reader
summary: a tech consultant and er doctor share the same flight. and both of you are tired! (i felt like shawn wearing airpod maxes was giving MAJOR airport crush dilf vibes. so this happened)
warnings/tags: age gap, fluff, flirting, forced proximity
words: 3k
Jack Abbot loved the airport. It meant change. A new experience. Returning home. It was a shame that being an ER physician didn’t allow for much travel. Besides picking up SWAT shifts in his down time, he didn’t get out much.
Occasionally, he got out of Pittsburg and spent some time outside the city to do some activities he missed. Surfing at the beaches in coastal Oregon. Hiking trails in southern Utah. The adventurous side of him often wasn’t satisfied enough with the ER. Could anyone believe it?
The smell of coffee is heavy in the mornings too. Though he wasn’t really planning on partaking of any for himself. He just finished his last night shift before heading out, taking a few days off to go to…
He checks his phone. San Diego.
Jack figured he could use some sunshine. But not just any sun, the one that wasn’t too hot, warming exposed skin to a tolerable amount. Right by the ocean for perhaps some surfing and good seafood.
He’s absurdly early to the airport, and is able to pick any seat in the waiting area at the gate. He opts for one facing the window, watching planes land and take off.
With one motion, he slides his noise-cancelling headphones over his ear. He could listen to something soothing, calming, but he works at a hospital for crying out loud. Jack Abbot never felt a moment of peace, nor does he really want to.
The first song that plays is Too Late For Love.
He sits back and lets his head nod lightly to the beat of the music.
____________
You hated the airport. Hate’s a strong word, but it’s always busy, security always takes too long, and you have the worst luck; your flights always get changed, sometimes leaving you stranded for hours waiting.
It was part of the job. Tech consulting. A few times a year, you had to travel out, meet with clients for a weekend, schmooze them over with drinks, a fancy hotel, activities. These always ended up being your biggest deals, (commission was nice!) but you were constantly debating on quitting your job when you had to change terminals… again.
You’re making your way to the new gate, and even in the distance, you can see that there’s not a lot of seats open in the waiting area. A heavy sigh leaves your mouth, when to your dismay, there’s only one seat left, to the right of a man with curly silver hair.
Hopefully he’s nice, you can see that he’s right next to the charging station. Maybe he’ll feed your cord through and plug in your phone. You’ve been up all night trying to nail down the last details of your trip, and it drained your device.
You quietly step around a few people, making your way to the open seat. You stop when you spot a backpack on the chair. Maybe saving it for his wife or something.
“Damn it.”
You’re about to turn around when you hear a soft, “Hey.”
The man pulls his backpack off the chair, and sets it down by his feet, a silent invitation for you to sit.
“Oh, thank goodness,” you say, and plop down on the seat, slinging your duffle on the ground in front of the seat.
You turn to the man, who’s kept his focus trained on you. “Thank you, I really appreciate it.”
Your eyes flick down to his left hand. No ring. No wife.
He nods, probably not really able to hear you through his headphones. He gives you a half-smile, his crows feet tightening around his hazel eyes.
His gaze feels… warm. Familiar. His entire body is relaxed and somehow it transfers to your tense shoulders, and you sink into the chair slightly.
The man slides his headphones off his head and lets them rest around his neck.
“Where are you headed? Off to a fun vacation?” He says. His voice is a low quiet rumble, clearly marking him as someone older, as if you couldn’t already tell from his cinnamon sugar colored locks, the way the grays sprouted out more around his ears, wrinkles setting in deeper lines on his forehead.
“Definitely not. I wish,” you reply hastily, eager to make your identity clear that you were strictly business. “Work stuff.”
“Ah,” he says. “Work stuff, in San Diego?”
He’s a stranger. But something about his disposition makes him easy to trust. Maybe he works a lot with people. Like in healthcare.
“Yeah. I have some business meetings. Some sales stuff. I work in tech.”
He lifts his head slightly as he listens to you, peering at you with an interested look. “No beach getaway planned at all?”
You scoff. But it’s the first time Jack sees you smile.
He likes it.
“Maybe, we’ll see. If things go well, I’ll have the weekend free and I may get some time on the sand.” You shrug your shoulders. “What about you?”
“I have a few days off work. I don’t get out much for my job, so I like to travel as much as it permits, which isn’t a lot.” He pauses. “Purely self-indulgent vacation days.”
You hum. “Sounds nice. What do you do for work?”
“ER attending. Night shift.”
Ha. You were right.
“Dang, see people’s legs getting cut off?”
“Nah.” The corner of his mouth lifts in a sly smirk. “I don’t see that happen. But we do stitch them back together.”
You nod. “Right. That’s what I meant.”
He shakes his head. “It never gets old. The stuff you see. But y’know,” he gestures to the big window panes. “It’s nice to get away from it for a bit.”
“Yeah. Makes sense.”
There’s a pause in the conversation as you both watch a plane take off.
He takes a deep inhale, and realizes he hasn’t even introduced himself. “I’m Jack, by the way.”
You introduce yourself and he nods, letting the buzz of the airport fill the space between you.
His gaze lingers a moment too long, taking in the way you’ve clipped your hair back, a few pieces framing your features, but keeping most of it away so he can really see your face.
A chime rings out, and a flight agent announces that boarding will begin.
“Finally,” Jack says under his breath. He’s not particularly impatient, but he feels like it’s been forever since he got here.
“I’m glad I got to sit for a second. I’m always running late,” you admit out loud, and this gets a good chuckle out of Jack.
Passengers begin filing in a line, and you and Jack join the group. He lets you stand in front of him, ”Ladies first,” he insisted.
There’s the typical waiting and inching forward as people load their overhead luggage and shuffle awkwardly into their seats. You feel Jack’s looming presence behind you, raising hairs on the back of your neck.
As you finally get to your seat, before you can pick up your carry-on, Jack is already lifting it off the ground and sliding it with a thud into the overhead compartment.
“Oh, thanks.” You smile, heat rushing to your cheeks. You were perfectly capable of doing it on your own, but you didn’t mind watching his forearms flex, now noticing his weathered freckles scattered across his muscular arms.
“Anytime, sweetheart.”
Okay, as if you weren’t already blushing enough.
You slide into the middle seat, and watch as Jack checks his boarding pass, then looks up at the seat number, and then back at you. His brows furrow a bit, but then he loads up his own duffle bag, and lowers himself into the seat right next to you.
No way.
“Y’can’t get rid of me,” he says, adjusting himself in his seat and clicking the metal buckle across his lap.
“Who says I’m trying?” You respond without thinking twice, and when you see his expression shift into amusement, you blink and shake your head. “It’s just- I’m not used to talking to strangers at the airport. It’s kind of nice to interact, you know.”
He nods at your rambling, acutely aware that you’ve flustered yourself… about him.
But he doesn’t mind. The fact that he hasn’t scared you away yet by his age, or by simply starting a conversation, it feels good to him.
New.
Different.
“So tell me more about your job,” he says, ignoring the safety message that plays across the speakers.
“Well,” you roll your eyes. “I think you should go first. My job is like watching grass grow in comparison to what you probably do.”
His eyebrow quirks. “Is that so?”
“Tech sales… yeah. It’s not super exciting.” With your toes, you push your backpack further under the seat in front of you.
“Why do you do it?”
You pause. And let your shoulders sag a little. “Pay isn’t bad. It’s actually pretty good at this company. I get lots of time off. I joined the company because I started dating some guy that worked there. But then we broke up… and he left. I stuck around.”
“Was that recent?”
You laugh. “No, it was about a year ago. I pretty much got promoted to his position too. Benefits all around.”
“Poor guy, had to go break his heart like that.”
Your face contorts into discomfort. “Well… he broke up with me. Kinda out of nowhere.”
“Are you seeing anyone now?” Jack blurts too quickly.
The second the words leave his mouth, he regrets them.
Way too forward.
But to his relief, you shake your head lightly. “No. I think that whole thing messed me up more than I expected.” You give a dry laugh. “Dating kinda sucks lately.”
You let your head hang for a moment and shrug your hands in the air in defeat. “People leave so easily now. There’s no commitment.”
You glance out the window, and quieter, “Maybe I’m just hard to stay for.”
Jack’s jaw tightens as he sees the weight of failed relationships on your shoulders.
“I seriously doubt that.”
You look over at him.
His eyes stay fixed on you when he adds, “Sounds more like they didn’t know what they had.
You straighten a bit under his gaze, trying to not read into what he could be implying. No. There’s no way. This guy is probably closer to your dad’s age.
Still, he wasn’t half bad to look at. Hell, he was actually really attractive. That made it worse. It’s one thing to have an older guy hitting on you, it’s an entirely different thing when he’s handsome and competent.
“So,” you clear your throat, voice going neutral. “What’s the craziest thing you’ve seen in the ER?”
Jack notices. The shift in the conversation. He winces internally.
Yep. Too far.
But he answers, settling back into his seat more comfortably. Like you’re not prepared for the answer. “You really wanna know?”
“Absolutely not,” you admit, “but I asked, so you have to tell me anyways.”
Jack grins.
The conversation goes a lot smoother after that. Jack tells you stories that are horrifying and hilarious, your expression shifting from near-vomiting to laughing a little too loudly for an airplane. Elderly men with objects lodged where they definitely shouldn’t be. College students making drunk decisions (ones that you made not too long ago!), and long nights that he barely made it out alive from.
No more hints of flirting or romance, at least from what you can tell.
You don’t notice the fact that you’ve been smiling almost this entire time.
But he does.
The plane hums steadily around you as the time passes slowly. Somewhere midway through one of his stories, your responses start getting sluggish and your eyes burn more and more. The lack of sleep, stress of packing, and running through the airport has finally caught up.
Jack stops talking for a moment when it’s the third time you’ve suppressed a yawn.
“Sorry,” you mumble, now acutely aware that you might be communicating the message that you’re getting bored.
“Tired?”
You nod. “A little…”
Jack studies you for a moment before speaking again, then in a lower voice, “you should really get some sleep.”
You want to keep listening to him. To that smokey, raspy voice of his.
...
Yep.. you probably need sleep. Your brain was going places it shouldn’t be. The more Jack told you about life in the ER, the more you watched as he explained things with those big hands, watching his veiny arms move around.
“Yeah, okay,” you surrender, shifting in your seat for a moment before letting your head hit the back of the headrest.
The next thing you know, you’re out. It didn’t take long before your chest rises and falls with each breath.
Jack sneaks a glance at you now that you’re unconscious. He prefers you awake, active in conversation, listening to his tales, but he doesn’t mind seeing you like this. Peaceful.
He feels your shoulder slide closer to him as some turbulence jostles the plane a little. Then your head tips towards him, slowly,
Then fully.
Your cheek lands on the space between his shoulder and the curve of his tricep. You don’t wake, much to his surprise, and instead your mouth parts slightly against the fabric of his shirt.
Jack looks down carefully as to not move, afraid even just a little movement will wake you. He takes in the relaxed expression and your proximity with a deeper breath.
It’s adorable.
It’s even quieter now on the plane with you fast asleep against his shoulder.
He tells himself he should stay awake. Just in case you wake up embarrassed. Or if your neck starts hurting, Maybe if a flight attendant needs to get through the aisle.
The exhaustion from the night shift catches up to him too. His head tilts against the seat. And as he slips into unconsciousness, it slides towards you.
A flight attendant pauses by your row. She smiles faintly at the sight of you completely passed out against each other, and gently unfolds a spare blanket across your laps.
The lights in the cabin glow on as the plane begins its descent into San Diego. Sunlight blares through your eyelid and everything shifts slightly to the left, the movement startling you.
For a moment, you’re disoriented. Vision blurred, your legs feel like pins and needles asleep.
Then, you realize, your cheek is pressed against Jack’s chest now instead of his shoulder, his head resting lightly against the top of yours. And there’s a blanket. Over both of you.
What the-
Your eyes widen at the sight. Jack wakes a second later, blinking slowly, and sitting up.
His voice comes out even rougher with drowsiness. “Are we there?”
You stifle an embarrassed laugh. “I think so.”
He glances downward, noticing the blanket. Then realizes you’re still halfway tucked against him.
A sleepy smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Well. Looks like you got comfortable.”
Your face instantly goes red, heat rushing up your neck. You sit up, much too fast, nearly tangling yourself in the blanket.
“I am so sorry.”
“Relax,” he mutters softly, reaching over your lap with one arm and taking the blanket. “Could’ve been worse.”
You bury your face into your palms while he chuckles under his breath beside you, folding the blanket up and sliding it under the seat in front of him.
The plane lands promptly after that. Thank goodness. You were far too mortified to endure any more time on this flight. Though you didn’t mind being curled up against him. You never slept longer than 30 minutes on any flight. The fact that you were passed out most of the time was impressive.
There’s a bit of strange awkwardness that follows the unexpected intimacy. Jack doesn’t bother saying much. He’s not sure what to say. Thanks for falling asleep on me?
Though he is, oddly enough, thankful for your presence. He’s actually feeling sad thinking about the fact that this could be the last time he would ever see you.
Maybe.
You both stand once the aisle starts moving towards the exit. Jack grabs your carryon from the overhead before you can reach for it.
“Thanks,” you murmur.
“Of course,” he says, dipping his head slightly. “Starting to think you’re expecting it.”
You roll your eyes, but it’s paired with a soft smile.
The walk through the bridge, following Jack, feels short.
Reality is starting to hit you. This is the last time you’d be seeing him.
Maybe.
People start heading towards baggage claim and the exit. Jack’s pace slows, allowing you to catch up to him.
Then he stops, watching you, as if waiting for you to say something.
“Well,” you press your thumb into the button on your carryon handle absentmindedly. “This is probably where the fun ends.”
Jack looks at you with his dark hazel eyes. Oh how you’d miss them.
Then he reaches into the pocket of his pants and pulls out his phone. “You said if your meetings go well, you might escape early.”
Your stomach flips.
“I did say that…”
He taps the screen twice and holds it out to you. An empty contact.
“Then maybe you should have my number… just in case you get bored.”
You stare at him for a moment, mouth turning upwards into a smile.
“Just in case?” You repeat.
Jack tilts his head towards the phone.
And you take it.
He grins. “The beach is a lot more fun with company.”
Content Warning: Talks of Dog Death, Jack Abbot x F!Reader, Neighbor!Reader, Anxious thoughts, Jack POV, Yearning, Smut, Oral (F receiving), PIV, Unprotected Sex, Magic Birth control, & mentions of Jack's past. LOTS of pet names, Sweetheart, Kid, Baby, etc. 5.8K words!
Author's note: Ok, I'm back! I think I might've been super focused on the smut in this one and didn't really give you an emotional sequel. I hope you guys are chill with that! I really enjoyed this smut, and my next piece is going to be primarily smut! Let me know what you thought in my inbox! I appreciate any feedback! Enjoy!
Read Part 1 here!!
It had been almost six months since you’d found yourself curled up in Jack’s trauma room. Since then, it’d been six long, slow months of Jack showing you what showing up looks like. Jack quickly learned that no one had ever graced you with that sort of compassion, and the look you gave him left him half-hard, half-aching for you.
It wasn’t always easy to think about you, though. The first few weeks, hell, the first few months after your visit to the PTMC felt like Jack was moving at a crawl rather than a walk. Every step of trust gained was a new spike of your anxiety, and he had no idea what he’d be walking into.
He tiptoed the line of showing up without overstepping with steadfast caution. He was punctual about his presence in a way that you had grown attuned to. Every layer of you that peeled back only served to bring him a peaceful hope. He struggled but ultimately tamped down the fire that threatened to spark.
Don’t get your hopes up, Jackie.
His mom used to remind him when he’d get a determined way about himself. He was the perpetual knight in shining armor, always dashing headfirst into situations. He saved cats from trees, taught CPR classes on the weekend for the local Red Cross, and even mowed the lawn for the family next door when Mr. Handler passed away. His mom would get a sweet look on her face and remind him, “Don’t get your hopes up, Jackie. Don’t want you thinkin’ you can save the whole world by yourself.”
When he was in high school, Jack rescued a dog he found in the gutter outside his house. He spent all night coaxing it out in the rain with little bits of cheese and hot dogs he scrounged up. When he finally managed to get the dog into the warm garage, he saw the extent of its life played out in injuries before him. He called out to his parents for blankets.
“Sweetie, he’s too cold.” His mom laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. He knew the sight before her was pathetic, him frantically trying to warm the dog up.
“Please, Ma.” He felt ten years younger. Surely, he could save this dog, surely, there was something they could do besides wait for nature to take its course. He would do whatever he could to keep the small creature from that fate.
His mom’s arms wrapped around him, bringing him to her, running her hands through his hair while he cried. Just a small kid against the unfairness of life. It was the first time he ever felt like he might have a purpose, and it was taken so quickly. She opened her mouth to remind him, but stopped herself. She just kept her son in her arms. When he woke up the next morning, sporting a cold and a broken heart, she had already given the dog a proper burial next to the family’s fish from a year prior.
Jack hadn’t realized back then, but that memory returns to him often now, as the beginning of a long line of failures. Failures to himself, to his fellow soldiers, to his patients, and now failures to you. He wants to see you in a way no one ever let him before.
The first morning, his legs carried him up the stairs slowly, with his prosthesis rubbing against his bone all night, all he wanted was to collapse into bed. But when he reached the top of the steps and rounded the corner to your apartment, he was met with eerie silence that only served to spike his blood pressure.
Maybe she’s asleep. He let himself think, but your read receipts didn’t lie, he knew you were awake. He gently knocked, giving you a chance to let him in. It wasn’t until after the 3rd knock, he received the text.
Don’t want to talk, I’m fine. You can go.
His lips pursed, and he let out a frustrated groan at the front door. He readjusted his posture before knocking again. He could’ve been fooled that you were alright if it weren’t for the obvious shuffling sounds coming from the other side.
“This wasn’t part of the deal, sweetheart.” He called out through the door, letting his frustration out. “I’m not going away until I get eyes on you.” He huffed, raising his hand to knock again.
“I don’t want to talk.” Your voice murmured. You sounded so small, not petulant like a child, but the desperation of one. He let his forehead lean against the door and took a deep breath. He reminded himself of the days he’d rather not get out of bed, ashamed of the way he looked, ashamed of the way he acted, frightened by the thoughts swirling around in his head.
He also remembered the first time walking out of a VA meeting, it was the first time in months that he said what he was thinking out loud. It may not have taken the feeling away; it certainly lifted some of the weight bearing down on his shoulders.
“I know,” he admitted, sounding much calmer than he had before. “I just want to make sure you’re alright, you don’t have to say anything.
There was a long pause before he heard the door unlatch, and just half of your face came into view. Your eyes, bloodshot and swollen, your face is red and blotchy, and your hands are shaking. He understood all too well what you must be feeling on the other side. He didn’t push the door open, even though he wanted to. He just stretched his head to get a better look at you.
“Thank you,” He put a hand on the door to prevent you from closing it, “Can I come in?”
You shook your head immediately, closing the door as much as you could without hurting his hand. He let out a conceded sound to let you know his disapproval.
“It’s messy.” You said simply, shrugging the one shoulder he could see.
“I promise, I’m not going to look at your apartment, I just want to talk for a minute.” He speaks slowly, like trying to diffuse a bomb. “Can I come in and sit at least?” He gives you such an innocent look that you feel something balloon in your chest. You’re nodding before you even realize you’re saying yes.
After that, you’d talked for a long time, and he could tell you were finally releasing some of the bottled-up emotion you’d been storing for god knows how long. He let you talk, even shared some stories of his own, before you stiffly dried up.
It had gotten easier, you opened the door smoothly, you were more at ease with him in your space. You listened to him, most of the time, but on particularly rough days, Jack found himself on the outs again. It was hard for him to constantly be fighting back and forth with your own emotions, but he understood more than anyone, healing wasn’t a linear trajectory.
His life, which had once centered on the work he did at the hospital, was centering more and more on the time spent with you. And despite your back and forth, as your life evened out more and more, Jack found his thoughts about you began to wander.
He had no right to feel the way he did about you. It did absolutely nothing to stop it. Old enough to be her dad. His brain liked to remind him when he’d get lost in your eyes, picturing what you’d look like half-twisted in your obnoxious patterned bedsheets. He never acted on them before, of course, he didn’t want you to be uncomfortable! He wasn’t a creep, and you definitely never thought of him as anything other than a polite friend.
“Earth to Jack?” You waved a hand around in front of his face. It had been a long shift, and rather than spending the extra energy climbing your stairs, he left the door unlocked and invited you in for breakfast.
That was the newer development. After a particularly long night shift, Jack asked if you wouldn’t mind possibly meeting him at his place. You, half asleep, agreed only at the promise he made you a pot of coffee, which he was already in the process of making.
When you arrived, in a comfortable, but well-worn set of pajamas, he almost shut the door in your face. It was like you were punishing him.
Your oversized boxy button-down top did little to conceal the fact that you had no mind to put on a bra before coming downstairs. He had to use all of his military training to keep his eyes from focusing on your nipples, which were poking through the soft cotton.
When you were distracted, he let his eyes wander down to your chest, slipping occasionally to admire your legs as well. He cursed himself when the blood began travelling south, trying to readjust his position.
“Is your leg bothering you?” You had asked him so sweetly, moving to kneel below him. His eyes nearly rolled out of his skull, and he had to take a long minute to control himself before nodding.
Then suddenly it was two routines in the morning. You would come downstairs, mug in hand, steal his coffee, and help him with his prosthetic. Which often left him aching in a far more dangerous place than his leg.
Your hands would peel back the different layers, being sure to keep his cane nearby, just in case he needed to walk anywhere. Not that he’d ever move away when your touch is the only thing he’d been looking forward to. When your thumbs massage over a particularly tender area, you look up at him sweetly. You were soft for him, and he had no choice but to melt in your hands.
You seemed oblivious to it, which he was eternally grateful for, but the morning routines lately have shifted more to be about him and his health than yours. He wondered if you were deflecting him from something, which made him anxious. Maybe she’s seeing someone.
His whole body shuddered at the idea that you might be spending your nights wrapped around another man’s body.
“Helllloooo?” You teased again, giving him another sweet laugh. This morning was just like any other, you were already on your knees for him. Jack’s already half-hard, trying to power through the morning until he can take care of himself in the shower.
“Sorry, zoned out.”
“Did you have a hard shift?” You gently brought his leg down before raising to join him on the couch.
“It’s always a hard shift these days.” He dropped his hand to pat gently on your knee. “Don’t worry about me, kid, how are you doing?”
You blushed at the nickname. “I’m fine, just tired.” You place your hand over his, and Jack has to take deep breaths to calm his heart that was suddenly beating out of his chest.
He cleared his throat. “You’re not sleeping well?” He started to assess you with his trained eye. He noticed you did look tired; there were small bags under your eyes. Your shoulders were tense, only slightly, but he knew you weren’t fully relaxed.
“I’m fine, honestly.” You shrug off, reaching for your empty mug on the coffee table before standing. “Just up too late thinking these days.”
“That’s not cryptic at all.” He snarks, turning his head to watch you move around his apartment with ease. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”
You sigh, clearly thinking too hard for your own good.
“I was honestly just thinking about your kitchen.” Jack flipped his body to look at you.
“My kitchen? What’s wrong with my kitchen? You spend more time in it than I do.” He quips, making you smirk at him.
“You only have one mug, Jack!” You’re feeling playful this morning, and part of him knows you’re deflecting still, but it’s been a few weeks since you had this energy about you. He wasn’t going to complain. “I’ve been to your place every morning for the last two months, and you still only have one mug!”
He never thought about it like that, he’d offered to keep some of your mugs down here once, but your face soured at the question, and you changed the subject. He couldn’t understand what the big deal about mugs was.
“I can buy you a mug if you really want me to, sweetheart.” He offered, slipping the sleeve back onto his calf.
“I don’t know Jack,” You blushed coyly, “Sometimes I wonder if you’ll ever have room in your cabinet for another mug.”
He snorts, “Kid, just move the glasses over, it’s not rocket science.” His head tilts back to catch you in his kitchen light again. Looking more like a cat now, trapezing through his space, claiming the sunspots as your own, nesting this image into his memory forever. You roll your eyes, and he savors the sass, breathing in the ease of his morning routine. He lets himself get comfortable, imagining coming home to this forever.
“No, c’mon,” you huff, “You're so independent. You’re a one-mug compartment; I don’t want to disrupt your organization if that’s the way you want it.” You talk in code. He searches his memory for what you could possibly be talking about. He settles for a confused look thrown your way, before slipping his prosthetic back on.
“You can redo the whole kitchen if you want to keep a mug here, sweetheart.” He finishes the sentence, and then suddenly you’re beside him, helping him through his usual routine. It’s quiet for a long time, and the frown that sits on your face makes his heart rate spike. Had he said the wrong thing?
“What if,” You drop to sit beside him on the couch, just close enough to feel his body next to you without touching. “I wanted to bring more than a few things for the kitchen?”
“Like pans?”
You let out a soft laugh, and he feels the red embarrassment creep up his neck. He feels like a stupid old man, with you talking like this, he’d much rather lay it all out and address what you wanted head-on.
“Use your words,” He mutters, reaching down to massage his leg. “I don’t know what you mean.” When he looks up at you, you look ready to combust, but you don’t say anything for a long time. He nudges you with his elbow to spill, and you bury your head in the crook of his shoulder and his neck.
It wasn’t that you never touched. It was just that you very rarely did it outside of your normal routine. Never anything more than brushes of the hand or reassuring pats. You both saved it for times when one of you was upset, and Jack never wanted to overstep, so he rarely initiated. You had never really cuddled, and you definitely didn’t normally do what you were doing.
Jack brought his hand around to your back, patting you in placid comfort, not really sure what else to do at that moment. You had your fists curled into his scrub top, hiding your forehead in his neck, breathing in the smell of his detergent. You grumbled something he didn’t pick up.
“Slow down.” He tried to pull you out of your hiding place, “Talk to me.”
“It’s so embarrassing,” you mumbled.
“Life’s embarrassing.” He rebutted, “I promise nothing you say to me is going to be something I haven’t heard a million times.”
“I don’t want to talk to Dr. Abbot, I want to talk to Jack.” You ripped your head from your hiding place, frantic energy dripping off of you. “I’m afraid if I never say this, I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering what happened if I did.”
Jack swallowed. All he knew right now was suave ER Cowboy Dr Abbot. Jack was good at talking to people, but he wasn’t so good at pulling the MD curtain back.
So, he’s stuck, because he’s not entirely sure what you’re about to say. He’s not entirely sure how he’ll react. If you told him you were in love with someone else, it would kill him. If you told him you were thinking of moving back home again, he might crumble into a million pieces. If you told him you knew about his lingering, embarrassing crush and had no interest returned, he might just die on the spot.
“I’m in love with you.” His mind goes completely blank. Your eyes are squeezed shut, bracing for the pain of inevitable rejection. You couldn’t possibly know how much pure relief mixes into Jack’s chest. Your fists that still twist in the scrub top begin to shake. “I don’t expect anything in return, I know I’m a total mess still-“You gasp for air.
Jack returns to Earth only after realizing it wasn’t your hands that shook, but your whole body. The fear had finally caught up, and your eyes pricked with tears. You couldn’t look at him, not until he said anything.
Every moment that passed was a knife deeper than the last. You thought this would be the end. Suddenly, the weight of the secret kept safely to your chest seems light, because the crush of nothing in return sinks your hope. You unfurl your fist and let the tears fall.
“I’m so sorry, Jack.”
His head snaps up in awe, mouth slightly slack as he searches you for clarity.
“Don’t be sorry,” He catches your hand as you drop away from him, bringing his other hand to brush the tears away from your cheek. “Don’t be sorry, Sweetheart.”
You shake your head, feeling the suffocation creep into your chest. You can’t breathe, why can’t you breathe?
“I love you, too.” He whispers, and your eyes shoot open. Your lungs were finally granted access to the air previously absent. “I love you, too.” He repeats, mostly for himself, as reassurance.
He wastes no more time, finally pulling your face over, slotting his lips onto yours.
You had spent an embarrassing amount of time fantasizing about what making a move on Jack would be like. You had more than a few late nights where the thought of finally kissing him was enough to satisfy you. You had thought yourself an expert on the topic, but the theory of kissing him was a speck of nothing compared to the practice of it.
His hands were steady and heavy, guiding you through the moment of passion. One hand slipping from your cheek to your hair, keeping you pressed safely to him. The other is creeping around your waist, allowing you to throw your hands around his neck.
His lips moved against yours with quiet peace. He was in no rush to make any moves. His only focus was on keeping you as close to him as possible. The stubble on his cheeks keeps you grounded in the moment, and the hint of what was to come sends a wave of arousal to your center.
He groaned against you when you pressed up into him. He could feel your chest pressing against his. He could feel you, only the thin material of your t-shirt and his between them, he could feel himself slipping into insanity.
“Kid-“He breaks the kiss, you take the opportunity to dive back in, not wanting to do anything but jump his old bones. “Kid.” He braces your shoulders, and you make a sound of protest before pressing your lips to his neck instead.
“Don’t call me that.” You kiss slowly up to his neck. You swing your legs over his lap, straddling him. “Am I a kid? Or am I your sweetheart?” You whisper in his ear, before moving down and sucking a hickey into his neck.
He moans loudly before wrapping his arm around your waist to steady you, guiding your mouth back to his for another kiss.
This kiss was all heat, where the other was sweetness. Jack wasn’t holding back anymore, brushing his tongue into yours, not minding the noises either of you made. He kept you just above him, avoiding contact with the two most sensitive parts of you.
“Where the hell is this coming from, Sweetheart?” You smile at the name, pulling back to look down at him. His lips are swollen and candy pink. His eyes boring into yours, pupils blown wide, searching for relief.
“I couldn’t take it anymore, Jack,” You admitted. He smirked back. “I’ve wanted to fuck you for months.” He couldn’t help but bark out a laugh.
“Why don’t you get set up on my bed? I’ll meet you in there.” He sends you off. You comply almost too easily, only looking back once to give him a coy smile before disappearing into the bedroom.
He’s up quickly, but has to steady himself. He hadn’t been this pent up since he was in basic training. How is this happening? He’s been ashamed of the thoughts he has when he’s desperate for sleep, mind wandering in every direction. He never allowed himself to believe this was possible, and now here he was following you to his bedroom. He felt like it was his first time, too nervous to be of any use to anyone.
You, on the other hand, were propped up on his bed. You had just dropped your shirt behind you, leaving you completely bare. If Jack had thought you were the picture of lust sitting above him on his couch, he didn’t have words for the carnal pleasure he was experiencing just from your bare form on his bed. He reached down and rid himself of his shirt before rushing into bed and climbing over you.
“Jack,” You moaned when his lips crushed against yours. You’d never been kissed with this kind of precision. Jack was lusty and brash, but he knew exactly how to attack you so that your defenses all crumbled. The smell of his cologne, almost faded throughout the night, was heady, mixed into your senses.
The pressure of his body on top of yours, brushing, controlled, and almost out of reach, was driving you insane. You never needed anything more than you needed Jack pressed into you.
He pulled back, looking at you, bottom lip tucked under his teeth. He looked predatory, like a lion licking its lips before dinner. His body was thick under your hands, smatterings of scars and freckles brushed his skin. You reached your hand to trace the freckles along his shoulder, mesmerized by the formations.
He leaned over and kissed your sternum, looking up at you for signs of protest, before he moved to the right and took one of your breasts into his mouth. The feeling of his tongue against your nipple was an electric shock right to your clitoris. He was reverent with you, leaving no space on your chest neglected. His hips finally lowered just below your center, so you could press your core into the meat of his stomach.
You didn’t hold back your moans, threading your hands into the curls of your partner, and pressing your hips upward on a particularly hard suck. He popped off your nipple with a knowing look in his eyes.
“Are you wet for me, sweetheart?” He teased, pulling away to see the evidence of your arousal pressed to the waistband of his cargo pants. “Hmm, looks like it.” He teases, moving his body back.
“No!” You protest, reaching for him to come back. He smiles, taking one of your hands and giving your knuckles a sweet kiss.
“Don’t worry, just want to taste you.” He watches as your head falls back, a flush creeping up your chest. You take a few deep breaths.
“Please, Jack,” You look back up at him, “It’s been so long.”
He wastes no time getting into position and placing an open kiss right above your slit. “Need me to fix it, hm?” He teases, watching you whine above him. “Need your doctor to make it all better?”
You nod frantically, feeling waves of pleasure already pulse through you without his touch. “Yeah, need you.” You buck your hips trying to encourage his mouth. He wraps his arm around your waist, keeping it planted on the bed. “Always make everything better, Jack.”
His chest puffs with pride. He leans his head down, keeping his eyes locked in on you, and licks your entire slit in one swipe. His tongue makes a sacred track through your pleasure. He’s an expert, listening to your sounds to find the places that have your toes curling.
He brings your hand to his head. “Let me know what feels good, sweetheart.” He winks from your thighs, and you feel a gush of arousal leak out of you. He smirks, lapping it up almost as soon as it appeared.
You can hardly focus on anything apart from the feeling of his mouth circling your clit. When his hand comes up, brushing one finger on your entrance cautiously, he doesn’t even need to look up to know your reaction. You pull on his curls, let your head drop back, and whimper with anticipation.
He wastes no time curling one finger in you, breaking away from your pussy to bring his thumb up to rub your clit. With his mouth free, he can finally let his mind wander with lust.
“So fucking beautiful.” He worships you, bringing another finger in slowly. Your head swims with the addition, there’s nothing in your mind except Jack, Jack, Jack.
He laughs, speeding up the circles of his thumb with quick precision. The coil in your belly tightens, and your walls pulse around his fingers.
“Gonna cum for me baby?” He teases, leaning over you to catch your mouth on his.
With a flick of his wrist, your orgasm crashes down over you. Your eyes squeeze tight, and you call out, still pressed against his lips. Your hips jerk upwards, caught against Jack, you feel yourself floating away. His hands slow, but don’t stop until you start to whine and twitch.
Jack moves up, satisfied at the sight of you ruined from just a few pretty kisses and his fingers. Your body was lax against the surface of the mattress, flush and sweaty from your first orgasm of the day.
He moves off of you for a better sight, he has half a mind to take a picture of you, to keep the image forever. His body sags with anticipation, pleasure mixing into his sore body like an antidote. You lift your head and furrow your brows, pulling him back to the bed before flopping over him.
With his back pressed against his bed, your hair creating a halo around your face. You brush your hand over his jaw, through his hair, and lean your lips over his.
“It’s my turn to take care of you, Dr. Abbot.” You crash your lips down to his, before bringing your hand to his chest to push him into the mattress again.
“Knew you had a thing for Doctor’s sweetheart.” He teased you. You crawled down his body, stopping at his zipper. You let your hand delicately trace patterns over the bulge he was sporting.
“Sit up for me?” You asked sincerely, and he obliged, maneuvering until he was sitting at the edge of the bed, with you standing between his thighs.
“You want to take care of me?” He asks, feeling your confidence waver slightly, with the newfound control. “You’re too sweet to take care of an old man like me.” Your brows furrow down at him.
“You’re not an old man.” You protest.
“Oh yeah? Want to remind me?” He flashes a flirty smile, and you return it, leaning down to kiss him again. He catches you, allowing you to kiss him as long as you please.
Once satisfied, you dropped away from his mouth and knelt between his knees, before him. You were already comfortable between the,m and the angle had his eyes dropping closed in satisfaction.
“You have no idea how bad I’ve wanted to get you between my legs.” He confessed to running his hand down your cheek to your chin, tilting your head back up to look at him. You flash bright red, darting your eyes away. “What?” He caught your gaze again. You had a mischievous little smile planted on your lips.
“Well,” You giggle, “I maybe had a little idea.” Peeking a look down at his very clear boner, hiding nothing away from her eyes.
“Oh Fuck,” He throws a hand over his eyes in embarrassment. Of course, you noticed. He can’t believe you haven’t said anything. “I promise I’m not a creep.”
“Definitely not creepy,” You affirm, reaching for the button of his pants. “Flattering honestly.” You confess, and when you look up at Jack, it’s overwhelming. He was staring down at you with such adoration. It was so unfair how charming it looked on him.
“I hope so.”
You had to actively focus on getting his pants off without getting distracted. Taking the time to remove his prosthetic again, quicker, but no less gently than before.
Once, and only after, he was comfortable and free from the metal extension, did you allow yourself to focus back on the task at hand.
Jack was sitting, almost politely, waiting for you to decide what to do next. His black boxer briefs, tight against his hips, revealed every ridge and bump of his erection. It left your mouth dry at the size, but despite its obvious desperation, Jack remained calm and focused on your control.
You wondered if this was what he was like as a soldier. Quiet, contemplative, and obedient at his core. You straddled his waist pressing the heat of your pussy against the slick spandex material. Wasting no time in experimentation, you rock your hips forward over him and are rewarded with a responding buck of his hips. His breath is staggered with pleasure, but his hands are still pliant at your hips.
“I want to fuck you sweetheart.” He admits, taking the moment to flip you back over, his hips securing you to the new position with ease. His lips attack your neck with fervor, trailing down again.
“Jack, wait-“You’re cut off by a press of his hips to yours, still separated only by the thin material around him. You tug at the waistband. “I want to return the favor.” You expect him to peel himself away, but he only groans and pulls away.
“Next time, baby,” He concedes. You pout and bring your hands to press against his cock. “I’m gonna cum way too fast.” You tug at his briefs in protest.
“That’s kinda the whole point.”
“Not when I want to cum inside your cute little pussy.” He retorts, and suddenly you can’t remember what you were arguing for.
He finally tugs himself free, and you see him completely for the first time. Your mouth goes dry at the tidy cock that springs free from the underwear. Thick, not too long to enjoy, but ruddy and ready for pleasure.
Jack’s cock, like Jack, stood proud under your reactions. Your hips bucking up to press against the beast, and your sounds going even more breathless. He leaned over to kiss you again, looking in your eyes to check in.
“We’ll go slow, yeah?” You nod, opening your legs further. “Know it’s been a while.” He kissed your cheek sweetly when you scoffed at him.
Just as soon as he had lightened the mood, he brought the head of his cock to your entrance, pausing to look up at you. He pushed in, bouncing his gaze from your face to the opening stretching around the head of his dick.
His head seemed to push all the air out of your body with ease, your jaw dropped at how full you felt with just the small portion inside of you. His hand came down to reach for your clit, rubbing it in circles as some sort of added distraction from any discomfort.
“Keep breathing for me, sweetheart.” He encouraged, continuing his descent inside you. Your back arching off the bed, peaking your nipples back up to him, and he took pleasure in catching one of them while pushing in even more.
“Holy shit Jack!” You called out when the base of his hips finally pressed against you. He popped off your breast to catch you in another small kiss.
“You ready?” He pressed his forehead to yours, and you nodded.
Your walls pulsed around him as he pulled his hips back, and shook when they snapped forward again, gently. He watched you as his hips pulsed against you. The sounds are growing in volume, and when he brings your leg over his shoulder for a new angle, he knows he’s found it.
Pistoling into your g-spot, he allowed himself to slip into the pleasure of you completely wrapped around him. He felt his heart burst with joy, mingling in with the lust, you were completely surrendered to him. This woman, who had allowed herself so little trust and love, has completely surrendered to him.
His sole focus is your complete pleasure. He watched, keeping perfect time with his thrusts, he admired you on him. “You’re so brave, sweetheart.” He murmured, his mouth working faster than his brain could process.
“Jack!’ He presses into your G-spot, grinding down on it repeatedly.
“Such a brave girl, telling me how you feel.” He folds your body in half, continually rutting against you. “So proud of you.”
That’s when your body shakes, plucking out another orgasm at Jack’s praise. Your eyes roll into the back of your head. You can hardly feel anything other than the overwhelming pleasure coursing through your veins. Jack’s hips steady against your body but growing sloppy with the grip you have on his cock.
“Where do you want me?” He asks, hands coming down to smooth the hair at the crown of your head. “Where should I cum, baby?”
“I-Inside.” You manage to get out before he’s thrusting wildly. He buries his face in your neck before releasing inside of you, painting you with his seed wildly.
You’re practically jelly by the time his hips come to rest against yours and he collapses on top of you.
He lifts his head, tucking one of the sweat-soaked hairs at your hairline back. “I’m gonna get you so many mugs to keep here.” He promised.
“As long as you’re going to be here to make the coffee.” You press a kiss to his cheek and rest your head against him.
“Told you, Sweetheart, I’ll always be there.” And you don’t even tease him about being such a sap, because you know it’s true. You know he’s always going to be right there next to you.
thank u guys for 100 followers and counting omg... lots more filth to come i promise <3
older bf!jack abbot x controversially young gf!reader.
18+. content warnings: daddy kink, age difference, humiliation kinda?
you get out of the shower and pad back into your room. jack's sitting up against the headboard, prosthetic off and leaning against the bedside table. his eyes are alight with indignation.
"i saw your phone," he says, crossing his arms over his chest.
you stare back at him, completely nonplussed. no shit he saw your phone, it's laying right next to him. "...okay?"
he doesn't explain just yet, just huffs and points a thick finger at it. "yeah. i texted you an article... and your phone lit up."
you're now more confused than you've been in your whole life. "... that is what you'd expect a phone to do, jack??—"
"—why is my contact name 'megadilf' in your phone?"
your eyes widen and your mouth gapes open just a little. he was never meant to find out. you'd saved it as that after a drunken night out with your friends: you'd been drooling over his big freckled arms and the sun-damaged skin on his neck and how he used full stops at the end of his messages. you kept it that way because you thought it was funny (and also because it was true).
jack's not really mad, in fact, he's far from it. he knows you're into the fact that he's a silver fox, and he loves it: it makes him feel good, decades younger, attractive. but he can see that you're flustered, so he plays into it.
"is that how you see me?" he asks, his sharp eyes roaming over your form as droplets of water make their way down your skin. "i'm just an old man to you? a dusty old bastard?"
you open your mouth to protest, no, it was just a joke, but he cuts you off: "drop your towel and come give your dusty old daddy a kiss."
and his voice is so firm and gravelly, how could you argue with him? you crawl into his arms, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips. he turns it hungry, of course. all that dilf talk makes him feel virile.
then he's pounding your brains out, making you confess: "say it for me, baby. say it— say you love old man cock. you love this old man cock, don't you? love my daddy parts even though they're tired? still work good enough to turn your brain off, hmm?" while your eyes roll back into your skull.
"i'm big, thick, and i can still get hard, can't i? that not good enough for you?" and yeah, he fucking can. his dick bullies into your cunt so forcefully that it would probably hurt if you weren't so ridiculously soaked with slick. "that's right, moan for me. let daddy know he's still got it. this dilf can still turn you into a fuckin' fountain, right?"
after he's tired you out, he pulls you close, resting his forehead against yours. "didn't mean it in a bad way," you murmur plaintively into the space between you. "i love being your controversially young girlfriend."
and because jack abbot doesn't use social media, he thinks you invented the phrase yourself, and that you're the funniest person in the world. the whole of the next week he goes around chuckling to himself, "controversially young— fuck, baby, how do you come up with this stuff?"
Summary: Jack Abbot doesn't know how to express his feelings in words, so he does what he knows best: Action.
Tags/Notes: afab/fem reader x jack abbot, getting together fic, idiots in love, pining, medium slow burn, first kiss
Content: extremely minor bug mention just in case, canon typical injuries and hospital goings ons
A/N: this was gonna be a 5+1 but....five is a lot
Word Count: 5.7k
Tonight
“Dr. Robby?” You tap him on the shoulder at the end of his shift and he turns around to size you up. “I was wondering if I could switch to nights permanently.”
His eyebrows pinch together. “Mind if I ask why? Abbot’s usually fighting tooth and nail to get any of our residents on his shift willingly.”
Your nose scrunches up. The previous seven days on Jack's shift had been the best of your life. In fact, every time you’d been put on night rotation with him over the last year, things felt seamless. Easy. That was incredibly rare in the emergency department. You’d never had a mentor – and now, a friend – who made you feel so capable. So you shrug and tell Robby honestly, “Dr. Abbot’s just been really considerate.” At Robby’s raised eyebrows, you stammer out, “Not that you haven’t or anything, but-”
“Jack?” He snorts at the idea, shaking his head as he picks up a clipboard and starts to scribble out the change on it. “Abbot’s just about the least considerate doctor – person, actually – that I’ve ever met. Love the guy, but he has the emotional intelligence of a brick.”
Your head tilts to the side. “Really? He’s never been like that with me.”
Robby shrugs and purses his lips, almost looking impressed. He doesn’t press any further, but he knows Jack well enough to know what that means. “Well, I’m not going to stop a capable young doctor from covering our hardest shift if you want to. Pulling a double tonight or taking 24 hours off?”
Eager to tell Jack the news, you reply, “Double.”
Then
You’re on day shifts exclusively your first month at PTMC, transferring over as a senior resident, because of a bunch of scheduling shuffles, which means you owe nights a month’s rotation. You’re dreading it to begin with, but you find your stride quickly. Dr. Abbot doesn’t look too closely at first; you’re another baby doctor in a sea of them. The vast majority of your cohort will leave PTMC and, even if they stay in the city, it’s rare anybody sticks around for emergency medicine past when they have to.
But you take a liking to it right away. The adrenaline, the mental challenge, the constant rush of movement. You like being on your toes at all hours. You like the feeling of the city at sunset and sunrise and prefer the odd hours of sleeping the day away while the rest of the world churns. You like everything about it, including the company.
So, when Dr. Abbot does finally start paying close attention, you click into place together. He finds himself calling your name for help more often than not, searching for your face when he hears your voice, and dialing in on your questions and thoughts. By the second week, he’s talking up the program to you, trying to convince you to stay and work with him during your fellowship. By the third, he’s noticing all sorts of things he’s never paid attention to in other doctors – how you brush your teeth after your lunch break, how you match your socks to your hair ties, how you snort when you really laugh and how your eyes widen in embarrassment right after.
The moment you leave his service, back to Dr. Robby during the day, he misses you.
Which is new.
The second evening without you, dying to tell you something that happened on his shift, Jack comes in an hour before he’s scheduled, catching you as you’re getting ready to leave. And he’s thrilled out of his fucking mind when you wrap him in a hug that smells like your delicate floral deodorant and citrusy shampoo. He finds himself wanting to hold on closer, to squeeze you tight, to breathe you in as long as he can.
Which is new.
When you ask why he’s there with so much time to spare, he shrugs and tells you, “Set my alarm an hour early by accident.”
Jack Abbot has never once done something by accident and everyone knows that perfectly well. But you write it off with a smile and tell him how good it is to see him on your way out. You squeeze his bicep, not thinking about the friendly gesture, but Jack memorizes the feeling for the rest of the night.
Which is new.
So he shows up early again the next evening.
That time, his excuse is, “Couldn’t sleep anyway. Figured I might as well get a head start on my night.”
That’s believable enough. Nobody in emergency medicine sleeps well.
The next evening, “Traffic’s lighter if I leave earlier.”
You graciously accept it, not mentioning how there isn’t any traffic at this hour. You figure he must live far away; the highway can get clogged up any time around the city.
Then, “Just covering a gap in the schedule.”
You do a quick scan and mental tally, eyes running over the busy ED and then the shift board nearby. Everyone who’s scheduled is on-time or early. Nobody has asked Jack to cover and everyone is surprised to see him. You tell yourself you must be counting wrong.
If you take Jack’s word for it during the remainder of your rotation on days, the hospital will fall apart if not for that one hour when his time overlaps with yours: He has to catch up on a supposed mountain of overdue paperwork (Jack has never gotten behind on paperwork in his entire career), check out the rig by the ambulance bay (which Dr. Robby always leaves completely immaculate for him), or do whatever crucial, critical scut work that absolutely has to be done by him right when you finish your shift (checking defib batteries, calibrating the monitors, tightening gurney wheels).
You’re oblivious to his painfully transparent excuses, never questioning him, just glad to talk to a familiar, friendly face for a little while before you finish your work for the day.
Finally, on your last day shift before a 24-hour break to return to nights, Jack admits, “Just couldn’t wait until tomorrow to see you.”
The smile you give him is better fuel to keep going than any cup of coffee.
Tonight
You shoot a text to Jack from the doctor’s lounge while you take your break between shifts.
>> robby approved my request!! back on nights as of right now
>> so you don’t have to come in early to see me, loser
<< I’m already getting ready to leave. Loser.
>> see you soon :))
<< Can’t wait.
<< :)
The emoji – something he only ever sends to you, not that you're aware – makes you grin to your phone. Heading over to the locker room, you change into your spare scrubs and make a point of brushing and redoing your hair. There isn’t much you can do to be cute as a doctor, but the little things matter to you.
While checking in for your shift change at the nurse’s station, you hear Jack’s truck pull up into his reserved handicapped space next to the ED entrance. You head outside to meet him instead of waiting for him to get there.
Jack’s getting out of the truck, carefully swinging his leg, when you round the corner. The moment he’s stable on his feet, you wrap him in one of your signature hugs and all the tension in his body fizzles out. Yes, you hug everyone because you’re the sweetest human being alive, but for Jack it’s as good as getting a full body massage and smoking a joint the way it relaxes him. He closes his eyes and lets himself enjoy it. Lets himself feel the curve of your back and the softness of your cheeks. Lets himself breathe you in. You always throw your whole body into it, both arms around him, head nuzzled into his neck, waiting until he takes a deep breath with you to let go.
“Evening, sunshine,” Jack glitters as you pull back. With nobody able to see him, his smile is wide and innocent. A smile that none of his other coworkers have ever seen. “So you’re stuck with me from now on?”
“Until you piss me off,” you tease. “Did you sleep okay?”
“Never,” he chuckles. “How’s the day been?”
“It’s been an easy one. Set a few broken bones, fixed up a few lacs. Oh! I pulled a live cockroach out of someone’s ear.”
Jack shivers. “How big?”
“Had to be two inches,” you say, still cringing at the image it burned into your mind. “Pro tip: Don’t pull by the legs.”
“Good to know. I pulled a couple flies from an ear once, but they were already dead. Thank god.” He opens up the passenger side door and pulls out a large bag of takeout. “I went ahead and grabbed us something from that Thai spot around the corner. C’mon, let’s go to the breakroom and fuel up before the sun goes down.”
You give him a cheeky look and suggest, “Wanna eat in the park instead? I could use a break from the fluorescents and stale air before I get back in there. Beautiful sunset, too.”
He gives you a boyish smirk. “Yeah, alright.”
Neither of you mention that the Thai spot ‘around the corner’ is ten minutes in the wrong direction from his house, but it’s your favorite, so that doesn’t bother him. The ‘park’ across the hospital is more like a patch of grass with a couple of benches, but it’s a quiet spot compared to the chaos awaiting inside. And your thighs touch when you sit next to each other, something Jack craves even if he isn’t sure you notice.
“Thanks for the food,” you say, nudging him with your shoulder, as the two of you get settled. “Let me know what my half is.”
“As if I’d ever take your money when I’ve seen your paychecks.” Jack rolls his eyes as he opens up the bag, digging out your respective meals and handing you a plastic fork. “Figured you were planning on a vending machine dinner between shifts; you need some real food.”
With a pleased little pout, you reply, “You didn’t have to do that for me. I packed myself an extra sandwich.”
Jack shakes his head with a smirk. “One of your bullshit ‘single slice of turkey and cheese ’ sandwiches? No way.” Quickly, too quickly, he adds, “I’m not about to catch a malpractice suit because my resident’s hands are shaking while placing a chest tube.”
He opens up both containers. The smell of your literal favorite pad thai with extra lime makes your mouth water. As usual, Jack’s right; your sandwich would be nothing compared to a mountain of proper carbs and protein. Watching him take his own dish with hungry hazel eyes, you ask, “You didn’t have breakfast at home?”
He gives you a hunky smile, stabs his fork in, and tells you, “I’d rather eat with my favorite girl.”
Then
By your third rotation on nights, you and Jack are practically attached at the hip the whole shift. You know when he wants a 10 blade or a 20 blade, which direction he’s going to turn when he reaches for a kit, how he suppresses his grin and flexes his fist when he does something exactly right.
You’ve also learned that Jack likes to fix things. You assume he’s just that kind of man, one who takes things into his own hands when he sees they’re broken. The kind of man who doesn’t like to wait to call maintenance or supply to solve a problem. You definitely don’t assume you’re anything special to him.
But you are. Christ, you are.
When it comes to you, Jack…can’t help himself. It’s like a twitch, his desire to make things easier in your life. So, even though he’s not at all that kind of man, he becomes it.
Your locker keeps jamming; the next evening, the hinge has been replaced. Your phone charging cable frays; when you go for your break, it’s been cleanly patched with electrical tape. Your penlight burns out; the next time you go to grab it, the light comes on right away. You trip standing up because your favorite chair has a loose screw; it’s totally solid the next time you sit down.
You never ask him to do things and he never does any of it in front of you. But you know it’s him. It’s always him. Never mentions it, never asks for thanks. Beyond all that, you have no idea that he’s the one who gets you a new pair of safety goggles ahead of schedule, the one who orders you a new badge when your ID card warps, the one who always makes sure your trauma kit is stocked, sharpened, and seamless. Those things happen in the periphery of your life, written off as scut or administrative work.
This is Jack’s way of compartmentalizing his barely deniable desire for you. He can change out your locker hinge so he doesn’t brush that hair behind your ear as an excuse to touch your cheek. He can tighten a screw so he doesn’t stare at your lips too long. He can do anything for you so that he doesn’t pull you into an on-call room to kiss you and hold you and have you the way he wants. It gives him an outlet to show he cares without scaring you off or overstepping boundaries.
Of course, the problem is that the more Jack observes you and the more he silently improves your life wherever he’ll allow himself, the more he realizes just how much danger you unknowingly accept. And that makes holding his mental boundaries pretty damn difficult. Maybe it’s the old soldier’s mentality, trained to be on alert at all times, or maybe it’s just that nagging need to protect you every time you’re nearby, but he starts creating a mental to-do list of things to fix that go well beyond what he can justify as friendly or professional.
First things first, your car is a piece of shit. A complete disgrace, frankly. You’ve had it since high school. He could replace the wipers and the tires all he wanted, but the thing's still a death trap. Half the time, you end up walking to and from work because it won’t start in the winter.
Jack decides he’s finally had enough of it one night when you’re already bundled up for another frigid walk home, scarf wrapped all the way to your nose, hat tugged down your forehead, gloves halfway on as you make your way across the parking lot. He has to hustle to catch up with you, careful not to slip with his prosthetic leg throwing him slightly off balance on the ice.
He calls your name and touches the back of your arm briefly, startling through the audiobook coming through your headphones. His hazel eyes are intense and warm, tempting as a crackling fire. “Can I give you a ride?”
You put on your usual smile and shake your head. “That’s alright, Dr. Abbot. I’m not far from here.”
Your cheeks are already bright pink from the biting wind and your breath is swirling into fog in the air. So Jack doesn’t move. In fact, he reaches down between your freezing bodies and squeezes your hand. With both of you wearing gloves, the gesture isn’t exactly intimate or anything, but it still grounds you and takes your attention to how serious he is. His voice drops low, gravelly, and he tries again, “Let me drive you home. Please.”
Reluctantly, you agree.
And, within all of two minutes, the heated seats and soft rattling of the police scanner have your head lolling back in sleep. Jack smiles to himself at the fact that you feel comfortable enough in his presence to pass out open-mouthed and ugly, not the cute practiced sleep girls will try to pull off after a date. He does an extra lap around the city just to let you get a few uninterrupted minutes of rest.
The next evening, Jack’s truck is idling in front of your apartment building before you can even try to start your car, a coffee waiting for you in the passenger’s side cup holder. The two of you don’t even have to talk about it; he just starts driving you to and from work any time you’re on nights.
Once that gets going, Jack insists on walking you to your apartment door, too, not liking that you have to ride up a rickety elevator and dimly lit hall by yourself. He watches you struggle with the sticky lock on your door one too many times for his taste. The protective part of his brain can picture the worst in those precious seconds you’re alone with your back turned.
When you start inviting him in for a thank-you drink before he goes home, he takes the opportunity to sneak a screwdriver and WD-40 into your apartment to fix the locks while you’re in the bathroom. On another occasion, he checks all the locks on the windows and tightens a few. Just to be sure. He has to get a little creative to fix the flickering bulb next to your apartment door, but you just assume your super did it.
By the time Jack’s content that you’re safe and secure regardless of his presence, the two of you are eating breakfast together at his favorite deli on Fridays, grabbing coffees and donuts on Sundays, and staying up late/early on Mondays since the two of you have off most Tuesdays. He doesn’t realize until it’s too late that his attempt at putting things in neatly organized boxes has just led him to create more space in his mind to fill with you.
Tonight
“Good call on that AVM earlier, sunshine.”
Jack’s voice behind you at the end of your shift together makes you turn sharply on your heels, a big smile lighting up your face. For whatever reason, the flow of the shift has had the two of you working on opposite sides the whole night, rarely overlapping for even a quick exchange. When you’d made your one big save of the night, Jack hadn’t been looking over your shoulder to praise you and your face had fallen in disappointment even as Shen clapped you on the back.
So you can’t suppress the proud little smile as you check, “You heard about that?”
“Course I did.” He beams, looking to everyone else like he might just scoop you up into his arms and spin you around to celebrate your minor achievement. But, in your mind, that’s just how he usually looks at you. Then, with a little smirk, he asks, “You need a ride home?”
You roll your eyes and nudge him as the two of you walk toward the lockers; he already has his backpack shouldered, so he must’ve finished a few minutes before you. “What would you do if I said no all of a sudden?”
“Then I’d walk you,” he says simply. “Get your things; I’ll warm the truck up for you, alright?”
You grin and squeeze his shoulder. “Be right there. Thank you.”
“It’s no problem.”
As you slip into the locker room, Langdon, red-faced and frustrated as he sorts through his things, gripes, “Tell me how the hell you got on Dr. Abbot’s good side because I clearly need some tips if I’m going to survive the rest of this rotation.”
The locker room’s absolutely buzzing with activity since it’s shift change. You’re running a little behind, so Dr. Robby’s already there again alongside a few of your fellow residents.
As you open up your locker and grab your backpack, your nose crinkles up. “What do you mean? I never had to do anything special; Dr. Abbot’s always been nice.”
He scoffs, “Always?”
“Maybe not my first shift,” you concede, pulling on your hoodie to brace for the dark early morning winter air, “but once he saw me work, I think he warmed up a lot.”
“Well, I’ve been working with the asshole for years and haven’t made any headway.” He gestures at Robby, who’s suiting up to start the day shift. “Hell, Abbot barely likes Robby and they’ve been working together since the Stone Age.”
“Because I’m not her,” Robby laughs. “And you aren’t either, Frankie; you’ve just gotta accept Jack for who he is. He’s not nice.”
Before you can protest that Jack’s actually one of the nicest people you’ve ever met, Frank’s sighing out, “Then what the hell is Dr. Sunshine over here doing so differently?”
Robby shrugs like it isn’t complicated. “That’s just how Jack is when he loves someone. He’ll drop anything – do anything – for her.”
Then
You’re lancing a boil when you hurt yourself for the first time at the ER. Javadi’s trying to hold the patient still and reassure him into being calm, but he can’t help thrashing away from the scalpel every time you approach. He’s numbed up well and not aggressive, but he can’t stop it. It finally seems like he’s going to stay still and you’re about to make the cut, spreading the skin with your other hand, when he thrashes again.
And you get knocked off balance, sending your scalpel slicing right down your forearm. As the patient starts to babble out frantic apologies, the tool clatters to the ground. You snatch a cloth from the nearby cart and press the wound down. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck.”
Javadi reminds the patient to stay calm and checks, “How bad is it? Do you need help?”
“It’s nothing,” you lie, scouting out an escape route, “I just- Shit. I’ve gotta go. Sorry.”
Clutching your forearm to your chest, trying to apply pressure, you shuffle awkwardly across the ER, desperate not to draw attention to yourself as you try to rush to Occupational Health to get patched up. But the blood streaming down your elbow and dripping onto the floor isn’t helping your case. Especially since all that red coming from your own body instead of a patient’s is making your vision swim and tilt.
It’s Jack who realizes you’re about to pass out in the middle of the chaos of the night. He’s always tuned into your movements, his subconsciousness and peripheral vision trained to you no matter what he’s doing, and the sight of you staggering away from a patient yanks him from his task into focus.
He’s too deep in his work to move – can’t exactly walk away from an in-progress abscess drain – so he scans the area around you and shouts, “Langdon, grab her! She’s going down!”
Confused, Langdon turns toward the voice, not to his surroundings, and you crumple to the floor, smacking your head against the tile. That’s what gets Langdon’s attention. By then, Jack’s standing anyway, leaving his patient’s side, something he’d never do, to get to you. He brings a roll of bandaging with him, hoping that your blood is coming from a wound he can treat with pressure.
Abbot growls at Langdon as he inspects the goose egg forming on your scalp, “Useless fucking Ken doll.”
“Abbot, I couldn’t have-”
“Get her in line for a CT,” Jack grunts in lieu of a response, “and take my patient – unless you’re too braindead to close up an I&D, given your embarrassing response time.”
That’s the last time Jack gives any thought to Langdon.
His attention goes entirely to you. After wrapping your arm tight in gauze until the bleeding stops, he touches your cheek gently, watching your fluttering lashes closely. “You still with me, sunshine?”
You make a little noise, barely audible, and nod, which makes you wince. “What’s- what’s going on?”
“Just gotta take some pictures, give you a couple stitches, and make sure you eat a snack and you’ll be good as new.”
You murmur, “CT?”
Jack sighs, “Yeah. Pretty solid bump on the noggin there when you went down.”
Blinking at the fluorescent halo around Jack’s silver curls, you slur out, “Too dizzy to get up.”
“Don’t try. I’ve got you.”
Without another word, Jack loops his arms beneath your knees and around your back. He’s careful to cradle your head with his big hand as he carries you across the ER to Occupational Health, where he places you on an open bed. He puts his hand on one of your calves and instructs, “Can you tense up your legs for me? Gotta get some blood moving through your muscles. There you go. Atta girl.”
As your heart starts working properly again, a nurse approaches to take over Jack waves his hand dismissively before she can speak. “I’ll handle this one.”
She watches him carefully. Of course, everyone at the hospital besides you knows about his big fat crush, so her voice is almost teasing as she asks, “Are you sure, Dr. Abbot? We’re more than capable of doing a few stitches if you need to get back to your patients.”
“I know; you did mine when I took that ten blade to the thigh last year,” he chuckles like it’s a fond memory. But then he repeats, leaving no room for argument, “I’ll take care of her.”
The nurse nods, suppressing a smirk. She’s getting a good piece of hospital gossip, after all. “What can I get you, doctor?”
“Let’s do lidocaine with a bicarb buffer and epi,” he says as he exposes and examines the laceration, deep enough to expose the fat beneath your skin, “and a 4-0 polypropylene kit. Thank you.”
In your dazed state, you frown. “You should get back to work.”
“I am working,” he says as he opens up a drawer, pops a blister packet, and hands you a couple pills along with his personal bottle of water. “For your headache.” You down them as he takes the suture kit from the nurse and gets to work cleaning your cut, opening an irrigation bottle. “Little stinging here; quick saline flush.”
You hadn’t even been noticing the pain until the water hits your nerve endings. You flinch away from it, eyes going to the slice, and then a wave of nausea rolls over you at the beading blood.
“Eyes on me; don’t look down,” Jack says softly. Then, to keep your attention, he teases, “What, a little blood makes you woozy, doc?”
Slowly, breathing deeply, you clarify, “Just my own.”
“Needle pinch here; deep breath,” he informs you. The sting makes you hiss in a sharp breath, but Jack is quick to go on, “Tell me why I added sodium bicarbonate to the lidocaine.”
“Because it neutralizes the- Ow, ow, fuck, Jack!”
“Needle’s the worst part, sweetheart, you’re doing great,” he assures you. “Go on. Focus.”
“Makes it- makes it less acidic. Hurts less.” You grit your teeth and eye him. “Supposedly.”
He chuckles at your cute glare, “Exactly. One line on the other side, okay? Now tell me why I added the epinephrine since we’re about to do stitches.”
As he drags the needle beneath the skin on the other side of the laceration, you breathe out, “It reduces bleeding. And the numbness will be deeper. Vaso- vasoconstriction can be an asset when-” You let out the breath as Jack withdraws the now-empty syringe. Relief floods you. “I hate needles.”
“Really? I couldn’t tell.” He smirks, wipes down the site, and gets his suture setup sorted while your arm goes numb. “It doesn’t seem to bother you when you have to stick patients.”
“It’s like the blood thing. Only a problem when it’s me.” To distract yourself from the tugging and discomfort of him sewing you up, you carefully study Jack’s features. The flecks of gold in his hazel eyes, the smattering of freckles at the high points of his cheekbones, the way his brows furrow when he concentrates. Like you can’t even help yourself and before you can think, you say gently, “You’re really beautiful, Jack.”
His hands go still over your arm as he tries to come up with a coherent response while his mouth goes dry. He shakes his head and resumes stitching, unable to meet your eyes. “Those painkillers must be making you loopy if you’re hallucinating like that.”
You roll your eyes. “Pretty sure you gave me Tylenol.”
He ties off the last suture and admires his handiwork. “What do you think, doctor?”
You nervously glance down at your arm and let out a relieved breath to see a perfectly straight line of stitches. “Nice job.”
“Let’s get you down for a CT, then.”
Curious, you reply, “Pretty sure an orderly can do that so you can get back out on the floor.”
“Shen’s on the floor,” he says with a shrug. “I’d rather make sure you’re all set.”
Right Now
You turn to Robby with wide eyes. “Huh?”
Robby rubs the back of his neck and sighs hard. “Look, at this point, it’s getting hard to watch.”
Your heart rate starts rising. “What are you saying?”
“Seriously? Robby shakes his head. “Have you ever noticed Jack doing anyone else a favor? Grabbing them something to eat, cleaning up for them, anything like that?”
Wracking your brain, you offer, “I mean, no, I’ve never noticed, but that doesn’t mean he-”
Exasperated, Robby points to the door and says, “Kid, I’m begging, go put the poor man out of his misery and either break his heart or marry him already.”
And, without any of your things in your hands, you turn, push past him and Langdon and everyone else, and head straight out of the hospital. Your legs are like cooked spaghetti and no amount of deep breaths could steady them as you walk around to Jack’s side of the truck and rap your knuckles on the window.
He startles and gestures for you to move. Swinging open the door, he hops out and asks, “What are you doing? Need me to help with something before we go?”
There’s no stopping a derailed train, so you just blurt out, “Are you in love with me?”
Jack opens his mouth to respond. Closes it again. Breathes in sharply. Huffs out harsh and loud. Then he repeats the routine. Eventually, he shrugs and sighs and puts on a boyish, shy smile that suits his gruff features. In the slow-growing morning light, his post-shift scruff is silver as his hair and the tiredness around his eyes turns to smile lines. “What gave me away?”
You swallow hard. Blink a few times. “Um, Robby did.”
“Should’ve been expecting that one.” Jack leans back against the truck and says, “He’s been on my case about it for a damn long time.”
“How long?”
“How long have I known you?”
“Jack, I- I don’t understand.” Stumbling over it all, you stammer out, “You’ve never said anything. You’ve never flirted with me and- and you hardly ever touch me, never unprofessionally, and you just-”
“I know I’m not romantic,” he cuts you off. “Y’know, I’m a soldier. I’m…rough around the edges. I get that. I’m not the kind of guy who does flowers and chocolates, never have been. I don’t know how to talk to make a girl blush. None of that comes naturally to me.” His eyes finally rise back up to yours. “But I love you something fierce. I love you down to my bones.”
Every single gesture over the last year fits together like a puzzle.
Every mundane fix of your locker, your backpack zipper, your apartment’s latch. I love you.
Every shared drive home and walk up to your door. I love you.
Every perfectly prepared coffee, memorized takeout order, and extra snack from the vending machine. I love you.
Every time he’s idled outside your apartment until he knows you’re inside safely. Every time he’s waved his hand nonchalantly to clean up your station after a trauma so you could finally run to the bathroom like you’ve been dying to. Every time he’s replaced something before you even noticed it was missing or broken. Every time he’s tied on your trauma gown, let you borrow his jacket, or taken your turn for a supply run.
I love you something fierce.
I love you down to my bones.
You feel it all wash over you like a wave. Tears catch thick in your throat
Yes, Jack Abbot loves you. He loves you quietly. Steadily. In the small moments. His love is sturdy, a foundation, a background hum that you’ve slowly but surely built the scaffolding of your life on.
You’re frozen in place like it’s sub-zero outside instead of mid forties, so Jack carefully takes your hand in his, brings it ever so briefly to his lips, and asks, “That alright with you?”
You’ve completely lost the ability to speak, so you do what he’s apparently been doing this whole time: You find a way to tell him without words. One of your hands goes to his chest, fingers curling around the edge of his open jacket. The other snakes upward along his scruff neck, around the back of his head, settling among his half-gray hair. His expression is softening like music just before a chorus.
Leaning up onto the balls of your feet, you tentatively touch your lips to his. He stiffens in disbelief, his mouth unsure how to mold against yours after years without kissing anyone. But then your fingertips dig ever so slightly into his scalp. Your chest presses against his. And your Chapstick tastes like citrus.
Fuck, he just can’t take it anymore.
Jack gives in. He has no choice.
With a low, downright needy grunt, his hands are on your hips and riding up your waist beneath your shirt and in your hair and cupping your face and he’s consuming you, he’s breathing you in, he’s letting his nerves merge with yours and he loves you so much that he feels it in every hair, every cell, every atom of his being.
Against his lips, breathless, wanting, adored, you murmur, “How about you take me back to your place for once? Let me show you how much I love you, too.”
summary : The PTMC hosts a charity auction, poker night. plus ones are invited, so dr. jack abbot takes his chances to bring you as his. (Inspired by the ep All In from house md)
warnings : fluff, tension, workplace dynamics, age-gap implied, no use of y/n, not really proofread, YEARNING!!, praise, gambling w poker, drinking, medical trauma mention, subtle angst, maybe a kiss oo
words: 5k
“Great. Just when I thought my day was ruined by a patient puking on me, it gets worse.”
Santos strolls over to your side where you’re busy typing up some charts.
You hit the spacebar once and look up at her. “What is it?”
She quirks an eyebrow. Not an unusual sight from her. “Did you not hear? The charity auction? Langdon said he’s going now.”
“The auction” you trail off, mind reaching back to try to remember if you heard anything. “What auction exactly?"
Your fellow resident plops down on a chair that emits an annoying squeak. “You know, the fundraising event. We all got invited. I heard there will be poker too, so that’s the only reason why I’m going.”
Whitaker passes by, in his own little world.
Santos snickers. “I’m gonna get him to bet everything.” She jabs a thumb in Whitaker’s direction.
Javadi chimes in, sounding as tired as she always does at the end of the day shift. “You’re evil.”
“I’m fun.”
You don’t recall seeing anything about this event, however. But you seldom checked your email, and you’re sure it’s somewhere buried in your overflowing digital inbox.
Sure enough, it is. You glance over the flyer that was emailed to you a few hours ago.
PTMC Charity Night
Auction
Poker
Dinner and Cocktail Bar
Formal Dress
Plus ones invited.
It’s tomorrow evening.
“Do I have to go?”
Santos shrugs. “Probably. Hopefully we’ll get more funding for this hellhole. We need more staff.”
Her phrase couldn’t be more perfectly timed.
“Santos! We need you in here,” Dr. Robby barks from across the Pitt.
“Duty calls,” you drawl.
She pops out of her chair with a groan, leaving you to analyze the flyer some more.
Formal dress? You don’t even own any dresses these days. And what would you do at an auction?
Maybe you’ll just join Santos and Whitaker at the poker tables. The thought of Whitaker taking home more than Santos makes you giggle to yourself.
“Are you going?” You turn to Joy. She rolls her eyes.
“Hell no. Those things are all politics. I have better things to do.”
You shrug. Maybe she’s right.
Out of the corner of your eye, Dr. Jack Abbot exits a trauma room and scans around.
You straighten your back instinctively, slipping your phone in your pocket, hands flying back to your keyboard. You were on a mission to prove yourself as a hardworking resident, and you needed to finish these charts before the night shift loads more on you.
The last thing you needed was to be pulled back in with another patient. You were tired, and your bed was calling your name.
Joy continues, ignorant to the fact that you’re furiously typing away on the computer.
“And who knows what they’re auctioning. Makes you wonder who’s gonna show up to buy that crap.”
“I’d like to find out.”
You turn at the sound of Dr. Abbot’s voice, closer than you expected. He looks to Joy, then to you. “Talking about the charity event?”
“I’m not going,” Joy mutters.
“I’m pretty sure it’s mandatory.” Abbot smirks. “You afraid of losing in a round of poker?”
Joy’s face contorts in disgust. “Whatever. My shift is over. Going home. Bye.”
Almost in unison, Abbot and you give each other that look. You stifle a laugh and he grimaces as Joy dramatically storms away.
Once she’s out of earshot, Dr Abbot takes a step closer to you. “She’s allergic to fun.”
You almost snort.
“I assume you’re going?”
Then you get the truth from him. “I’m pretty sure I have to be there. I don’t have a choice. Robby’d kill me if I didn’t show up.”
You nod in agreement. “Probably, he’s always looking for excuses for that.”
This gets a low chuckle out of Dr. Abbot.
Someone calls out an incoming patient, severe blood loss, missing foot.
Abbot takes a quick breath. “Sayonara.” And with that, he’s gone, leaving you to finish charts.
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After another twenty minutes, you finally get to perform the glorious miracle of clicking the log out button.
You gather your items from your locker, and make your way towards the exit. You always liked leaving through the ambulance bay, thankfully only on rare occasions you had to go through the waiting area.
To your surprise, Dr. Abbot stands by the curb, both hands relaxed in his pockets. He’s not facing the doors, just looking out into the distant night sky, back turned against you.
You attempt to move past him quietly, but he hears the rustle of your coat against your backpack, and lowers his head and turns in your direction.
“Hey,” he says softly, seeing it’s you, facing you as you step away from the exit doors.
He’s glad you’re finally heading out. You always spend too long after your shift, but he never says anything. Never tells you to leave when it’s time. Part of him knows you’re trying to prove yourself, and part of him, well, though he’d never say it out loud, just likes your presence.
You’re sparkly, bubbly, smooth, everything he isn’t. You bring in just a little bit of the daytime into his night shift.
“Your patient okay?” You ask, legitimately concerned, because the last you remember, there was a commotion in triage, led by the attending himself.
He runs a weathered hand through his silver curls. “Yeah. He’s okay. Stable now and going up for surgery. I just needed some fresh air.”
“Ah, good to hear.” You grip the strap of your bag tighter.
He clears his throat, looking off to the distance, trying to find the right words. “So, uh, tomorrow night.”
“Mhmm?”
Abbot takes a step closer and his gaze lands back on you, his eyes glimmering from a streetlamp close by. “The invite says plus ones are invited. You can say no, but-”
He pauses. This could cross a line. Not a big one, not technically, but he doesn’t want to have to make things complicated. You’re a resident. He knows how it could look.
He almost drops it. Almost lets you walk past like nothing happened. But it’s too late and you’re giving him an inquisitive look, the same one he sees you do when you’re waiting for instructions on call.
“Will you come with me?”
You stammer before your brain catches up with your mouth. And your response even surprises yourself.
“Yeah! I mean, sure.” You look down at your feet before glancing up at him with a puzzled expression. “I’m already… invited though. You could find someone else to be your plus one…”
He shrugs his broad shoulders. “I know. I’m asking anyway.”
There’s confidence in his tone now. No deflection. Like he’s already made up his mind.
“Oh, okay, yeah, I can be your plus one,” you say back with a timid smile.
Abbot tilts his head, analyzing you for any doubts. “I’ll pick you up around six, that good?”
He wouldn’t push if you didn’t want this. That much is clear in the way he asks.
“Yeah, I’ll be ready then.” You fight the flush creeping up your face.
“Good.” He turns, already heading back inside. “Have a good night.”
‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗
You’ve never been more anxious about shopping. You stopped at maybe four, no, five stores before finding something that wasn’t too revealing. You didn’t mind showing a little extra skin, and the thought of standing close to Dr. Jack Abbot in an open back dress, leaving less to his imagination, did in fact tempt you.
That thought lingered more than you wanted it to.
Show some dignity, geez. He was maybe just being polite, helping you feel included.
No, that wasn’t it. He doesn’t do things just to be polite. Not like that. Not with you. You didn’t just bypass the social norms of an event for someone you felt casual about.
Your fingers wrap around the smooth, silky fabric of a long, black dress. You unhook it from the rack and hold it up against your figure. It’s in your size. The price tag flashes and you bite your lip. It was definitely more expensive than your budget in mind, but it was the first dress where the neckline didn’t drop below your sternum.
And more importantly, it feels like you. Or at least… a version of you, one you don’t let people see often.
You twirl around in the dressing room, admiring how well it fits every curve, every inch of your body. It had a tight bodice that held in your midsection, making your waist appear much smaller than it actually was, and fabric draped over one shoulder, purposely falling off the other shoulder, giving it a more sultry edge that even you couldn’t resist.
You shouldn’t like it this much. You shouldn’t be thinking about how the night shift’s attending physician’s eyes might sweep over you.
The employee helping customers agreed. “You look smokin’.” She had said when you stood in front of the mirror.
Damn it, this was the one.
You have to look away when the cashier rings you up.
Anything to give you a milligram of courage would be necessary. It was worth the sacrifice.
‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗
As you pull on your heels, there’s a loud three knocks at your door.
“Coming!” You yell, but you’re in the furthest room of your apartment. They probably couldn’t hear your voice.
One, no, two sprays of perfume. For good luck.
For him.
You take one last glance into the mirror, and blink when you almost don’t recognize yourself. You can’t remember the last time you looked this put together. You touch your necklace, a dainty chain with a small charm rests on your exposed collarbone. Your pulse thrums faster than normal where it sits against your skin.
The knocks come again. You nearly trip down the stairs rushing to get the door. With one ruffle of your hand, your hair falls neatly into place. It’s usually in some tight style, pulled away from your face, but tonight you let it free. Leaving in its natural state as much as possible.
You tug open the handle, and your heart immediately skips when you see him standing there.
Dr. Jack Abbot has nearly the same reaction that you do, and both of you stand there in silence, taking in each other’s new appearance.
He doesn’t hide it. Not even a little.
His hazel eyes drop and travel from your legs, slowly, deliberately, tracing every line, every curve, until they meet your face again. He takes you in like he’s memorizing every feature.
“You look amazing.”
It’s hard to stay calm under his darkened gaze. There’s something behind his usual demeanor that feels heavier, intentional. Hot.
Focused entirely on you. He can’t help it.
“You- look amazing too,” you stutter to return the compliment, a little dizzy under the weight of his attention.
He’s in a well pressed suit. He didn’t shave, thank goodness. You loved his scruff. His hair is more in place tonight. You catch the faint auburn still lingering beneath the silver. A sleek black tie sits at his neck.
It’s a bit crooked.
“Here, let me-” you say, stepping closer.
Reaching out your hands, you close the distance between, air filled with the scent of his woodsy cologne and of your cozy, vanilla perfume.
It’s warmer here. Close to his body.
He stills as you fix the tie into a straight line, letting you, too transfixed on your long lashes that frame your beautiful face. He cannot take his eyes off you.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare.
Wow.
Jack Abbot always knew you were pretty. Stunning even.
But now he was struggling to find air, especially when you let one hand smooth out the tie before you take a step back, toeing the line of intimacy and professionality.
“Dr. Abbot,” you say, waiting for him to take the lead.
“Shall we?”
He holds out his arm, allowing you to slip your arm in the crook of his elbow. As your arm slides in, he lowers down to your ear, his gravely voice nearly sending chills down your exposed spine.
“It’s Jack, for tonight.” He murmurs, closer than needed.
Then, he pulls back, a small, knowing look in his eyes, and guides you down the stairs to his car, supporting you in your delicate heels.
‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗
The hospital floor just above the emergency room has been transformed into a moody party venue. They host it here, since technically all the doctors and nurses are still on call downstairs, allowing anyone to hurry away to a patient if needed.
Abbot helps you out of the car, holding out his large hand, taking yours in it, guiding you out of the door.
“Thank you,” you say quietly, unaccustomed to this level of chivalry.
His head ducks. “Of course.” As you both take a step forward, you feel the warmth of his palm against your lower back, a gentle guide as you make your way to the entrance.
It’s noisy, but not overwhelming inside. Soft jazz music drifts out of speakers. There’s the clacking of chips at a few tables. Everyone else is dressed up as much as you were. Dana’s wrapped in a light blue dress. Santos sports slacks and a button down shirt. Whitaker’s tie is already discarded as he’s hunched over the poker tables.
“Let’s grab some drinks, shall we?” Jack says, pointing to the cocktail bar.
Admittedly, you’ve already had a tall glass of wine at home while you were getting ready for tonight. You’re not ready to admit why you were so on edge, but any extra drinks would be welcome.
“Sure, let’s do it.” You grin at him, giving him permission to lead the way.
Mckay walks by in a green gown, and stops, jaw going slack.
“Are you guys…” she trails off, unsure of what to even say, “together?”
Jack’s hand is still pressed to the small of your back and he sidesteps into the space between you. “She’s my plus one tonight.”
Mckay’s eyes go wide. “Oh- okay… didn’t know this was happening,” she says, then hurries off.
You glance up at Jack, biting your lip out of embarrassment. But all he gives back is a confident smirk.
He’s just happy you’re here.
Dr. Robby is hovering by the cocktail bar, making light conversation with unfamiliar hospital staff. He does a near double take when he spots the two of you, catching him mid-sentence.
“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” He raises a whiskey glass in your direction.
“Nice tie,” you interject, already feeling warmer than what’s a comfortable level for you.
Robby reflexes and touches his bright purple tie. It tells you that maybe it’s the only one he owns now. “Why thank you, but you didn’t answer my question.”
Jack interrupts to your rescue. “The invite said plus ones were welcome. Thought I would bring one,” he says casually.
“Ah.” There’s a mischievous glint in Robby’s crinkled expression, but he doesn’t push anymore. Figures it's about time that Jack gets some action.
It’s been ages since he’s actually entertained the thought of a date. If that’s what one could call this interaction. It’s a date, right? He asked you out.
Between exhausting night shifts and fun extracurriculars like being on call for SWAT, there just isn’t a lot of time to go out there and pursue anything romantic. Sure, he might have participated in flirty conversation at the bar, but work was his new responsibility. It never went anywhere.
The relationships around him sustained him plenty. And perhaps a newcomer on the day shift a few months ago motivated him even more to stay “off the market”. He didn’t see her much, but always tried to find opportunities to slip her into procedures when the night shift came in to take over.
And a charity night, plus ones invited… it was an easy excuse. To finally ask out someone he’s had his fancy on for far too long.
As you near the bar, the woman behind perks up. “Hiya! What can I get for ya?”
“I’ll take an aperol spritz.” You’re hoping it might cool you down slightly.
She nods and turns to Jack. “And for you, sir?”
“A Manhattan, please.”
You watch as she begins to mix the drinks behind the counter before your hair is being swept off your shoulder. You glance over, and watch as Jack’s hand lowers.
He gives that all-too-familiar half-smile. “Sorry, just wanted to see the necklace you have on.”
Your chest tightens. For a split second, you expect eyes on you, questions, and unwanted attention. But there’s nothing. Just background chatter and laughter, like the rest of the room exists in a completely different world.
“Oh. It’s from my mom. She gave it to me before I started med school. It’s just been my good luck charm since.”
He’s not looking at the necklace. Instead his quiet attention rests on your lips, listening to you as you explain the significance of the pendant.
“Here you go!” The bartender places the drinks on the counter, and you eagerly take a sip.
“How is it?” Jack says after taking a sip of his own.
“It's good, wanna try?” You hold the glass up to him.
His finger tips brush your hand for a half second while you pass him the spritz, taking a sip directly in the spot where your lipstick stains the rim.
You wonder what he would look like with lipstick stains on his freckled cheeks, against his greying temple, down his rosy neck.
“Um, how about we go play some poker?” You breathe, trying to wipe your mind of wherever it was deciding to go just now.
He hums. “Sure, let's do it, you feeling lucky, sweetheart?”
It shouldn’t affect you… “sweatheart”... but your chest tightens at the sound.
You loop your arm into his again, your hand resting gently on top of his bicep with a newfound excitement. “I’m feeling extra lucky tonight.”
‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗
The table is already half full when you get there. Santos’s eyes dart around suspiciously, cards snapping between her fingers. Whitaker leans back in his chair like he owns the place, chips stacked high in front of him. Javadi sits quieter, observant, eyes flicking between players like she’s cataloging tells. Al-Hashimi barely looks up, only to take a sip of her nearby drink.
Santos glances up first. “Well, look who finally decided to join us.”
Whitaker sports a tight smile. “Abbot brought backup? That’s dangerous.”
Jack pulls out a chair for you. “Try not to scare her off in the first round.”
You sit, smoothing your dress slightly. “I can handle myself,” you hum.
“Good,” Perlah quips, sliding a stack of chips toward you. “Buy-in’s the same.”
The first few hands move around quickly. You play it safe… at first, watching. Santos likes to push early. Whitaker overcommits when he’s ahead. Javadi folds more than she should, she’s probably never played poker before in her life. Perlah is definitely too experienced.
Jack sits close by, his presence looming over the table. He seems relaxed in a way you haven’t seen in a while… ever, actually. You only ever see him as an attending, nothing else.
“Fold,” Whitaker mutters, tossing cards down.
Santos smirks. “You’ve been folding all night.”
He groans. “It’s a strategy.”
“Maybe he’s just afraid,” Al-Hashimi whispers loudly. The table joins in laugher.
You hide your own smile, glancing at your own cards. Not the best hand, but something you could work with.
Jack leans slightly, hushed voice only you can hear. “Don’t chase the hand. Let them make mistakes first.”
Your eyes flick to him. “You always this helpful?”
“Only when it benefits me.”
You peer at him with squinted lids, and the round continues. You follow Jack’s advice and low and behold, you take a small pot off Santos, then Whitaker. This gets everyone’s attention.
Santos sucks in a breath. “Beginner’s luck.”
You shrug. “Or maybe you’re predictable.”
Whitaker lets out a short laugh. “Oh, this is good.”
Jack doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to, he’s content with you getting the glory.
Another round. Stakes climb and the chips stack higher. A few players drop out in frustrated huffs and signs and the table narrows down.
Now it’s you, Jack, and Perlah across the table, her expression unreadable as always but her fingers tapping lightly against her stack.
“You’re awfully quiet,” she says, eyes flicking between you and Jack.
Jack leans back slightly letting his arms stretch out. “Just enjoying the game.” As he shifts back into the chair, his knee brushes yours under the table, toe of his shoe connecting with yours.
You go still, not sure if you should move. He doesn’t. Maybe he doesn’t realize.
Your heart races as his leg pushes closer into yours.
Okay. It was intentional.
You glance at your cards, wanting to shift your focus away from the slightly distracting connection happening under the table. Strong hand this time. You keep your expression neutral, pushing a few chips forward.
Perlah watches both of you carefully. “Interesting.”
The pot grows. One more round and you’re ready to push it.
You’re just about to go all in, when there’s a page on the overhead speakers.
“Code trauma to the ER. Incoming in two. All available hands, respond”
Jack’s gaze darts to yours. You meet his hazel stare, a knowing look.
“I should go,” he says, rising from the poker table.
Without thinking twice, you pop up to your feet too. “I’ll come.”
He waves a hand. “No need, I can grab someone else.”
But he doesn’t protest when your heels click right behind you, downstairs to the chaos of the ER.
“You probably just saved me from losing everything,” you mumble.
He chuckles. “I think you had it. Perlah was totally bluffing.”
The second the stairwell door swings open, you’re snapped back into work-mode. The beeping machines and humming devices replace the low music upstairs. It’s colder, and the permanent scent of blood and alcohol hangs in the air.
By the time your heels hit the floor, you’re already rushing to a gurney at the other end.
Voices overlap and you tune in quickly, every fiber of your body tensing for the incoming action.
“Blunt force trauma, possible internal bleed- BP dropping- ”
“Let’s move, let’s move.”
Jack, now Dr. Abbot disappears from your side to take his place at the head of the bed.
A nurse taps your shoulders, holding out loose paper scrubs for you to slip on over your dress. It’s somewhat hard to move around, but you manage to stay nimble.
“Do we have a FAST yet?” you ask the nurse, sharper than you expect.
She hesitates. “Not yet-”
“We should. If that pressure keeps dropping, we’re missing something.”
Jack’s eyes flick up at you, appreciative that you can switch into Pitt-mode at the drop of a dime.
As if the lines of passion and professionalism couldn’t blur even more, somehow you’re even more attractive to him as you put on the blue gloves.
“Get ultrasound,” he says immediately. “Now.”
You’re already reaching for the device that’s nearby. More voices call out.
“Pressure’s tanking!”
“Hang another unit!”
But before you use the ultrasound, you lean in, scanning the patient with your bare eyes noticing the subtle asymmetry in the abdomen, just barely noticeable to the trained physician.
“Left side’s distended,” you cut in. “That’s not right.”
The room shifts in unison and different orders are called out. People are moving faster around, but with more intention.
Between motions and commands, Jack’s eyes find you, assessing, checking in.
Making sure you’re good.
Of course you are. His plus one isn’t just anyone. You’re just as capable as the other residents.
This is different. Seeing you in this light, it feels familiar yet so foreign. You’ve clipped your hair back but loose strands still fall in front of your face. Softened. Almost careless. And the dress that exposes just enough to catch a glimpse of your shoulder blades, even with the paper scrubs slung over.
He fights hard to stay focused. Thank goodness for all his SWAT days. Bullets ringing out and your formal outfit are totally like the same thing.
The ultrasound is in place within seconds. Someone calls out findings, and it aligns with what you saw. A nurse pivots immediately, adjusting the line of treatment. Another starts prepping blood.
Dr. Abbot nods once. “Good work.”
There’s a brief lull as the patient is stabilized enough to move once the IV drip hits their veins.
“Prep for OR,” he says confidently.
You take a step back as a team wheels the patient out of the room, leaving just you and the night attending there. Although your hands remain steady by your side, hands stained with the faintest of the patient’s blood, your adrenaline is far from tapering down.
It’s just like another day in the Pitt. Only it’s quieter because of the event upstairs, and you’re in an open back dress, heels that you’re now dying to peel off, and Dr. Abbot, chest heaving slowly as he works his own nerves down.
He drags off the paper scrubs he was wearing and tosses them into the trash, revealing a creasing black suit underneath.
Jack grins.
“Wanna go back?”
You blink as he circles the room, watching you with a new intensity. He places his hand on your exposed shoulder.
You lift your chin slightly, taking in his always-calm features. Despite chaos, he was always anchored. The adrenaline in your veins switches into a warmth that pools below your gut.
“Maybe…”
He chuckles, his thumb brushing slow and absentmindedly over your arm. “...how about the roof?”
You shrug. “Let’s do it, as long as we can grab another drink on the way without anyone catching us sneaking off.”
Jack moves his hand and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger there a beat too long.
“I like the way you think,” he says quieter with an intimate grittiness
Your breath stutters, and you’re not quite sure what you’re feeling anymore as he leads you out of the ER.
‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗‗
You nurse the drink in your hands, closing your eyes as a breeze pushes past the roof.
“This is so much better.”
The evening sky glitters with city lights, cars buzzing quietly below.
It’s quiet, just you and Jack, perched against the railing on the top of the PTMC.
He stands to your left, unmoving, enjoying the silence away from the drama of the event and the chaos of the ER.
There’s only a few inches of space between your arms, and you’re much too afraid to close that distance.
What it would mean for you and him.
You’re confused at what this all means. To Jack Abbot.
“Um,” you say, opening your eyes, but keeping them focused on the horizon. “Why did you ask me to be your plus one?”
Jack’s body shifts as he stands a little taller, pushing himself up with his hands against the rail.
“You didn’t have to invite me, I was probably going to come anyways-”
“-I know,” he cuts you off.
You shake your head. “So then, why?”
Jack’s head dips down. “Would you let me answer?”
“Sorry.”
You hear the rustling of fabric as Jack slides his blazer off, then wraps it around your shoulders.
His leftover warmth settles around your back. You didn’t even realize you were cold till it chases away the goosebumps on your arms and neck.
He doesn’t move away now. And you try to ignore the fact that he’s left one arm around you.
“Look at me,” he says.
You do.
His smile is warm.
“Because I wanted to.”
You just nod.
Like you can’t even accept this. That your attending would ask you out, make a grand appearance with you at his side, even pick you up at your door and escort you like a true gentleman.
No words come out of your mouth, you just open, and close it once.
“Is that not enough?” He asks, still locked onto you.
“It’s just, well, I didn’t expect it. I feel like I hardly know you, outside of work,” the words tumble before you can stop them, tripping over each other. “I mean- you’re my attending, well an attending, and what will people think, it’s like-”
His brows raise quickly. “Hey. It’s just a date. I’m not asking you to marry me…”
You breathe, and relax a little. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”
Jack can’t help but love this side of you. Flustered, but here. Not shutting it away. Just… trying to make sense of it all.
He knows you’re thinking too far ahead. You always do. You’re always two steps ahead at work, how could he expect your personal life to be any different.
His thumb shifts slightly against your arm.
“You think a lot,” he grumbles quietly.
You let out a small shaky laugh. “Yeah. Occupational hazard.”
“Not right now.”
Your brows knit just slightly. “What does that mean?”
He moves closer. The space between you disappears almost imperceptibly. The noise in your head begins to iron out.
“It means,” he says, “you don’t need to figure this out tonight.”
It feels impossible to do that. “Then what do I do?” you ask, voice hushed, almost like you’re asking yourself and not him.
His hazel gaze doesn’t leave.
“Just be here. With me.”
The smile that creeps into his cheeks is quick and small but very real.
Your breath catches slightly, but you don’t look away.
And Jack, he notices.
The way you haven’t stepped back. The way your hand, almost unconsciously, tightens in the fabric of his blazer around your shoulders.
“You’re not as hard to read as you think.”
“Oh?”
“No.” His voice softens, but it doesn’t lose that edge. “You like me.”
Your breath stutters, and this time you don’t even try to hide it.
“Jack-”
“It’s okay,” he cuts in gently, noticing your face falling as his lights up. “I like you too.”
You swallow, your voice quieter now. “You barely know me.”
“I know you enough.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying you like a patient being diagnosed. “I know you don’t hesitate under pressure. I know you don’t try to impress people, which is rare in this place. You’re more stable than most of the ER.”
His hand moves, brushing lightly against your jaw, slow, like he’s giving you time to pull away if you want to.
You don’t.
“And I know I want to know more.”
“Is that a good idea?” you whisper.
A quiet exhale. He blinks. Actually considers your question.
“Probably not.”
Surely he’s drunk. Surely you’ve had too much to drink, but you count the cocktails in your head and there’s not enough combined between you two to make either of you unaware of what’s happening right now.
“But I don’t really care.”
And that’s when he leans in. He hovers , close enough that you feel his breath, whiskey tickling your lips, giving you one last chance to decide.
Without thinking, you move in. His lips meet yours, just holding there for a moment as he takes in the surprise that you kissed him first. Your hand finds the shirt fabric against his chest and you tighten it into a fist, pulling him closer to you.
Jack chooses this moment to deepen it, moving slowly against your mouth, tongue rolling along the edge of your lips. His hand is firm at your jaw now, keeping you there as if you might pull away.
You can’t. He’s kissing you too slowly, too passionately for you to even think about stopping anytime soon.
Just as your arms move up and around his shoulders, he pulls back, darkened eyes looking at yours once before he straightens.
No, come back.
“I meant what I said,” his voice smokey from the kiss, bumping his forehead gently against yours affectionately. “I want to see you more.”
Your heart is racing. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” The left corner of his mouth lifts in his crooked smile. “If that’s okay with you.”
“Yeah,” you say. “That’s… definitely okay with me.”
“Good.”
His hand snakes around your waist before he leans in again, the kiss feeling more real this time.
rumors always start somewhere - and the one about you and a certain attending started somewhere between a whispered confession and myrna overhearing you.
☆ no man's land | @butyoudidthis4what
there's a shooting where you work. jack is at the ed when the dispatch comes in and is terrified when he can't get in touch with you.
☆ edge of the dark | @thepencilnerd
what starts as quiet pining after too many long shifts becomes something heavier, messier, softer - until the only place it makes sense is in the dark.
☆ this city doesn't forget | @abbotjack
you weren't supposed to see him again. not like this. not in this dress, not in this city, not with his last name still catching in your throat. but pittsburgh remembers what you tried to bury.
☆ you, me, and the empty space between us | @mercvry-glow
jack abbot talks the reader off of the ledge.
☆ just a walk-in | @abbotsanatomy
jack's worst nightmare is you ending up in his er.
☆ bar fight | @tedmustache
a rough night leads the reader to the er, and jack's only priority is making sure she's okay.
☆ coffee swap | @tedmustache
it starts with coffee. then it becomes something more.
☆ safe and sound | @science-hoes
a stormy night in pittsburgh causes jack abbot to fall into a ptsd-induced psychosis episode, and the reader does everything in her power to bring them back.
☆ you say that like you care | @frombookstoretobookstore
after reader takes a punch to the face, abbot's emotions flare as he realizes he might care a little too much.
☆ overactive empathy | @lol-im-done
will a traumatic event force jack and the reader to confront their true feelings for each other or pull them apart forever?
☆ first thing | @stellamarielu
lazy mornings with jack are few and far between, but they always exceed your expectations.
☆ who you let in | @eddiesfaerie
jack has a soft spot. he didn't expect you to be the one to find it.
☆ you shouldn't be (down here with me) | @youvebeenlivingfictional
when you're almost shot at work, your body snaps into autopilot as your mind goes into overdrive. jack has always recognized parts of himself in you - he knows a mind teetering on the edge when he sees one.
☆ love me hard love me soft | @mercvry-glow
jack abbot isn't a soft man, but he'll learn for you.
☆ stop making this hurt | @mercvry-glow
you knew jack didn't want to go to pitt fest, instead suggesting you take a few of your girl friends on your day off. little does he know that decision leads to you experiencing the worst day of your life without him.
☆ valkyries and betting pools | @nocapesdahling
one of the most popular and secret betting pools is focused on what's going on with you and dr. abbot. meanwhile, you just want to figure out if the man you've had a crush on for months likes you back.
☆ someone new | @quickestgold
after witnessing the fallout from jack's failed marriage, dana and robby have been skeptical of his new relationship. but when a freak accident forces them to see the depth of jack's feelings, their perspectives shift.
☆ don't make me someone you can't have | @abbotjack
the fallout didn't start the day of pitt fest - it started when you told jack abbot how you felt and he told you he didn't want you.
☆ say it first | @quickestgold
jack has grown used to the emptiness in his heart, a quiet companion that has kept him safe for too long. but when you finally speak your truth, he realizes the hardest battles aren't fought on the field or in the chaos of the er, but in the silence between two hearts longing for each other.
michael 'robby' robinavitch
☆ companionship | @asxgard
he’s not sure how he got here, perhaps it’s the aching loneliness or the overwhelming stress. you’re there because it seems like easy money and you have a pushy friend. all in all, it’s a good deal — he gets the companionship he’s after, no strings, and you get your utility bills paid on time. it’s pretty simple, easy, until your arrangement bleeds into something a bit more…complicated.
☆ lead the way | @traumaone
after over a year of pining over robby, reader gets into a relationship to try and get over him, and gets cheated on. robby comes to the rescue.
☆ booked for one | @abbotjack
a black tie charity gala in chicago. one bed. months of tension. and a storm that forces both of you to stop pretending.
☆ glasses be damned | @thepencilnerd
lazy sunday mornings. you in his shirt. him wearing - glasses? what could be better?
☆ drunk confessions | @thepencilnerd
you're out drinking with your colleagues. robby's not there - until he is.
☆ sticky-notes and leftovers | @thepencilnerd
a glimpse into your daily notions with robby after moving in.
☆ sweet nothings | @thebestandworstdayofjune
you own a bakery down the street from ptmh, and dr. robby is one of your favorite customers.
☆ peace | @xximperioxx
the reader comforts robby after a hard shift (she talks him off the ledge).
☆ work crush | @xximperioxx
the reader has a crush on robby. spoiler alert: it's reciprocated.
☆ doctor's orders | @tedmustache
when one rough day pushes things to a breaking point, unspoken feelings come dangerously close to the surface.
☆ the right moment is you | @cherriready
robby didn't mean to propose today. not during a long shift, not without a plan, and definitely not in front of the er. but when he saw her, he saw the rest of his life. no speeches. no perfect moment. just her. always her.
☆ stitched together | @hauntedhowlett-writes
after accidentally cutting your hand, you seek out your neighbor for help. a favor becomes a friendship and a friendship becomes something more.
♡ synopsis: after catching you on tinder at work, jack puts himself on a mission to get you off of the obnoxious app & into a meaningful relationship with him instead before it's too late. learning you've never so much as been on a date before & are doubtful about ever finding someone worthwhile, he expends every effort to win you over.
♡ content: jealous!jack, jack treats you to dinner on the roof, buys you flowers, spoils you with attention etc, fingering, dacryphilia (kinda), pet names, teasing, flirting
♡ a/n: based off this request, ty!
With forearms planted atop the back of the office chair you occupy, Santos peers over your shoulder as you swipe left.
And left.
And left.
And—
"Oh, he's cute," she remarks.
Looking up from the rolling computer cart Jack stands at, he eyes the two of you from over the rim of his glasses.
Pushing the phone back in her direction for a closer look, you half turn toward her with a raised brow.
"I was talking about the dog," Trinity explains.
You roll your eyes, then swipe again.
"Honestly, you'd have a better time picking up a guy from Chairs than Tinder. Least that way you can test him for drugs and STDs before taking him home like a stray." After drumming her hands against the back of your seat, she steps away.
"Hey!" Jack calls from a few feet away.
Your head jerks up.
Stalking over to the nurse's station, he plants his hands on his hips. "Get off the phone. No more...Tindering," he spits.
You blink twice, then lock the device before storing it away in your pocket. "Sorry," you mumble, now humiliated.
"Look at me," he commands.
You do as instructed and shrink beneath his authoritative gaze.
Jack leans forward. "I catch you on it again, and I'm taking it away. Understood?"
You nod before dropping your chin in shame.
"Only man you should be giving your attention to is me: your attending," he grumbles.
You shift uncomfortably, praying he'll soon walk away in search of someone else to berate instead.
"C'mon, follow me. Time for you to put your hands to uses other than clicking through your Tinder."
Your shoulders slump, but you nevertheless rise and follow his lead.
Once you've finished wrapping the forehead of a ten-year-old girl in soft white gauze who was nothing short of a trooper while you administered seven stitches, due to a nasty skateboarding accident, you grant her a smile. "You were so brave today. But don't hesitate to tell your parents if your head starts hurting, alright? I'm going to give them some medicine to take home just incase."
A concussion was the first thing Diaz ruled out when she was brought back, thankfully.
The girl nods and sends slick black curls bouncing from the motion. "Okay."
You grin, then turn to look at Abbot.
Bumping the back of your head against his abdomen because he's standing that close to you, you mutter a quiet apology.
"Somethin' you need?" Jack asks while uncrossing his arms.
"Yeah. Can you, uh... Get me the jar of suckers from the shelf behind you? And a roll of stickers, too?"
He nods before turning around to retrieve the requested items. "Sure."
Handing you the jar first, his fingers linger against the warmth of your palm. When you glance up to him with an inquisitive brow, he merely takes a small step back while nodding toward your adorable patient. "I'll give you the stickers next."
You blink, then return your attentions to her. "Alright, sweetie, which flavor?"
"You were good with her," Jack says while cupping his hand around the crown of your shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze.
Ignoring the vibrating phone in your pocket, you smile softly. "Kids are easier, I think. Adults are the ones who think they know everything. Or just know better than us because they have a degree from Google University."
He snorts. "It's why cellphones are such a bad idea," he says matter-of-factly while shrugging casually.
You roll your eyes. "I promise to save my 'Tindering' only for breaks and after-hours," you reply while rounding a corner and heading in the direction of your computer so that you can get back to charting.
Sliding his hand from your shoulder to the small of your back, Jack's lips tug into a frown. "I mean, I don't exactly know a lot about it, but isn't that some kind of a hookup app?" He leans in close to your ear. "Where people go to get laid?" He whispers lowly.
It sends a shiver up your spine.
Breaking from his side, you make a beeline for your desktop. "It's...It's the most popular dating app there is, which is the only reason I'm on it. Not everyone uses it for...that, though." You flush. "Most men seem to," you complain with a frown. "But I have what I want outlined in my bio. Then again, that would require them to bother reading it."
You shake your head, then plop down in your seat and toss your phone face-down beside you.
Jack slides his forearms atop the counter in front of you. "Let me take a peek," he says with beckoning fingers.
You think you may fall out of your chair. "I—What? You wanna see my Tinder profile?" You ask incredulously.
He lays his palms face-up and shrugs before clasping them together. "I mean, I could give you a male opinion. Help you figure out why all you're catching are minnows instead of trout."
Your brows knit together. "Who... Who is the trout in this scenario?"
Leaning over the counter, he snatches away your phone. You make to grab for it in a panic, but promptly seat yourself again with the reassurance that he doesn't know your pin. Thus, no entry will be gained.
Wiggling from satisfaction from atop your chair, you roll forward.
A sobering expression crosses his face at the sight. Clearing his throat, Abbot pulls out his glasses and settles them atop the bridge of his nose.
You watch with amusement as he holds the phone at a distance to see properly before pulling up the lockscreen.
"Pin?" He questions while studying you.
You busy yourself with charting. "Never."
He considers for a moment, then turns the phone around to face you. He whistles to gain your attention. "Look here, sweetheart."
The moment you glance up, the home screen reveals itself. "Hey! That's cheating!" You shout while trying to swipe the device from his hands yet again.
"Never said I had any intention of playing fair," he drawls before thumbing through... You worry as to what he's looking at, actually. Like cutesy Pinterest boards dedicated to a dream wedding you'll probably never have.
"Not gonna find any dirty photos on here, am I?" He asks while pressing the screen with his index finger. Who uses digits other than their thumbs on touchscreens, anyway? Besides geriatrics.
Your face grows warm. "No!" You hiss. "Course not!"
He purses his lips. "Here's to hopin'."
Your jaw falls slightly open, and he chuckles.
"Just kidding." He continues searching for the app in question. "Or am I?" He mumbles. "I meant to ask, you ever considered going into peds?"
You pull up your recent patient's chart. "I have. It's just that... The day will inevitably come when a child in my care..." You swallow thickly. "Dies in my care," you finish. "I don't know if I can survive that."
Jack reaches forward and slides his index finger under your chin and tilts your head back until your eyes to meet his own. "That's going to happen if you stay in emergency care anyway, baby. You have to go where the heart calls."
He returns his hand to holding the side of your phone, leaving your skin tingling from the abandoned contact.
"Ah!" He exclaims. "Here we go. Tinder," he purrs.
You focus strictly on the computer screen ahead of you while sliding a hand over the back of your tensed-up neck.
Jack remains quiet for a moment and you peer at him covertly. You will never have your personal phone out while at work ever again from this day forward. Even for emergencies. The landlines provided will do just fine.
You watch as a corner of Jack's mouth twitches before verging into full-on smirking territory.
He's going to make fun of you, you can feel it.
And then he begins to swipe.
"W-what're you doing?"
"Trying to get rid of all these assholes," he mutters. "God, how long does it go on for?"
"I have my radius set pretty wide, so—"
He lowers his head and stares at you with wide eyes. "Your what?"
"R-Radius? Like, miles around me. If men are within the search radius—"
He rolls his eyes. "Got it."
Swipe, swipe, swipe.
You glower. "One of those could be my future husband, you know?"
He jeers. "What? These douchebags? Unlikely."
You've never seen him so irritable. Who peed in his Cheerios this afternoon?
With a sigh, he tosses it down beside you onto a stack of paperwork. "You're never going to find what you're looking for on there. I know you know this."
You swiftly shove the device in your pocket. "It's my only option. It's not like it was in the olden days when people met at the market, y'know?" You commentate a tad snidely. But if he's going to shame you for trying to find someone to love, then he deserves a bit of attitude in return.
It's none of his concern, anyway.
He chuckles. "How old do you think I am, honey?"
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. "Ancient."
Rounding the counter he occupies, Jack grips the back of your chair with one hand and the desk you sit at with the other. Leaning down, he brings himself level with your ear. "I read your little bio," he rumbles. "Looking for someone to settle down with," he quotes. "To start a life with, yada yada. Those are things a man provides." He slides his hand to the back of your neck. "All I saw were boys."
His fingers tugs gently at the base of your scalp. "You wanna meet someone the old-fashioned way? Take a long, hard look at what's in your immediate vicinity."
Jack steps back then and you loose a ragged breath in an attempt to calm your thready heart.
"Just remember what I said," he states while heading into Trauma 2. "I catch you on it again..." He sucks his teeth. "Probably be better if you just removed the temptation and delete the account altogether, you ask me."
He's practically fuming while slyly spying on you from across the parking lot—watching as you smile down at your phone with an index finger gently bit between your teeth.
It's like you're trying to set him off.
Happy-go-lucky guy that Abbot normally is, after today's whole Tinder fiasco, he found himself snapping at residents in the style of Robinavitch at every turn. He's meant to be the fun dad, and yet...
He tosses his bag in the backseat of his truck and cringes when the metal zipper clips the window. Not seeing a chip in the glass, however, he slams the door shut while shaking his head.
He keeps taking his piss-poor attitude out on his vehicle and he'll really have something to be ticked off about when it starts falling apart on the damn interstate.
He plants his palms atop the passenger seat and hangs his head between his shoulders. "Let it go, old man. You're too old for this shit," he mutters. "She's not interested. She's not interested. She's not—"
With a huff, he shuts the door before heading in your direction. "Hey, you hungry?"
Jack watches with a satiated look on his face as you munch on a basket of hot wings.
"It's really pretty up here," you say between hearty bites. "With all the lights. Quiet, too." Turning to face him, you begin wiping your hands with cheap napkins.
It's nothing fancy—the two of you are seated upon bare asphalt after all. But facing each other while making idle conversation is admittedly a lot nicer alternative to being stuck inside a noisy ED.
He chuckles and takes a sip of his beer.
"What?" You ask, sucking on a saucy finger.
A muscle in his jaw feathers. "You, uh, you've got some—"
Your hand flutters toward your face. When Jack scoots closer, you promptly drop it into your lap when he runs the pad of his thumb along the corner of your mouth.
"T-Thanks," you squeak before taking a pull from your water.
Leaning back against the railing behind him, Jack studies you for a moment. "You can do better than online dating."
Your eyes flit to his.
Holding his hands up, he continues. "I get it. It's just the way it is nowadays. But, sweetheart, the guys I saw on there?"
You interrupt him. Occupying yourself with a packet of wet-wipes, you start scrubbing at your hands. Otherwise you might just nibble them down to the bone the sauce was so yummy.
"I...I'm lonely," you whisper. "And I feel like I've fallen behind somehow." You worry your lower lip between your teeth. "I've never so much as been on a date before. There was just...never time. First, it was graduate from high school, then college, then an internship, now residency. After that, fellowship and—" You shake your head. "I told myself that once I was settled in my career and happy with my living arrangements is when I would put myself out there."
You sniffle while toying with your plastic water bottle, listening idly as the water sloshes around as you turn it one way, then the other. "I don't think I can wait that long. I don't want to. I want someone of my own to love. To call after I've had a bad day. Arms to fall asleep in, a chest to lay against when I feel scared. A body to come home to."
You shrug and wipe at yours eyes. "Then again, how many people do we work with—patients do we meet—who tell us the horror stories that are their relationships and marriages?" You frown. "Hardly makes commitment sound all that tempting."
Jack leans his head to the side, then cups your cheek in his palm. "That's why you don't settle for any less than someone who worships you. Who constantly thinks about you. Who'd kill to keep you safe."
A quiet click sounds at the back of your throat when you swallow.
He brushes his thumb along the apple of your cheek. "You've never been on a date?"
You shake your head.
He smiles softly, leans forward, then murmurs "What're we doing right now, then?" before pressing his lips to yours.
Jack never explicitly asked to enter into a relationship with you. Instead, it seems to be a decision he simply makes without warning.
On the one hand, it's so incredibly flattering to be desired by the Jack Abbot of all people. Of all men. Doctors, even. On the other, he's your attending. As well as someone who seems beyond comfortable in his own skin and abilities as a healer while you otherwise feel like you're stumbling through life.
You truly have no understanding of his decision.
There's nothing particularly special about you. You're not a young prodigy like Javadi, fast as a whip like Santos (not that he exactly seems like her type), as lovely as Mohan, or as intelligent as Mel.
The list goes on.
Maybe he's like all the rest, then? Just having fun while the iron is hot?
You dislike the thought.
It makes you feel cheap; pathetic; used.
It's why when at work...you sort of continue keeping your distance. At least initially.
Intent on hovering and crowding and smothering and touching you, however, Abbot is there nearly every time you turn around.
"I get that you're busy," he tells you one day—his hand sliding from your shoulder blade to your lower back; dangerously close to another body part. "But if you wanna keep playing hard to get even though you're already mine, then I'm happy to keep chasing."
And then he'd leaned close, bringing his lips to the shell of your ear. "Tell you the truth, the whole thing is giving my Viagra a run for its money."
Instead of it turning you on, as was clearly his intention, it'd only made you feel sick. Because you were right after all: he only saw you as a collection of parts to...objectify.
You had scurried away after, leaving him a bit perplexed.
It's only been a few days since the rooftop, so granted not much has happened thus far, but forcing yourself to have an awkward conversation with Jack where you innocently inquire What are we? feels out of the question. Not to mention humiliating. You're here to work, not star in a rom-com.
Whatever he's after, he clearly needs to start looking elsewhere.
But instead of being a damn adult about the entire ordeal and pulling him aside to talk like grown-ups...you sort of latch onto Robby instead. Not in a flirtatious sort of way. Just as a mentor and mentee one. By otherwise being occupied with learning from him, maybe Jack will move on? Grow bored? As much is inevitable, you figure.
When Jack stumbles across you all but pressed against Robby's side in Trauma 4 one day, however, it's like the pin in a grenade is pulled. All that's left is to release the lever.
He never took you for a tease, but he'll be damned if he's not going to mark his territory as a last resort before throwing in the towel.
Entering the Pitt Friday evening, you're greeted by a vision. A lovely floral arrangement sits atop the nurse's station in a crystal vase; its blooms sprouting in every direction.
You smile at Dana while walking past. "Looks like Benji is quite the romantic."
"Not for me, doll. Had to sign for 'em, but they're for you."
Halting in your tracks—causing your tennis shoes to squeak against the polished tile floor beneath you—you turn and pad over to it. Plucking the enclosure card from the plastic cardette, you read it over.
Meet me where I made you mine. — J
You glance up to Dana who throws a hand up while dialing the phone in front of her with the other. "Didn't read it. Hand to God, kid."
"Could you...keep this here for me until the end of my shift?"
Sliding it back toward herself, she nods. "You got it."
"We couldn't have done this downstairs?"
Standing just behind the railing positioned at the edge of the rooftop, Jack turns back to you with folded arms. "Felt like this should be a private conversation," he replies while stepping unsteadily toward you.
Perhaps his leg is giving him fits tonight.
Matching his strides, you meet him halfway.
He remains silent, with a thoughtful look etched upon his face. "Am I just not what you're looking for, then?"
Your brows furrow as you bat your lashes. "What?"
He huffs. "You've barely spoken to me in the last week, sweetheart. I'm getting mixed signals. You put on your Tinder," he says with an upwards wave of his hand, "that you want essentially the same things that I do. But I try to get close—give you my attention—and you glue your ass to Robby's side instead."
You open your mouth to speak, only to shut it a moment later as he continues.
"Look, I get it. I've been out of the game for awhile, so maybe I don't really know what goes nowadays. I tried giving you attention and that backfired. I flirted and I got the same result. So now I'm going old-fashioned with flowers and clandestine meetings on rooftops. I just—" he steps forward. "I need you to tell me whether to stay or go. Because the last thing I want is to make you feel uncomfortable. I'd thought we were together, but if you've changed your mind about commitment and settling down—"
"I haven't," you blurt out.
He quiets.
"You... You never asked me."
He raises a silver brow.
"To be...yours. I wasn't sure what we were. And I felt stupid at the idea of even asking. And then with the Viagra comment," you say with a flush. "It seemed like I was back to online dating, but in real life this time."
He hangs his head and sighs. "That's on me." He raises it. "I can have a peculiar sense of humor sometimes. Guess it gets even worse when I'm making a come-on."
Sliding his hand along the back of your neck, he holds you close. "I didn't think it needed saying after the night we were together up here. I just assumed we were on the same page. So I am truly sorry that I never bothered to ask if you wanted to be—" His mouth quirks to the side as he thinks. "Boyfriend and girlfriend are way too juvenile for me," he mumbles. "Partners, then."
He slides his hand to your shoulder. "Everything you listed is what I have to offer; what I want to give you."
You nervously rub at your arm. "I just didn't want to make assumptions."
He grins. "Too late."
Your eyes flit to his.
"I already did for the both of us, sweetheart. Listen, I'm not some kid on the internet throwing darts at a board until something sticks and I get a consolation prize out of it. I want you, and only you. I have since the day you were first assigned to me."
"Oh," you say, leaving your lips slightly parted.
"So," he begins while running a calloused palm down your arm before gripping your fingertips. Lifting them to his lips, he brushes a kiss along the back of your hand. "We're clear on what we're doing this time, then? That you belong to me and me alone, and I to you?"
You glance away while heat rushes to your cheeks.
You nod. "Yes, I think so."
He chuckles. "Good."
Jack wraps you in his arms and holds you firm against his chest. "Because if I see you with Robby again, I'm throwing my leg at him in the parking lot."
You cackle while burying your face in his chest and inhaling the calming, woodsy scent of his cologne.
It takes some adjusting to: being Jack's girl. From him assigning himself to being your designated driver to and from work, to cooking for you in the comfort of his well-stocked kitchen, to asking rather sheepishly if you'll rub his leg at night—what begins with butterflies and nervous laughter, ends in routine and comfortability.
The only excitement is at the ED. Because outside of it, you each share quiet nights in. Ones where you lie atop his chest on the couch while he watches TV... Or the one where he finally coaxes you out of your shirt and bra so that he can run his palms along the soft skin of your back.
He says it feels nice, since they can ache at times from arthritis.
The scratchy sensation makes your skin sing in the best of ways.
He seems rather pleased, after having moved you in before long, when you finally take liberty in using what's his, but for yourself. Like his t-shirts for sleeping in, his razor for shaving (men's are superior, you tell him), his truck for picking up groceries and his credit card to pay for them, and... Well... His stethoscope on the nights the two of you play doctor in the bedroom.
So, yes, physical intimacy is a facet of your relationship which does develop naturally in due time. And to his credit, Jack is endlessly patient with you as he teaches you all about it.
Insecurity about inexperience in every arena—sexual or otherwise—had certainly been of much concern to you. Perhaps he'd prefer someone who had familiarity with partnership, you'd worried. But he made clear that being able to claim you in every way there is stroked his masculine ego like nothing else.
And being the first to put hands on you...?
It doesn't take long for you to learn that you really enjoy extra attention being paid to your breasts, for example, when he laps at them with his tongue while his fingers explore the sopping folds between your legs. Gruffly, he says things which get you dripping with little effort applied: "That feel good, sweetheart?", "Spread your legs for me, baby.", "C'mere and lie back on the bed so that I can take your clothes off, angel."
You'd once asked shyly from atop your shared bed if he could please wear his dog tags during. With a grin, he muttered quietly "Yeah, honey, I can do that," before obliging your request.
As if he's Pavloved you, he sometimes teases even while at work just to get a rise out of you. Like when he seats himself next to you as you chart—sliding a palm along your inner thigh until it's right against your heat. Jack merely leaves it there, and smirks every time you make a typo.
Or when you do a job well done with a patient and he'll mutter "Good girl." before stepping away.
By the time the two of you get home, you're feral with want, and care little to none about waiting for his Viagra to kick in.
So, he typically makes use of his tongue instead until he's able to achieve manhood. He usually challenges himself in getting you to come twice on it before finally sinking his cock between your fluttering walls and kissing away your tears, you're that overstimulated from him rutting away between your thighs.
You'd been so afraid before—paranoid, even—of winding up in an unhealthy, and deeply unhappy relationship, but with all the love and tenderness he gives you, you can scarcely imagine ever wanting another.
Besides, Jack tells you that just the thought of you with someone else is likely to make his head explode. So, for better or worse, you're stuck with him.
You find that you're just fine with that fact. Especially at night when he holds your naked body close to his—his arms wrapped tightly around you—and as you drift off to sleep, he whispers how he's never letting you go now that he's found you.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x tattooed!fem!reader (attending)
Summary: Jack Abbot likes knowing. He likes knowing about you. He likes hoarding information about you, in fact.
WC: 3.2k || Rating: E (Explicit)
Tags/Warnings: Fluff, Smut, Intimacy (emotional and otherwise), a little silly.
-- -- --
You knew how you looked. Tattoos covered your arms (and legs—though no one saw those at work), small silver studs decorated your ears and nose. You’d had an eyebrow piercing at one point but after a stray limb from a seizing patient caught it, you’d removed most of your facial piercings. The tongue piercing was smaller, almost discrete if someone wasn’t looking for it.
It was always interesting to watch people square your appearance with your affect. You didn’t think you were intimidating or overtly mean, but strangers tended to give you a wide berth. In your new attending position you hadn’t given much thought to it. There was little time to think about how someone who didn’t actually know you perceived you.
Still, you knew people noticed. Jesse had asked about a tattoo on your forearm, Dana had asked about the tongue piercing, and Trinity had been taken by the constellation of metal in your ears.
“Do you have a sec?” Abbot asked, coming by your work station. You had been reviewing a CT scan for your abdominal pain patient when he approached.
Jack had been one of the few people who hadn’t made a comment about your appearance. He never seemed to take notice of the ink on your skin nor the metal through your body. You supposed he blew you out of the water body modification wise, though that joke stayed safely ensconced in your own head.
“Yeah, what’s up?” You asked looking up at him.
“We have a patient with a really bad infection in her piercings and she’s…well, she doesn’t…let’s just say I think you would give her peace of mind.”
You grinned at him. “Why do you think that, Dr. Abbot?”
He gave you a flat look and walked towards the curtained off beds. Snickering, you followed. When you walked in, Jack easily introduced you. Sitting on the rolling stool, you asked,
“What seems to be the problem?”
A cursory glance didn’t show you any piercings that looked infected. She had a nose ring. A couple cartilage piercings, but none that seems angry.
“I got two piercings a couple weeks ago and I think they’re infected,” the young girl said. She couldn’t have been older than twenty.
“Which piercings?”
“Nipples,” she said quietly, her facing turning bright red.
“Ah, those can be tricky to heal,” you said nodding. “I had to get mine done twice.”
Jack cleared his throat and said, “I’ll leave you to it. Grab me if you need it.”
“Can you send Princess our way?” You asked.
“Got it,” he called quickly exiting the curtained bay.
You looked at your young patient, and said, “I don’t think he enjoyed learning that my nipples are pierced.”
It thankfully elicited a laugh out of the younger woman, so by the time Princess came in, she was enough at ease you could examine the piercing sites. They were infected and based on the look, whoever had done them hadn’t done a good job.
“Where did you get this done?” You asked lightly.
“A place near campus. They were doing it for $25 each,” she told you. You were proud your face didn’t show it, but a nipple piercing for $25 should have been the girl’s first warning.
“I’ll give you the name of my girl if you want to get them done again. The metal your piercer used isn’t body safe which is why you’re having such a bad reaction.”
“Oh. Will it hurt as bad the second time?”
“Mine hurt worse the second time,” you laughed. “My boyfriend at the time went with me and I think I broke his hand.”
You and Princess finished taking out the offending jewelry and cleaning the wounds before giving her care instructions. It would be more than six months before she could try again. Based on the look on her face, you doubted she was going to try again.
“How long did it take to heal?” Princess asked once you both were at the nurses station.
“Didn’t finish healing the first time. But probably close to two years before they stopped bothering me,” you told her.
“What took two years to heal?” Trinity asked. You noticed Jack a few steps away ignoring the personal conversation.
“My nipple piercings,” you told her.
“What happened the first time?” Princess asked.
“In med school I got in a car accident and they had to take them out for imaging. By the time I was able to get them back in a few hours later the holes were closed. Pierced them again when I passed Step 3,” you said.
“That sounds so painful,” Princess shuddered.
“What do people you sleep with think about them?” Trinity asked.
“Most haven’t really cared one way or another. They don’t really make me more sensitive, but my current partner loves them,” you said.
“Oooooh,” crowed Princess. “You’re dating someone?”
You caught Abbot staring at you from the corner of your eye. You lowered your voice, but suspected he could still hear you.
“Maybe? He’s nice, clearly attracted to me, but I’m not sure he really wants something serious. Could be just a way to get his dick wet,” you said shrugging.
“Does that bother you?” Princess asked.
“Haven’t decided yet,” you said, mostly honest.
“Speaking of,” Trinity said. “Did you hear that Lupe’s cheating ex-wife sent her flowers on Valentine’s Day?”
“The fucking nerve,” you scoffed. When you glanced up Jack had disappeared.
-- -- --
After your shift, a rare day shift for you, exhaustion weighed heavy on your bones. You adored your job; there was rarely a day you weren’t excited to go to work, especially now that you were paid appropriately. The nipple piercing conversation had turned into a shift long gossip session where you and Princess had pulled more info from Trinity about Whittaker’s farm widow, Garcia, and even some information on Mel.
It had been a good shift, but your circadian rhythm was shot. By the time you got back to your house, the idea of doing anything more than collapsing face first into bed was too much. Still, you were covered in hospital germs and starving.
A frozen meal and quick shower later, you were curled up on your couch in an oversized tshirt watching some random comedy when your doorbell rang. It was highly unusual to say the least.
Next to your couch was a baseball bat your dad had jokingly-not-jokingly given you, and for the first time in half a dozen years you were grateful for the gift. The baseball bat in hand, you walked up to your front door. To your surprise, Jack stood on your doorstep.
Forgetting about the bat in your hand and your lack of pants, you opened the door confused.
“Jack?”
Without preamble, he walked in and boxed you against the wall. The door shut behind him and you heard him turn the lock.
“You have a baseball bat in your hand,” was the first thing he said to you.
His lips were only millimeters from your own, the heat from his body seeping against yours. You could feel the density of his body pressing against your own.
“We didn’t have plans,” you told him. “Didn’t know who was at the door.”
“So you were going to hit them with a baseball bat without wearing pants.”
“A nice sight before I hit them so hard they see stars,” you nearly whispered.
Your heart hammered against your ribs, desperate for action and movement. This moment was so similar to the first time Jack had kissed you, it was like your body recalled and yearned for the same feeling. His fingers ghosted over your wrist before he gently tugged the bat out of your hand, setting it down against the door.
The ghost of his touch trailed along your upper thigh and every nerve stood at attention, focusing on the featherlight contact. You yearned to yank him close to you, fingers closing around his shirt collar, but his stare had you frozen.
His eyes, bright and seeing, felt like they had pinned you in place. You weren’t sure what he was looking for. You weren’t even sure what he was wanting. All you knew is that you might vibrate out of your skin if he didn’t actually touch you soon.
“What are you doing here?” You asked.
He took a half step forward, firmly pressing you against the wall, the length of his body holding you still while his hand played with the bare skin of your thighs. There was a tattoo on your upper thigh of a switchblade, it was one of Jack’s favorites. Whether it was intentional or not, his fingers always lightly ran circles over the skin it laid on.
“Can I kiss you?” He asked. It wasn’t technically an answer to your question, but it answered enough. With a small nod, his lips captured yours.
One hand stayed on your legs, tracing patterns slowly up your body, while the other cupped your face. Jack was never an indecisive man. He knew what he wanted and knew how to get it. Tonight, it seemed like he wanted to bury himself in your body—as though he couldn’t be close enough to you.
His stubble scraped against your sensitive skin. Kissing Jack felt like the first plunge on the rollercoaster. For a split second you felt your body lose understanding of gravity, which direction was up, and, sometimes, even how to breathe. There was always something that shocked you back into awareness. Tonight, a quiet growl that seemed to emanate from deep in his chest reminded you to wrap your own arms around him.
When his lips moved off your own, trailing down your jaw and neck, you found the air to ask,
“Why the sudden visit? I thought we weren’t meeting up this week.”
“Maybe I missed you,” he mumbled. He wasn’t so much kissing your skin, as pressing his lips and face against you.
“You saw me today.”
“That’s different. I can’t pin you to the wall and make out with you at work. You’d kick me in the balls.”
Your chuckle turned to a gasp as he nibbled on your ear.
“I would do that,” you hummed. “Can we move this to the bedroom?”
“Lead the way.”
Your house wasn’t huge; it was just you, so there was no need for a million extra bedrooms or bathrooms. What it lacked in size, it made up for in coziness and a nice warm scent of cinnamon filling every inch of the place. Jack loved being at your house; more than that, he loved being with you at your house.
When you walked into your bedroom, he stripped off his shirt and sat on the bed while you kneeled and helped him remove his leg and pants. The pants were haphazardly discarded over your shoulder while his leg was placed against the end of the bed for easy access later if he wanted it. Jack preferred to keep his limb sock on when not using the prosthetic to keep his leg from swelling too much, so you placed a simple kiss on his knee instead of rolling it off him.
When you looked up at him, there was a soft gentle look on his face that he couldn’t have hidden if he tried.
“You’re so pretty,” he mumbled, grabbing for you.
Pulling you up on the bed, you allowed him to drape your body over his own. He was thick and dense with muscle, but soft and warm too. He cared more about strength than appearance. His arms, the same ones you drooled over when no one was watching, wrapped around you and pulled you close against him.
For a while, he just held you against him. The frantic energy from earlier having abated. Soft touches and a strong grip had you gently kissing the side of his neck while he soaked in the contact. Every so often Jack would hold you like this, like he craved human contact.
“Are you okay?” You found yourself asking.
“Mm-hmm,” he hummed, shivering slightly and your lips tickled his skin.
“Are you still going to fuck me?”
“Yes.”
“Normally this level of cuddling is for post-sex,” you continued. You awkwardly wrapped your arms under him, resting your head on his shoulder.
“Long day, I just want to hold you for a minute.”
“Okay,” you replied. Jack was weird and this certainly wasn’t the strangest thing he’d done.
At some point both you and Jack ditched your shirts. It was more intimate than any of your past hookups—the way that Jack held onto you, fingers dancing along your skin. Despite the caressing of your tits, it wasn’t groping. His touches felt sweet…reverent even.
He paid special attention to the metal on your nipples. Each tender manipulation made you moan against his lips, which rarely left yours. This no longer felt like a frantic hookup. Instead, Jack was treating you like you were special, like he wanted this to mean something. You were too drunk on the feeling of his body against yours to pay it much mind.
After a punch out groan from Jack when your thigh brushed his erection, you reach down and encircled his dick with your hand. His fingers stuttered along your skin and nipple. Releasing your lips, he muttered a quiet,
“Fuck.”
“Feel good?” you asked, nipping at the underside of his jaw.
“You make me feel so good,” he whispered, hoarse. “Please, sweetheart.”
“Please what?” You taunted.
“Keep going,” he moaned, attacking your lips again.
The handjob was probably too dry, but the way Jack’s hips drove against your fist made you think he didn’t really care at the moment. Minutes passed as you pumped Jack’s erection while he toyed with your nipples, all the while nipping and kidding at each other.
“You’re so hard,” you mumbled in between kisses.
“You do that to me,” he replied.
Impulsively, you let go of his erection and rotated your hips so he was nestled at the core of your legs.
“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he groaned. You were on your sides now, one of your legs thrown over his hip. It was a bit of an awkward maneuver, but you managed to reach around your bodies and help him slide inside of you.
“You do that to me,” you repeated. “The sounds you make, Jack. God, I’d listen to them all day.”
The stretch was delicious. Jack was more girthy than most of your previous partners (of which there had not been many). The slow pistoning of your hips against each other elicited a warm glow from deep in your stomach, radiating outward. The pace was slow and unhurried, the both of you whispering quiet words of encouragement to each other.
“Just like that,” you said.
“Feel so good around me,” he replied, softly.
It was almost lazy, the pace you both had set. The point was not orgasm but instead the connection between the two of you. Occasionally, one or both of you would pause and luxuriate in the feeling. Your skin was so sensitive that you could feel the ghost of his touch. Each caress and featherlight contact sent shockwaves through you.
There was not enough of him to satiate your own hands. Each expanse of skin freckled and a little rough deserved attention and veneration. Your nails lightly scraped along his ribs and he arched into your touch, gasping against your mouth.
“You’re amazing,” he whispered. It almost sounded like, I love you.
The caress of his hands along your waist and back elicited an eruption of goosebumps in their wakes. There was no part of you that Jack Abbot had not touched, caressed or kissed. He felt all encompassing; it was overwhelming in the best way. Despite the gentleness, you felt claimed by the man. It was as though he was imprinting his very essence onto your body—convincing it never to let another person make you feel this way.
You could only hope he felt the same.
The evening continued like that. Touches, slow pistoning movements, and tender kisses to every inch of available skin consumed you. You weren’t sure if you orgasmed or even if he did, but at some point, you both separated. It was less of a true separation and more of a natural end to your coupling. He bundled you close to his chest; you could hear his heart’s slow, rhythmic thump.
“Can I say something and you promise you won’t judge me?” Jack asked, breaking the peaceful silence.
“No,” you replied.
“No?”
“Men say that and then say heinous shit,” you replied, idly tracing your finger between freckles on his stomach.
“And do you think that’s what I’m going to say?” He asked. He sounded mildly offended.
“Probably not, but I want my options open.”
“You’re fucking difficult,” he grumbled. You buried your face against his shoulder to hide your grin.
“C’mon, tell me.”
“No.”
“Tell me.”
“No.”
“Please?” You drawled.
“Not a chance.”
“Ugh, fine, I promise not to make fun of you,” you huffed.
“Thank you. Was that so hard?”
“Yes.”
He pinched your arm lightly. The way you both were tangled up with each other, meant his lips were brushing the top of your forehead. You felt him exhale and say,
“I feel kind of jealous that I’m not the only person who knows about your nipple piercings.”
“What?” You asked, chuckling.
“I liked that I knew something about you no one else did,” he mumbled into your hair.
“You’re the only person from that hospital who’s had their dick in me,” you replied. He snorted.
“I guess that’s true.”
“You know what I sound like when you’re fucking me into my mattress,” you hummed, pressing a soft kiss on his bare chest. “You know what I sound like when I’m choking on your dick.”
“Christ,” he hissed.
“You know what I feel like, when I sit on your face,” you continued trailing a finger up his stomach. “I think you have plenty of me to hoard.”
“Hoard?” He asked.
“Is that not what you’re doing?”
Jack hummed and thought about it for a moment, “I guess I am. There’s rarely a moment where I don’t think you would make it better.”
“Romantic for a hook-up there, Abbot.”
“I think we both know that’s not all this is. Certainly not after tonight,” he whispered, pulling you up to lay on the pillow next to him. His eyes, bright and clear, bore into yours. Legs tangled together, he grasped your chin between his forefinger and thumb to pull you closer to his lips. “I don’t just want my dick wet. I want you. I want all the parts of you that you don’t share.”
“Hoarder,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.
“Proudly.”
He kissed you gently, encompassing your body with his. It was impossible to tell where he ended and you began. It wasn’t sexual; neither of you were gearing up for a second round despite your state of undress. Instead, he seemed to soak in how your naked body felt pressed against his.
Jack Abbot cared about you and after tonight, you wouldn’t doubt if he loved you.
jack abbot x younger!fem!reader summary: two times abbot tried to end whatever it is you have going on and the realization that he definitely does not want to lose you. cw: doctor!reader, abbot is a sad man, he needs reassurance!! classic plot, ER descriptions, blood, reader gets briefly injured, poorly written & english is not my first language :) 3k. and yes, he only likes to take his whiskey soooo neat.
Jack Abbot had never believed in timing, not in the kind people romanticized or wrote about, not in the idea that two people could simply meet at the right moment and everything would fall into place as if life had been quietly aligning itself just for them. His world didn’t work like that, and neither did The Pitt. There was nothing poetic about fluorescent lights that never turned off, about blood that never fully washed away, about the way loss lingered in the air long after a patient was gone. Everything here was messy, complicated, unfinished, and most of all, heavy.
And then there was you, who somehow existed in that same space without letting it hollow you out.
You weren’t naive. That was the part that unsettled him the most. You saw everything he saw, you stood in the same rooms, watched the same monitors flatline, heard the same cries from families in waiting areas, and yet you didn’t let it turn you into something closed off or distant. You still spoke gently to patients. You still found ways to smile. You still believed that what you were doing mattered in a way that went beyond survival rates and statistics.
Jack noticed it in ways he didn’t want to admit. He noticed how your presence changed the tone of a room, how people relaxed just a little when you spoke, how even he felt steadier when you were nearby. It wasn’t dramatic or obvious, but it was there, and that was enough to make him start pulling away before it could become something he couldn’t control.
He told himself it was because you deserved better. Someone lighter, someone who hadn’t already been worn down by years in a place like this, someone who wouldn’t look at you and immediately think about everything that could go wrong.
It didn’t happen all at once. At first, it was subtle, almost unnoticeable unless someone was paying close attention. He stopped lingering near you after shifts, stopped initiating the small conversations that had once come so easily. He kept things professional, efficient, distant in a way that felt deliberate but never openly acknowledged. If you stood too close, he found a reason to move. If you looked at him like you wanted to say something more, he gave you just enough to shut the moment down without making a scene.
You noticed, of course. You always did because you knew him. And eventually, you asked.
There was a night when you finally said something, leaning against the nurses’ station with your arms crossed, watching him instead of whatever chart he was pretending to focus on. You didn’t look angry or upset, just thoughtful, like you were trying to understand something that didn’t quite add up.
“Did I do something?” you asked, your voice calm but steady.
He didn’t look up. “No.”
“Then why are you acting like this?”
“I’m not acting like anything.”
You let out a quiet breath, the kind that suggested you didn’t believe him but weren’t ready to argue about it yet. “You are, but okay. If you don’t want to talk about it, I won’t push.”
That was the thing about you. You gave people space even when you deserved answers. You trusted that if something mattered, it would be said eventually.
Jack used that against you without meaning to.
He let the distance grow, convincing himself that it was the right thing to do. Every time he saw you laughing with someone else or focusing on your work with that same unwavering attention, he told himself he was protecting you. You didn’t need someone like him complicating things. You didn’t need someone who had already been worn down by this place, someone who didn’t believe in the same things you still held onto so easily.
The breaking point came on a night that felt too familiar, the kind of shift where everything seemed to pile up at once and there was no time to breathe. A patient didn’t make it, a kid not much younger than you, and Jack saw the way it affected you even though you tried to hold it together. Your hands were steady when they needed to be, your voice controlled, your movements precise, but there was something beneath all of it that he recognized immediately because he’d felt it too many times before.
You stepped outside for air, and he followed without thinking.
You were sitting on the curb, your posture slightly slumped, your gaze fixed somewhere distant. When he approached, you didn’t seem surprised, just aware.
“He wasn’t supposed to die,” you said quietly.
“They never are,” he replied, but the words sounded empty even to him. “But there is nothing else you can do.”
You turned your head slightly, looking at him in a way that made it clear you weren’t going to let that answer stand. “That’s not the same thing, and you know it.”
He didn’t argue, because you were right.
There was a moment of silence before you spoke again, your tone shifting just enough to make it clear that this wasn’t only about the patient anymore. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
He exhaled slowly, already feeling the conversation slipping into territory he had been trying to avoid. “I’ve been busy.”
“Don’t do that,” you said, your voice still calm but firmer now, you were getting angrier.
“Do what?”
“Pretend like I don’t deserve a real answer.”
That landed harder than he expected, not because it was harsh, but because it was true.
He finally looked at you, and for a second, he considered telling you everything, explaining the thoughts that had been running in circles in his head for weeks. Instead, he chose the version that would push you away cleanly, the version that would hurt enough to make you let go.
“This isn’t a good idea,” he said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you.
Your expression shifted, confusion mixing with something more guarded. “What isn’t?”
“This. Whatever this is.”
You let out a small, disbelieving breath. “There is no ‘this,’ Jack. At least not officially. There never was.”
“Exactly.”
The response didn’t land the way he expected. Instead of ending the conversation, it only made your gaze sharpen, like you were trying to understand how something that had felt so real could be dismissed so easily.
“Then why does it feel like there was?” you asked.
He didn’t answer that, because he couldn’t.
“You deserve better,” he said instead, and even as the words left his mouth, he knew they sounded like an excuse.
Your reaction wasn’t immediate heartbreak, which almost made it worse. You looked frustrated, like you were hearing something you fundamentally disagreed with.
“I didn’t ask for better,” you said. “I just asked for you.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“Why?”
Because I will ruin this. Because I don’t know how to keep something good without breaking it. Because you’re still whole in ways I stopped being a long time ago.
“I’m not what you think I am,” he said instead.
You shook your head slightly. “I work with you. I see you every day. I know exactly who you are.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Then tell me.”
He didn’t. Instead, he took a step back, creating distance that felt final in a way neither of you had said out loud yet.
“I’m trying to do the right thing,” he said.
“For who?” you asked.
“For you.”
Your expression softened then, but not in a way that meant you agreed. It looked more like disappointment, like you were realizing something you didn’t want to accept.
“That’s not your decision to make,” you said quietly.
“It is if I’m the problem.”
“You’re not,” you started, but he cut you off.
“I am.”
The certainty in his voice stopped you, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then, after a pause that felt heavier than anything else that had been said, you nodded slowly. “Okay.”
He hadn’t expected that. He thought you would argue more, push back harder, force him to confront the things he was avoiding.
But you didn’t.
“If that’s what you want,” you added, your voice steady even if your eyes weren’t.
He nodded, even though it wasn’t what he wanted at all.
“Take care of yourself, Jack,” you said, and then you walked away.
The Pitt didn’t change after that. Why would it do? It remained exactly what it had always been, loud and relentless and unforgiving. Jack kept working, kept moving from one patient to the next, kept doing everything he was supposed to do without hesitation. From the outside, nothing about him seemed different.
But you were no longer part of his routine, and the absence of you settled into everything in a way he hadn’t anticipated.
He noticed it in small moments at first, like when he reached for a second coffee out of habit before remembering you weren’t there to take it, or when he caught himself looking up during a shift because he expected to see you nearby. He noticed it in the break room, in the hallways, in the quiet seconds between tasks when his mind had nothing else to focus on.
You were still there, of course, just not with him. You smiled at other people, talked to other coworkers, moved through the hospital with the same presence you had always had. You hadn’t changed, and that had been the entire point.
So why did it feel like he had made a mistake?
Then everything went wrong at once.
A trauma case came in fast, louder than usual, voices overlapping as the team moved to receive the patient. Jack shifted immediately, stepping into place, his focus narrowing as it always did when things escalated. There was blood, there were shouted instructions, there was the controlled chaos he knew how to navigate without hesitation.
And then, in the middle of it, something else happened.
It wasn’t even part of the case.
A crash from the other side of the room, sharp and sudden enough to cut through everything.
Jack’s head snapped up before he could stop himself.
A piece of equipment had gone down hard, metal hitting tile with a sound that made everyone flinch, and in the movement, in the confusion of too many bodies in too small a space, someone had been caught in it.
You.
For a second, nothing made sense. The noise, the movement, the way people shifted around you—it all blurred together until his brain caught up with what he was seeing.
You were on the ground.
Not moving.
Something in his chest dropped so fast it felt physical, like the air had been pulled out of his lungs before he could react. He didn’t remember crossing the room, didn’t remember leaving his patient or handing anything off, only that one second you were across the chaos and the next he was there, kneeling beside you.
“Hey—hey, look at me.”
His voice sounded wrong, too sharp, too tight.
There was blood, not a lot but enough, a thin line near your temple where you must have hit something on the way down. Your eyes were closed, your body too still, and for a moment that stretched longer than it should have, there was nothing.
Then you shifted slightly, a small, disoriented movement, and his breath came back all at once.
“Hey,” he said again, softer this time, one hand hovering near your face before he forced himself to focus. “Can you hear me?”
Your eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first before landing on him. “Jack…?”
Relief hit him hard enough to make his hands shake, but he kept them steady as he checked you over, his movements automatic even while something inside him was unraveling.
“Yeah, I’m here. Don’t move, okay? Just stay still for me.”
“I’m fine,” you murmured, already trying to push yourself up.
“No, you’re not,” he said immediately, more forceful than he meant to be. “Just—stay.”
You blinked at him, clearly still dazed, but you listened, settling back against the floor as someone else moved in to help. Around you, the ER kept going, the original trauma case still unfolding, voices still calling out instructions, but Jack’s entire focus had narrowed to you in a way that felt dangerous.
Because for that moment, nothing else mattered.
Not the patient he had left behind. Not the noise, not the urgency, not the rhythm he had spent years training himself to follow without deviation.
Just you.
The realization hit him before he could push it away.
This was what he had been trying to avoid. This exact moment. The loss of control, the shift in priorities, the way his entire world tilted because you were hurt.
Except it wasn’t hypothetical anymore.
It was real.
And it was worse than anything he had imagined.
They got you onto a bed, started running checks, voices calmer now that it was clear you were conscious, responsive. Jack stayed close, closer than he should have, watching every small reaction like it mattered more than anything else in the room.
“You hit your head,” someone said. “We’re just going to make sure everything’s okay.”
“I said I’m fine,” you insisted, your voice steadier now, though your gaze kept drifting back to Jack.
He didn’t say anything, didn’t trust himself to. His chest still felt tight, his thoughts louder than they had been in weeks.
You could have been seriously hurt.
You could have—
He stopped the thought before it finished, but it didn’t matter. The fear had already settled in.
The idea of losing you wasn’t abstract anymore. It wasn’t something he could distance himself from with logic or excuses.
It was something that had just almost happened right in front of him.
And he had felt it.
Fully.
Completely.
There was no going back from that.
—
He found you later, after everything had calmed down, after your scans came back clear, after the incident had been reduced to something manageable, something explainable.
You were sitting on one of the empty beds, a small bandage near your temple, looking more annoyed than anything else.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” he said as he approached.
You looked up, surprised. “I am resting.”
“That’s not resting.”
“It is compared to what we usually do.”
Despite everything, he almost smiled.
Almost.
Instead, he stopped a few feet away, his expression more serious than you had ever seen it.
“What?” you asked, your tone shifting slightly as you picked up on it.
“I thought—” he started, then stopped, running a hand through his hair like he needed a second to get the words right. “When you went down, I thought—”
You watched him carefully, something softer settling in your expression.
“I’m okay,” you said gently.
“I know,” he replied. “But that’s not the point.”
Silence stretched between you, but this one wasn’t empty. It was full of everything he hadn’t said before.
“I was wrong,” he said finally.
You tilted your head slightly. “About?”
“Letting you go.”
Your gaze didn’t waver, but there was something guarded there now, something that hadn’t been before. “Jack—”
“I didn’t do it for you,” he continued, the words coming more easily now that he had started. “I told myself I did, but I didn’t. I did it because I was scared of this, of what it would feel like if something happened to you and I couldn’t do anything about it.”
Your expression softened, but you didn’t interrupt.
“And then it almost did,” he said, his voice quieter now. “And it wasn’t easier, it wasn’t better, it was worse. So much worse.”
You let out a slow breath, looking down for a moment before meeting his gaze again. “You don’t get to decide what I’m worth risking, Jack.”
“I know,” he said immediately. “I know that now.”
“And you hurt me.”
“I know that too.”
Another pause, but this one felt like something being weighed instead of avoided.
“I’m still the same person,” you said. “This didn’t suddenly make me fragile.”
“I know,” he repeated. “That’s not why I’m here.”
“Then why are you?”
He held your gaze, not looking away this time, not trying to soften the truth into something easier to accept.
“Because I don’t want to do this without you.”
The honesty in that settled into the space between you, heavy but not unwelcome.
You studied him for a long moment, searching for hesitation, for doubt, for any sign that he might pull away again.
You didn’t find it.
“You’re an idiot,” you said finally, but there was no heat behind it.
“Yeah.”
“And you don’t get to run next time something scares you.”
“I won’t.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“No,” he admitted. “But I can promise I’ll stay.”
That seemed to matter.
You nodded slowly, the tension in your shoulders easing just a little. “Okay.”
That word again, but this time it felt different.
Stronger.
More deliberate.
Jack let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“Okay?” he asked.
“Okay,” you repeated, a small smile forming despite everything. “But if you ever try to push me away again, I’m not making it this easy for you.”
“That’s fair.”
“And you’re buying me coffee for at least a month.”
He huffed out a quiet laugh, the sound unfamiliar after everything that had just settled between you. “Deal.”
You shifted slightly, wincing just a little before settling again, and he instinctively moved closer, his hand hovering near yours before he let it rest there, light but certain.
For the first time, he didn’t pull back.
Because the fear was still there. It hadn’t disappeared, hadn’t softened into something manageable or distant.
