dennis realizing you have a thing for his hands so he brings some gloves home to give you a mock oral examination…
you’re sat down on the bed, while he stands above you. scrubs still on and eyes set on you. his gaze is intense but filled with adoration, admiration.
“are you ready?”
“yes—yeah.” you breathe.
he smiles, starting of by running his finger tips over the plush of your lips. it tingles from his touch and the anticipation. his eyes tracking the movements of his fingers. then they move to the seam of your mouth. pointer finger tugging down your bottom lip and letting it bounce back into place.
“okay, open up for me.” he always had the sweetest cadence.
his voice is soft but firm. the command making you feel a little misty in the head.
so you do as he says. parting your lips to allow him into your mouth.
sliding his synthetic rubber covered fingers over your tongue, the texture of the nitrile rough against you. its all slick with the lubrication of your spit.
were you drooling already?
he presses down a little harder when your jaw ticks, almost closing. in anticipation of your saliva dripping out.
“ah, don’t do that. you need to keep your mouth open nice and wide okay?”
“sorwy..” comes your muffled apology. the fingers in your mouth making your speech garbled.
he smiles down at you gently, “it’s alright, no harm done. mind your teeth.”
you hum, “mhm.”
his middle and ring finger explore your mouth with a soft sort of precision. while the pointer and pinky rest on your cheeks. its very slow, the way he moves. gently coaxing your mouth into producing more saliva so he can watch it trail up his digits and down your chin.
“don’t worry about the mess…” he reassures.
feeling the supple but bumpy texture of your inner cheeks. it was relaxing, him taking his sweet time to look you over.
his fingers smooth over your teeth then down to your gums, sliding between the space of your cheeks over them. feeling the sides of your molars before touching at the roof of your mouth. it was oddly ticklish. his fingers were so warm.
the taste of the gloves was indescribable. something nostalgic and artificial.
“now, say ‘ah’ and stick out your tongue for me please, far as you can.”
so you do. sticking the muscle out, feeling spit trail down it until it beads at the tip and dripping down into your lap.
“perfect, just like that…beautiful.”
then he begins to slide those two fingers up and down the expanse of your tongue. eyes meeting yours as he moves. going all the way back until you gag just slightly before pulling away.
he never looks away, adjusting his weight for a moment. he takes in a breath and you notice the tips of his ears reddening.
“your mouth looks..” he swallows rather harshly and your eyes catch on the way his throat bobs. then his own tongue peeks out to lick over his lip. “pr—healthy.” he corrects. “very healthy..”
your eyes move down further taking in the sight of the more than obvious tent beneath his scrub pants. paired with a small patch of something wet against his crotch.
he’s breathing hard you notice. not very professional of him.
“eyes up here, m’not finished.” he heaves.
and right before your gaze moved back up you catch sight of his gloved hands moving to untie the neat bow at his waist.
any thoughts on possible step-bro langdon? he fits into the classic older meaner step-bro trope so well, but it’s only because he likes you too much to know how to behave around you!!
⋆˚✿˖°| stepbro!frank who thinks you’re the prettiest thing ever. but unfortunately he doesn’t know what to do with that attraction. causing him to be less than amicable with you. compliments turn to jabs at your appearance. time spent together ends up being him ordering you around harshly. saying that even though you’re related by marriage you’ll never be his sister.
⋆˚✿˖°| stepbro!frank who flips your skirts up when you pass him. snickering about your choice of underwear teasing you for the design, color and style. masking the fact that he’s doing it for his own sick pleasure. by making fun of you. even though the second he gets a glimpse of the pretty material and the soft skin of your thighs and ass. his cock twitches to life beneath his sweats. mouth filling with saliva with the urge to pull them down and take a peak at what he’s been wanting.
⋆˚✿˖°| stepbro!frank who fists his cock every night to the thought of you. ear pressed to the wall separating your rooms. eyes squeezed shut, lip tugged between his teeth. as he listens to you giggle to your friend about whatever it is you’re interested in. fantasizing on what your relationship could look like if he would just get over himself. but until then all he can do is jerk off pathetically to sounds of your muffled conversation.
jack abbot who’s leaning back on his knees, keeping your legs spread after having fucked and stuffed your cunt full of his cum. he’s squinting, watching your puffy folds as his spend slowly dribbles out, and then he’s leaning to the side, fumbling for his thick prescription glasses.
jack abbot who slides his glasses on and resumes his inspection, fingers reaching out to scoop up some of his cum and press it back into your tender hole. he’s fucking his cum back into you, eyes locked in on your cunt, now in higher definition. he’s pressing one hand down on your stomach while he works his fingers into you, his glasses slipping down his nose as you start to twitch and whine under him.
The Pitt is baby's first fandom for so many people. Wdym I should hate Langdon, because he was stealing pills and treating patients high? I was 9 years old watching Dr House pop 3 stolen Vicodin with a half bottle of Whiskey and then treating the Black Plague. Who am I to judge?
So uhm... Imagine Langdon just fucking you while you're on call with Dennis knowing damm well Dennis has a crush on you hahahahahaha
Hi beautiful anon, thank you for blessing us with this sluttiest request. I hope it's what you asked for, or something close, because I just got carried away, tbh.<33
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Summary: You were having sex with Frank when an unexpected phone call changes everything.
Warnings: smut +18 minors DNI, no use of Y/N, teasing, sexual explicit content, use of fingers, unprotected sex (don't do it), oral (f receiving), dom!Frank x afab!reader, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, creampie, dom!Frank, praise and degradation, dennis being a fucking dirty mouth, let me know if I'm missing something.
words count: 1.3k
Authors note: Hi, I'm back. This is my first smut post in a while. I feel like I'm a little rusty, to be honest. I promise to improve again. Anyway, I'm so fucking obsessed with Langdon and Dennis, like I need them at the same time. I have an idea for a part two, but I don't know yet, so let me know if you want one. If you have any ideas, whether smut, angst, or fluff, you can send them to me. I'll be writing everything you send me about them or other characters. You can check the rules section (it's pinned to my profile). Sorry for any written mistakes english its not my first language.
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It was nine o'clock at night and Frank couldn't resist dragging you to his room and fucking you. You two were nothing, just colleagues who sometimes fucked. Ever since he had divorced Abby, his sex drive had been out of control, and you were the first to notice and help him. and he couldn't resist at all.
Now you were lying in bed while Frank devoured you like a desperate man, and you couldn't keep your mouth shut.
"Fuck—that feels so good" you murmured between moans. "Don't stop please."
Frank's eyes darkened with raw hunger as he lifted his head just enough to watch your face twist in pleasure, his fingers still buried deep inside you, curling lazily against that spot that made your hips jerk.
"Look at you," he growled, voice low and rough, lips shiny with your wetness. "So fucking needy for me. Can't even stay quiet, can you?"
You whimpered in response, fingers tangling tighter in his hair as you tried to push him back down. Frank chuckled darkly, but he obeyed, diving back in with renewed desperation. His tongue flattened against your clit before flicking rapidly, sucking the swollen bud into his mouth while his fingers picked up pace, thrusting deeper, faster, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room.
Your back arched off the bed, thighs trembling around his head. "Frank— fuck, yes— right there—"
He groaned against your pussy, the vibration shooting straight through you. One of his hands slid up your body, roughly palming your breast, pinching your nipple hard enough to make you cry out. He was devouring you like a starving man, like he hadn't touched anyone in years even though it had only been a few days since the last time.
You were getting close already, that tight coil in your belly winding unbearably fast. Your moans grew louder, shameless, until Frank suddenly pulled his fingers out and replaced them with his tongue, fucking you with it while his thumb pressed firm circles on your clit.
"Come on," he rasped between licks, voice wrecked. "Let me hear you. Cum for me, baby. I want to feel you soaking my face."
Your orgasm hit you like a freight train. You cried out his name, hips bucking wildly as waves of pleasure crashed through you. Frank didn't stop, licking and sucking you through every pulse, greedy for every drop until you were shaking and oversensitive, pushing weakly at his head.
He finally pulled back, breathing hard, his chin glistening. His cock was straining painfully against his pants as he crawled up your body, eyes locked on yours with that feral intensity.
"We're not done," he murmured, voice thick with lust as he freed himself, thick and heavy, already leaking. He rubbed the head against your slick folds, teasing your entrance. "Not even close."
He grabbed you by the hips and quickly turned you around, ending up in doggy style.
You were still catching your breath, face down against the sheets, ass up as Frank positioned himself behind you. He didn’t waste a second. With one rough thrust he buried his thick cock deep inside your soaked pussy, stretching you open in one go. The sudden fullness punched a loud moan out of you.
“Fuck, yes—” you gasped, gripping the sheets.
Frank groaned, hips snapping forward again, setting a deep, punishing rhythm. “That’s it. Take every inch, baby.”
Frank gripped your hips tighter, fingers digging into your flesh as he drove into you with deep, relentless strokes. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mixed with your muffled moans into the sheets and his low, guttural grunts.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he growled, voice strained with raw need. He pulled back almost all the way, only to slam back in harder, burying himself to the hilt.
You pushed back against him, desperate for more, your body still buzzing from the first orgasm. Every thrust dragged against that perfect spot inside you, making your toes curl and your eyes roll back.
“Harder— Frank, please—” you begged, voice breaking.
You were pushing back against him, lost in pleasure, when your phone started ringing on the nightstand.
Frank slowed his thrusts but didn’t stop, reaching over to grab the phone. A filthy smirk spread across his face when he saw the screen.
“Denny’s calling,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “Answer it. Now.”
“Frank—wait—” you gasped, but he thrust deep and held himself there, grinding against your cervix.
“Answer it and act normal,” he ordered, giving your ass a sharp smack. “I want to hear you struggle.”
With a trembling hand you took the call.
“H-hey, Denny…” you breathed, trying to sound casual even as Frank started fucking you again, slow and deep.
“Hey,” Dennis replied warmly. “Sorry for calling so late. I’ve been thinking about you all day. You free this weekend? Maybe we could grab a drink or—”
Frank suddenly changed the angle and started railing you harder, his cock dragging perfectly against your g-spot with every brutal thrust. A choked moan escaped your lips before you could stop it.
You tried to mute the call, but Frank grabbed your wrist and pinned it to the bed, forcing you to keep the line open.
“Fuck—!” you moaned loudly.
Dennis went quiet for a second, then his voice dropped, thick with sudden arousal.
“…Holy shit. You’re getting fucked right now, aren’t you?” He let out a low, dirty chuckle. “Goddamn, listen to that wet pussy taking cock. He’s really giving it to you, huh? You are taking it like a good girl, moaning into the phone while he ruins you.”
Frank groaned in approval and started pounding you faster, hips snapping forward aggressively. The obscene sound of your soaked cunt being fucked echoed with every thrust.
You couldn’t hold back anymore. “Denny… ahh—fuck—”
“Yeah, that’s it. Moan for me, baby,” Dennis continued, his voice growing rougher. “Tell me how deep he is. Is his cock stretching that tight little hole wide open? I can hear how fucking wet you are. Bet your tits are swinging and your pussy is creaming all over him. Fuck, I’m so hard just listening to you get railed like a whore.”
Frank reached around and rubbed your clit roughly while slamming into you, making your moans louder and more desperate.
“Tell him how good it feels,” Frank growled loud enough for Dennis to hear.
Frank smirked darkly behind you and slammed in especially hard, making you cry out.
You whimpered helplessly. “Denny—fuck—”
“Shit, you sound so fucking hot,” Dennis growled. “I’m getting hard just listening to you get railed. Tell him to fuck you harder. I want to hear you scream while you cum on his cock.”
Frank’s eyes flashed with pure hunger. He grabbed your hips, lifting you slightly and pounding into you with savage strokes, balls slapping against your pussy.
You were gone—moaning openly into the phone, voice wrecked, body shaking as Frank fucked you senseless and Dennis’s dirty words pushed you right to the edge.
“Gonna cum—fuck, I’m gonna cum—” you gasped.
“That’s it,” both men seemed to urge at once.
Your orgasm crashed over you violently, pussy spasming hard around Frank’s thick cock as you moaned loud enough for Dennis to hear every filthy second of it. Frank kept thrusting through it, chasing his own release, while Dennis’s low, filthy praise kept pouring through the speaker.
For a moment there was only heavy breathing on both ends of the line.
Frank pulled out slowly, watching his cum leak from your ruined hole with satisfaction. He took the phone from your limp fingers.
"Next time you call her," he said casually, "She might be riding my cock again."
Dennis's voice was wrecked but eager. "...Yeah. But next time invite me so I can fuck her too, Langdon."
Frank let out a snort, almost a laugh, "Yeah, we'll see," and he hung up.
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your reblogs and replies are always appreciated dearly☆
during one fight you slap him unprompted and frank just laughs... you end up with your face held in the pillows by his hand and your ass up :(
ugh he's such a shit that he probably asks for it!! basically baits you into it all "let me have it, baby." all smug and smiling and infuriating. he pats his cheek, "if it'll make you feel better, princess, show me what you got." so you do! but you regret it the second he laughs, rubs his jaw and flicks his bangs off his face, starts moving towards you to grab at your jaw and smile against your lips, practically teeth to teeth, "you're so fucked."
you end up getting drilled into the mattress, drooling and crying into the sheets so he yanks your head up by the hair, "nah baby, you had so much to say. what was it that you called me? hm?" but you're so gone, squeezing so tight around him biting at the pillow. "that's what I thought, that pretty mouth is so much better when it's full," shoves two fingers in your mouth making sure they're deep enough that his ring clinks against your teeth, and pushes your head into the bed :((((( doesn't miss the way your tongue licks at the gold band, cunt squeezing </3
thinking about frank deciding he wants to work you through every kind of orgasm one night (clitoral, g-spot, cervical)… both as a personal challenge for himself and because then he’ll get to watch you experience all the different sensations. it’s like a little pet project for him <3
he starts by rubbing your clit, making quick, precise little circles. He increases the pressure as he goes, just the way you like, and keeps his blue eyes trained on you intently to watch you slowly fall apart under his thumb.
He kisses you as you tremble through an easy orgasm, drinking up the happy little sigh that falls from your lips.
“Please, Frank,” your hands come up to grasp needily at the fabric of his shirt. He shushes you, gives you another sweet kiss.
You think he’s giving you what you want when he slips his fingers into you, up to the first knuckle. You whimper softly and arch your back as he crooks them upwards to stroke just past your entrance.
He does that again and again— rubbing the pads of his fingers against the soft, sensitive nerves of your g-spot— and it feels good, but not entirely satisfying. He keeps up the circles with his thumb. Your pussy clenches around nothing, desperately trying to lure his fingers in deeper, begging to feel him fill you up. No such luck.
You pout at him and he pouts right back. Keeps crooking his fingers shallowly, coos a condescending “What, baby?” as if he doesn’t know you’re aching.
“Want more,” you breathe out. “Please.”
“Not yet, pretty girl.” He says with a shake of his head. He knows what you like— knows internal orgasms are your favorite, when he drives his fingers in nice and deep and sponges over your g-spot on the way. But that’s not the point. He has a goal. “Work with me. I want you to cum just like this— I know you can.”
Your pout turns into a full fledged scowl. Partly because he’s right— you can feel an orgasm building, can feel the arousal pooling in your belly despite the almost agonizingly empty feeling of your pulsing walls. Your start grinding down on his fingers rhythmically, chasing the pleasure. Still, you gripe. “Frank.”
He ignores your complaint as a smirk forms on his face. “There you go, princess. Fuck yourself on my fingers.” His eyes flit down to gaze appreciatively at your rolling hips. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Keep going. Take what I’m giving you like a good girl.”
You can’t hold back your moan with him talking to you like that. You keep rolling your hips, getting closer and closer despite feeling more and more empty. His grin widens. “That’s it. Cum for me.”
And you do. Pleasure spreads through you like fire catching and your eyes fall closed. Your pussy spasms wildly around his fingers, which never falter in their shallow movement, and bliss momentarily overcomes the acute need burning deep inside you. “Good girl.” Frank praises. You open your eyes.
“Frank.” It comes out breathless and weak, but it’s still undeniably reproachful.
“Jesus, baby.” Frank laughs, shaking his head in exasperation. “Only you could complain after I just made you cum twice.”
“I want—“
“More. I know.” He leans down for another kiss, his taunting grin connecting with your frown. “I’m gonna give you more, princess. Gotta trust me.”
He finally slips his fingers in deeper, and you swear you could cry with relief. Instead you just moan.
“Theeeere you go.” Frank coos. He adds a third finger, finally giving you that stretch you’ve been craving. “That better, sweetheart? You like that?”
“Yes,” you whimper. You rock your hips, urging his fingers in deeper. You moan when he drags them over all the tender spots deep inside you, letting the tips nudge against your cervix. “Oh my god, fuck, yes.”
Frank smirks. “Attagirl.”
He thrusts his fingers into you steadily, working you up agaun. You’re practically writhing against the mattress, fingers still tangled in the fabric of his shirt. The deep internal stimulation is so intense in the wake of two orgasms. You’re still so sensitive. “Frank, holy shit.”
“Shhh.” He soothes. The hand of the arm braced by your head reaches over to smooth a stray hair out of your face, then caresses your cheek. “I’ve got you. This is gonna be a big one, baby.”
Your head bobbles, and he nods along with you, furrowing his brows to mimic your frantic expression. “I know. Come on, pretty girl, you can do it. I’m giving you what you wanted, remember? Let go for me.”
Your back arches and you let out a long moan as you cum again. You clamp down around Frank’s fingers like a vice, and somewhere in the back of your mind you can hear a string of praises in his voice, but it’s far away, like you’re somewhere else. All your senses are overwhelmed by pleasure.
“Fuck, baby.” Frank’s saying when you finally start to come down enough to process your surroundings. “That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever fucking seen.”
His thumb swipes away tears you hadn’t even realized you’d shed. You shiver, and jesus, your fucking teeth are almost clattering.
“Oh my god.” You murmur simply, voice shaky. Frank laughs. He looks somewhere between awed and cocky.
“See?” He says, definitely cocky. “It’s almost like I know what I’m doing or something.”
i think dennis would be a shh shh shh shusher and not a shhhhhh shusher. especially the first few times he slips into your tight, warm heat… cause he starts talking so fast. he loses all words, all his fantasies and dreams of smooth-talking you through the experience gone because he can’t stop rambling about how good you feel, how cute you look under him.. can barely stop his own hips from jerking forward instinctively as his dripping cock seeks more of your sweet cunt. his hands grab onto the soft flesh on your sides, eyes squeezing shut, willing himself to hold on and not spill inside you just yet.
when he breaks out of his haze to see you letting out soft pants and whimpers from him just resting inside you, throbbing and pulsing with need, he’d coo at you so sweetly…
“shh shh shh, ‘s okay.. i-im here, baby, you’re okay. taking it so well, my sweet girl. mmph- o-oh… feels so good when you squeeze like that. tell me you’re okay, sweets.. i wanna move so bad, please tell me.”
“yeah, yeah im okay… please denny jus’ move already..”
he nods fervently and starts his slow, slow thrusts into you. from here on its almost a competition which one of you is louder, groans and moans getting pulled out of you with every shift of his hips. both of you gripping onto each other for dear life and trying to keep your eyes open so you can see each others face strewn up in pleasure. and soon enough hes rutting against you with reckless abandon, needing more, more, more… but he doesn’t stop talking through all this.
“oh my god, baby, i-i cant… think i’m close already, cant hold it much longer. i gotta slow down, but i dont think i-i… haah, i cant-” he croaks out, hips stuttering.
when he gets like this, it usually ends either with him filling you up and still going for more, using your overstimulated, still spasming hole, or you turning him over and riding him, edging him for hours before he even gets his first orgasm in. your pick !
he would not fucking say that, but with disability.. he would not fucking be able bodied. sick n tired of characters walking away from multiple life changing injuries without a scratch. let’s get some natural consequences in here.
give that knife/sword fight survivor nerve damage. give the character who was shot in the gut a stoma. give that fire survivor lung damage and an oxygen cannula. give that leg injury survivor a cane. give that starvation survivor gastroparesis. give that spinal injury survivor a manual chair or powerchair.
while we’re at it, give your characters congenital disabilities too, just because. give them intellectual and development disabilities. give them acquired and postviral illnesses. dare to make somebody bedbound. for me.
pairing: jack abbot x resident!reader
summary: After accidentally sending your attending Dr. Jack Abbot a nude, you delete it, panic-text an apology, and spend the rest of your shift waiting for a response that never comes. Jack doesn’t say a word until he gets you alone in his office—and by then, the apology texts are the least incriminating thing between you.
wc: 7.8k
a/n: shoutout to @in-ky and pinky (lol) for beta reading and confirming that yes, unfortunately, this is exactly what should happen when you send your attending a nude by accident. saw jack abbot on his phone and immediately made it everyone’s problem. enjoy the HR violation.
warnings: power imbalance, attending/resident relationship, inappropriate workplace behavior, explicit sexual content, dirty talk, accidental nude (then on purpose >:)), semi-public sex, fingering, handjob, orgasm denial-ish, praise kink, jealousy/possessiveness, hair pulling, biting/marking, cumplay/eating, clothed/semi-clothed smut, no piv, age gap dynamics, no use of y/n
MASTERLIST
You didn’t know a mistake could feel intentional until Jack Abbot stopped replying.
For almost a full minute after it happened, you couldn’t move. You just stood in the staff bathroom with your phone in your hand, the harsh white light buzzing overhead, your pulse slamming so hard behind your ears that the whole hospital seemed to muffle around it. The sink was still running because you’d forgotten to turn it off. Water rushed uselessly into the drain while you stared at the thread on your screen and tried to convince yourself that your eyes had rearranged the letters.
They hadn’t.
Jack Abbot sat at the top of the conversation in clean, merciless text.
Below it, the blank space where the photo had been.
You’d deleted it almost instantly, but instantly didn’t mean unseen. Instantly meant your thumb had moved faster than your brain, faster than your lungs, faster than the sick drop in your stomach when the picture appeared in the wrong thread. It meant you’d watched one of the most obscene photos in your camera roll land in your attending’s messages and then vanish under your panicked attempt to erase evidence.
Not erase memory.
Just evidence.
“Oh, no,” you whispered, and the words sounded too small for the scale of the disaster.
The photo had been from two nights ago. Your apartment, your bed, the lamp beside your mattress giving everything that warm, dirty glow. Not soft. Not tasteful. Not a picture you could call accidental in spirit even if the send itself had been. You’d taken it because you were alone and turned on and feeling reckless enough to admire yourself, body angled deliberately across twisted sheets, hair messy, eyes on the camera like you knew exactly what kind of thought you wanted to plant in someone’s head. There was nothing clinical about it. Nothing coy. It was the kind of photo that said look, want, imagine.
And Jack Abbot might have seen it.
Jack, who had corrected your charting that morning with a tired flick of his eyes.
Jack, who had stood behind you at the board, close enough for you to catch the smell of coffee and hospital soap, and said, “Try again,” when your answer hadn’t been specific enough.
Jack, who was older, gruffer, sharper around the edges than anyone had any right to be while still being that unfairly attractive.
Jack, who was your attending.
You turned off the sink with shaking fingers and immediately made the situation worse.
You:
oh my god
that was not meant for you
please ignore that
i deleted it
i’m so sorry
please delete it if it still shows up
i’m actually going to resign and move states
You stared at the messages, then at the empty space above them, then at the messages again. Your face burned. Your throat felt tight. Any other person might’ve replied by now. Any normal person might’ve hit you with a confused question mark, a reassurance, a threat, a joke. Something.
Jack gave you nothing.
No typing bubble. No acknowledgment. No read receipt. Just that awful, professional silence.
It was very Jack of him, which somehow made it worse.
A knock hit the bathroom door. “You dying in there?”
Mel’s voice. Thank God and also absolutely not.
You shoved your phone into your scrub pocket like you’d been caught with something you weren’t supposed to have. “No.”
“You sure? You sound weird.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re needed in three. Abbot’s looking for you.”
For one second, your entire body went cold.
Then hot.
Then somehow both.
“Great,” you said, and if Mel noticed that your voice came out like you’d just swallowed a battery, she was kind enough not to comment through the door.
You took one last look at yourself in the mirror before leaving. There you were: wrinkled scrubs, tired eyes, badge clipped slightly crooked, mouth pressed into a line that looked almost professional if no one knew you were internally preparing to fling yourself into traffic. You were a doctor. You were an adult. You could walk into a room with Jack Abbot and not immediately confess to everything like a criminal under interrogation.
Probably.
The hallway outside was too bright. Too loud. Too full of witnesses. The hospital had the particular cruelty of continuing to function during personal catastrophes, monitors chiming and carts rattling and nurses calling over their shoulders while your entire nervous system stood at attention. You passed Whitaker near the supply cart, who gave you a distracted little nod. You passed Santos at the board, half-listening to Robby. Nobody looked at you like they knew.
Then you reached trauma three, and Jack looked up.
He was standing at the foot of the bed with one hand braced on the rail, the other holding a chart, short sleeves leaving his forearms bare and his watch stark against his wrist. Stubble roughened his jaw, his hair was slightly mussed from the kind of shift that had been bad before noon and would only get worse, and his expression was exactly what it always was: tired, focused, unimpressed by the existence of chaos.
No guilt. No surprise. No flicker.
That was the first real blow. If he had reacted, you might’ve known how to feel. If he’d avoided your eyes, you could’ve built a theory around it. If he’d looked at you too long, you could’ve hated him or wanted him or both with more certainty.
Instead, he just watched you enter like you were late with labs.
“Nice of you to join us,” Jack said.
Dana, at the monitor, winced under her breath. “Damn.”
You forced your mouth to move. “Sorry.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on you a fraction too long. “Are you?”
There was no reason for it to hit the way it did. The words were ordinary. Dry. Annoyed, maybe. But you heard every unanswered text underneath them. You heard the deleted photo. You heard the question he wasn’t asking in front of Dana and a patient with a bleeding scalp.
Your stomach folded in on itself.
“What’s the situation?” you asked, because medicine was safer than silence.
Jack handed you the chart. “Fall from a ladder. Brief LOC. Walk me through what you’re ordering and why.”
You could do this. This was easy. This was normal. You’d done this a hundred times. You moved through the exam, named imaging, neuro checks, wound care, the things you needed to rule out. Your mouth worked. Your hands worked. Your brain mostly worked.
Your body, unfortunately, remembered that your phone remained unanswered in your pocket.
Every time Jack shifted near you, you became aware of him all over again. The low gravel of his voice. The way he stood close enough to take the chart back from your hands without asking. The blunt competence in his movements. The fact that he didn’t soothe, didn’t explain, didn’t give you even one quiet aside to release the pressure building under your skin.
He let you suffer.
Worse, he made you work.
For the next several hours, Jack Abbot became a masterclass in professional cruelty. Not actual cruelty. Nothing anyone could report. Nothing anyone would even notice unless they were living inside your body and could feel the way your pulse kicked every time he said your name.
He asked you questions in front of Robby.
He corrected your note beside the nurses’ station.
He handed you a printout without looking at you and said, “More specific,” in that gruff, flat tone that made you want to argue and obey at the same time.
He touched your elbow once, only to move you out of the path of a gurney, but the contact burned through your scrub sleeve because now there was a version of you in his possible memory that had nothing to do with the hospital. Not capable, not composed, not holding a chart or presenting a patient. You in bed. You in low light. You looking at the camera like you wanted someone to imagine being there.
And Jack still didn’t reply.
At some point, Santos appeared beside you at the counter while you were pretending to review labs and absolutely not refreshing your message thread.
“You look terrible,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“Like you’re waiting for a disciplinary hearing.”
“I’m busy.”
She leaned closer, lowering her voice as if delivering a diagnosis. “You and Abbot have been weird all day.”
Your grip tightened around the tablet. “We have not.”
“You have. He’s doing that thing where he gets quieter when he’s mad, and you look like you’re being hunted for sport.”
“I’m not being hunted.”
“Mm.”
“Santos.”
“What? I’m observant.”
“You’re nosy.”
“That too.”
Across the department, Jack stood with Robby near the board, arms crossed, head tilted as he listened. He looked exhausted. Unmoved. Utterly unreadable. Then, as if he felt you looking, his eyes lifted and found yours.
You looked away first.
Santos made an obnoxious little sound. “Loud.”
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought it loudly.”
She grinned, entirely too pleased with herself, and moved off before you could throw something at her.
The shift dragged on. Or maybe it flew. Time had gone strange, measured less by the clock and more by every non-reply from Jack, every glance that might have meant something and might have meant nothing, every brush of proximity that left you a little more humiliated by your own reaction. By the end of rounds, panic had curdled into something hotter and harder to name.
You still wanted to disappear.
You also wanted to know exactly what he’d thought.
That was the unforgivable part. The part you couldn’t blame on the photo or the send button or exhaustion. Under the mortification, there was want. Ugly, bright, undeniable want. The kind that made you wonder whether he had paused when he saw it. Whether his jaw had tightened. Whether he had deleted it right away or looked long enough to regret it.
You were finishing a note when his shadow fell over your workspace.
You didn’t look up immediately. You knew.
“My office,” Jack said. “Now.”
The words were quiet. No one else would’ve heard them as anything but an attending giving an instruction. Dana barely glanced over. Robby kept talking to Mel. The world did not stop.
Yours did.
You stood carefully. “Okay.”
Jack turned without waiting to see if you followed. The walk to his office felt like a march toward sentencing, except sentencing probably wouldn’t have made your thighs feel weak. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t slow down. Didn’t look back. That made it worse, because it meant he knew you would follow.
His office was dim, cramped, and cluttered in the way all hospital offices became cluttered no matter how hard anyone tried to keep them human. A desk lamp threw warm light over a stack of charts. Half-closed blinds cut the room into narrow bars. His mug sat beside the keyboard, coffee gone cold. The air held the stale sharpness of the hospital layered with something that was just him: clean sweat, soap, coffee, fatigue.
Jack closed the door.
He left it unlocked.
That detail lodged in you. The unlocked door meant this was still a conversation. Still professional, technically. Still something you could leave.
Or something he wanted you to know you could leave.
He leaned back against the edge of the desk, arms crossed loosely, and looked at you for long enough that you started talking just to make him stop.
“I’m sorry,” you said. “I know I already said that in the texts, probably too many times, but I really am. It was an accident. Obviously. I deleted it right away, and I know that doesn’t necessarily mean anything if you saw it before then, but I swear I didn’t mean to—”
“Stop.”
You stopped.
Jack’s gaze stayed steady. “Explain.”
You blinked. “I just did.”
“No. You apologized.” His voice was calm, which was somehow worse than anger. “Explain what happened.”
Your face burned. “I sent the wrong thing to the wrong person.”
“What thing?”
“Jack.”
His expression didn’t change. “Say it.”
The floor seemed suddenly fascinating. You looked at a scuff near the leg of his desk and wondered if it was possible to die from embarrassment after all.
“A nude,” you said.
The word changed the room.
Jack didn’t move, but something in his face tightened. A small thing. Controlled. There and gone.
“I saw it,” he said.
You closed your eyes for one second. “Okay.”
For a moment, that was all there was. The confirmation. The silence after. The awful, humiliating knowledge that the image had reached him before you could take it back.
“I didn’t keep it,” he said.
Your eyes opened. “You didn’t?”
“No.”
The relief was sharp enough to hurt. It should’ve ended there. It should’ve made everything clean again, or at least survivable. He had done the right thing. He had refused to keep what hadn’t been meant for him. You could apologize one more time, leave his office, and spend the rest of your life avoiding direct eye contact.
But Jack was still looking at you.
And his voice, when it came, was lower.
“That doesn’t mean I didn’t look.”
Something low in you pulled tight, panic and arousal twisting together until you couldn’t tell which one had hit first.
He pushed off the desk, not moving closer yet. Just standing straighter. “Who was it for?”
“No one.”
“No one.”
“I took it for myself.”
Jack’s mouth twitched, not amusement exactly. More like disbelief with nowhere innocent to go. “You take pictures like that for yourself?”
There were a dozen sensible answers. Defensive answers. Clean, professional answers that would’ve made this easier to survive. Instead, you heard yourself say, “Sometimes.”
The tiredness in his face thinned, and beneath it was something intent, almost indecently awake—a look that moved over you with such slow, controlled heat that your body reacted before your pride could stop it. Like the picture had burned itself into his retinas and left him standing there with nowhere innocent to put his hands.
For the first time all day, you saw the effect. Not much. Jack wasn’t a man who gave much away for free. But there it was in the pause, the shift of his jaw, the hand he dragged briefly over his mouth before dropping it again.
“You’re not helping yourself,” he said.
“I thought I was being honest.”
“That’s the problem.”
The words should’ve embarrassed you further. They did. But they also did something else, something low and hot, because he sounded less like your attending now and more like a man trying very hard to remember he still was one.
You took a careful breath. “Why didn’t you answer?”
Jack looked at you for a long moment, and the silence wasn’t empty anymore. It had weight. The shape of all the things he’d refused to put in writing.
“Because if I answered then,” he said, voice lower now, “I would’ve said something I shouldn’t.”
Your mouth went dry. “Like what?”
“Don’t.”
“You brought me in here.”
“To handle it.”
“Is that what you’re doing?”
His jaw worked once, and for the first time, his control looked less like indifference and more like effort. “I’m trying.”
“Trying to handle me?”
That did something. You saw it in the brief drop of his gaze, the pause before he pulled it back to your face.
“Trying not to,” he said.
There it was again—that small crack in the professionalism. Not a confession, not exactly, but close enough to make the room feel suddenly too small. Close enough that you felt it move through you before you had time to decide what to do with it.
Jack saw that too.
Of course he did.
He stepped closer, not quickly, not carelessly. Slow enough that you could move back if you wanted. Slow enough that the choice stayed yours.
You didn’t.
“You sent me that,” he said, voice low, “then walked around my department for the rest of the shift like I could just forget it.”
“I didn’t know if you’d seen it.”
“You knew.”
“I hoped you hadn’t.”
“No.” His gaze held yours, steady and merciless in a way that made your skin feel too tight under your scrubs. “You hoped I had, and you were scared I had. Not the same thing.”
You hated him a little for being right. You wanted him more because of it.
“That’s not fair,” you said.
“I didn’t say it was.”
He was close enough now that you could see the fatigue at the corners of his eyes, the rough shadow along his jaw, the controlled set of his mouth. Still Jack. Still gruff and older and dangerous mostly because he looked like he’d spent a lifetime refusing himself the stupid thing, the reckless thing, the filthy thing that would feel good for exactly long enough to ruin him.
“You wanted to know what I thought,” he said.
Your throat tightened. “Did I?”
His gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second before returning to your eyes. “You tell me.”
The worst part was that you couldn’t. Not honestly. Because you had wanted to know. Under the embarrassment, under the panic, under every frantic apology you’d typed too fast and regretted immediately, there had been that awful, helpless need to know what he’d seen when he looked at you afterward. If he’d been angry. If he’d been disgusted. If he’d imagined it again.
If he’d wanted to.
Jack watched the silence work through you, watched your breath catch, watched your face give away what your mouth refused to say.
Then he stepped back half a pace.
The loss of him was so immediate your body nearly followed before you could stop it.
“Tell me to forget it,” he said, “and I’ll forget it.”
“You just said you couldn’t.”
“I’ll act like I can.”
That was very Jack. Honest enough to hurt. Restrained enough to be decent. He had refused to keep the photo. He had left the door unlocked. Now he was putting distance between you, giving you a clean exit with the kind of brutal practicality that somehow made you want him worse.
You should’ve taken it.
Instead, you said, “I don’t want you to.”
The room went quiet in a new way.
Jack’s face barely changed, but your body took the look like contact, nerves flaring under your scrubs as if he’d reached across the room and found you bare. For one dizzy second, the clothes felt pointless—like he was already picturing what was underneath and remembering exactly where to look.
“Be clear,” he said.
Your throat felt tight. “I don’t want you to forget it.”
His hand moved to the door.
The lock clicked.
Small sound. Huge consequence.
Not loud. Just final. The kind of sound that doesn’t ask permission. Jack’s hand left the deadbolt, but he didn’t turn around right away. He stood there facing the door, shoulders rising once, falling once, like he was giving himself a countdown.
You were already backed up against his desk. Metal cold through your scrub pants. You watched his back. The way his scrub top pulled between his shoulder blades. The gray hair curling at his nape, damp from twelve hours of running a floor that wouldn’t stop coding.
He turned.
His eyes had changed. Not tired, not distant—fixed on you now with a hunger he’d spent the whole shift forcing down. It had been there through rounds, through the silence, through every clipped order and every time he’d looked at you and then looked away like one more second would give him away.
“Stand up.”
You did. Your thighs hit the desk edge behind you. He crossed the space in two strides and then he was there, close enough that the heat of him hit your skin before his body did, close enough that you could smell the antiseptic and coffee and something underneath—just him, just warm skin and a long shift.
His hand found your hip. Not gentle. Not rough. Just certain. His thumb pressed into the bone there and you felt it in your teeth.
“You sent me a picture,” he said.
His voice was low. Not the attending voice. Not the one that cut through chaos in the trauma bay. This one was quieter. Worse.
“I know.”
“You tried to take it back.”
“Yes.”
“I saw it anyway.” His thumb moved—just a fraction, just a small circle against your hip bone through the thin cotton. “You know I saw it.”
Your throat was dry. “I wasn’t sure.”
“Bullshit.” The word landed soft, almost kind. “You knew. You watched me not look at you for six hours and you knew exactly why.”
You couldn’t answer. He was too close. His other hand came up, slow, and his fingers found the edge of your jaw. Not gripping. Just resting there, his palm warm against the side of your throat, his thumb tracing the line of your chin like he was memorizing bone.
“Describe it,” he said.
“What?”
“The photo. Tell me what you sent me.”
Heat crawled up your neck. Your chest. Your face. He felt it—his thumb was right there on your pulse, and you watched his eyes flick down to your throat, watched him feel every beat of your heart slamming against his palm.
“I can’t.”
“You can.” His grip didn’t tighten. It didn’t have to. “You took it. You sent it. Say it.”
You swallowed. His thumb rode the movement. “It was—I was on my bed.”
“Go on.”
“On my stomach. The camera was—it was angled down. You could see my back. My shoulders.” You stopped. Breathed. He waited. “My ass. I was wearing—”
“Nothing,” he said. “You were wearing nothing.”
The word hit your stomach and clenched there. “Yes.”
“And your legs were spread.”
Not a question. He’d seen it. He’d looked at it long enough to know exactly how you were positioned, exactly what was visible, exactly what you’d offered up without saying a word.
“Yes.”
“And between them.” His thumb traced down your throat, just a whisper of pressure. “What could I see.”
“Everything.”
He exhaled. It was the first crack you’d seen—just a shiver of air through his nose, his jaw tightening, his eyes going darker. “Everything,” he repeated. “You sent your attending a photo of your pussy and you want me to believe it was an accident.”
“I panicked. I deleted it—”
“After it delivered. After I saw the notification. After I opened it in the middle of rounds and had to stand there with a patient’s chart in my hand and your pussy on my phone.”
Your knees nearly buckled. He said it so flat. So clinical. Like he was naming an anatomical structure, except his voice dropped on the word, roughened, and his grip on your hip tightened once before releasing.
“Jack—”
“Dr. Abbot.” His eyes snapped to yours. “In this hospital, I’m Dr. Abbot. You don’t get to call me Jack until I tell you to.”
Your breath stuttered. "Dr. Abbot."
"Better." He stepped closer. Your bodies touched—chest to chest, his scrub top against yours, the heat of him bleeding through the fabric. His thigh pressed between your legs and you made a sound before you could stop it, small and humiliating and honest.
"There it is," he murmured. His mouth was near your ear now, stubble scratching your temple. "That's the sound. That's what you wanted me to hear."
You grabbed his arm. You didn't mean to—your hand just found his bicep and held, fingers digging into muscle, and he let you. His arm was solid under your grip, hard from years of compressions and lifting and holding bodies together while they bled.
"I'm sorry," you said.
"Are you." He pulled back just enough to look at you. His face was close—you could see the exhaustion in the lines around his eyes, the gray threading his stubble, the way his mouth was set in something that wasn't quite a frown. "Or are you just scared I know what you look like when you want someone."
You didn't answer. Couldn't. He was right and you both knew it.
His hand left your jaw. Slid down. Found your wrist and lifted it between your bodies, his thumb pressing into your pulse point, feeling the blood hammer under your skin.
"You're shaking," he said.
"I know."
"Good."
He kissed you.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't careful. His mouth hit yours with the same certainty as his hands—hard, demanding, his stubble scraping your lip and his tongue pushing past your teeth before you'd even registered the impact. He tasted like black coffee and something sharp, something that burned going down, and you opened for him immediately, helplessly, your whole body sagging into his grip.
His hand left your wrist and grabbed your other hip. Both hands now, fingers digging into the meat of you, pulling you against him so hard the desk edge bit into your thighs. His cock was hard already, pressing against your stomach through his scrub pants, and the knowledge of it—the fact that he'd been hard, maybe this whole time, maybe since he saw the photo, maybe since he locked the door—made you moan into his mouth.
"Quiet," he said against your lips. "The walls are thin."
You bit his lower lip. Harder than you meant to. He inhaled sharp and something flashed in his eyes—surprise, and then heat, and then his hands were moving, one sliding up your back under your scrub top, palm rough and hot on your spine, the other fisting in your hair and yanking your head back until your throat was exposed.
"You bite me again," he said against your pulse, "and I'll make you regret it."
"Maybe I want that."
His teeth found your neck. Not a kiss—a bite, real pressure, his incisors denting the skin just above your collarbone. You gasped and your hips bucked against his thigh and he held you there, teeth still clamped, tongue pressing flat against the mark he was making.
When he pulled back, his mouth was wet. His eyes were wrecked. "You want it," he said. "You want a lot of things. That's the problem."
Your hands moved. You didn't decide to—they just went, desperate, grabbing the front of his scrub top and pulling until the V-neck stretched, your knuckles brushing the sweat-damp hair on his chest. His skin was hot. He was hot, all of him, furnace-hot and solid and real against you.
"Touch me," you said. It came out wrecked. "Please."
"Please what."
"Please—fuck." You couldn't think. His thumb was rubbing circles into your spine, his other hand still fisted in your hair, his thigh a solid line of pressure between your legs. "Please touch me. Dr. Abbot."
His eyes flared. "That's right. That's my name. You remember that."
"Yes."
"And you remember who you're with. Not some resident. Not your ex. Me."
The jealousy landed like a slap. Your mind flicked back—the photo, who it might've been meant for, who he thought it was meant for—and you opened your mouth to explain, to tell him there wasn't anyone, but then his hand was sliding around to your stomach, fingertips tracing the waistband of your scrub pants front to back, and words dissolved.
"I don't share," he said quietly. "Whatever this is. Whatever you thought you were doing. You don't send something like that to more than one person. You don't get to."
"I didn't. It was only—"
"Only me." His fingers dipped under the elastic. Not far. Just the first knuckle, the rough pad of his index finger dragging through the hair below your navel. "Good. That's good. That's how it stays."
You nodded. You would've agreed to anything. His finger moved lower, just a centimeter, and your hips lifted toward his hand like a reflex.
"You're soaked," he said. Not surprised. Not smug. Just observing. "I haven't even touched you yet and you're soaked through your pants."
"I know."
"Say it."
"I'm—" Your face burned. His eyes didn't leave yours. "I'm wet. Soaked. Is that what you—"
"That's what I wanted." His finger withdrew. You nearly cried. But then both his hands were at your waistband, thumbs hooked in, and he was pulling your scrub pants and underwear down together, one sharp motion, the fabric scraping your thighs and pooling around your ankles.
He didn't look down. Not yet. He kept his eyes on your face while his hand found your knee and pushed—firm, steady—until your legs fell open, his hips slotting between them, the rough fabric of his scrub pants brushing your bare cunt.
"There," he said. "Now you're exactly where you should be."
You grabbed his shoulders. Needed to. Your fingers dug into the muscle there, the solid bulk of him, and he let you hang on while his mouth came back to yours, still brutal, still messy, teeth and tongue and the scrape of stubble that would leave your chin raw.
His hand dropped between your bodies.
First touch: his middle finger sliding through your folds, just parting you, just feeling. The sound it made—wet, obscene—filled the tiny office. He groaned into your mouth, a low vibration you felt in your chest.
"Jesus," he breathed. "You're dripping. You've been dripping all shift."
"For you."
"I know." His finger circled your clit—once, light, barely there—and your whole body jerked. "I know you have. Every time I looked at you. Every time I didn't."
He did it again. Slow circle. Then again, harder. Then his finger slid lower, found your entrance, and pressed in.
Just one. Just to the first knuckle. You clenched around him instantly, a helpless spasm, and he laughed—low, dark, right against your ear.
"Tight," he said. "Tight little pussy. And you sent me a picture of it. What'd you think would happen."
"I didn't—I wasn't—"
"You were." His finger pushed deeper. All the way in, slow, until his knuckle pressed against your entrance and his palm cupped your clit. "You wanted me to see. You wanted me to know. You wanted this."
He curled his finger.
Your vision whited. Your head fell back, throat bared again, and he took the invitation—mouth on your neck, sucking hard, his stubble a bright burn while his finger found that spot inside you and pressed.
"There," he said. "Right there. That's what you wanted me to find."
"Yes. Yes. Fuck—"
"Quiet." His voice was steel. "I said quiet. You can be quiet or I can stop."
You bit your own lip so hard you tasted copper. His finger pumped—once, twice, slow and deep, the wet sound of it filling the room. Then his thumb found your clit, pressed down, and you nearly screamed into your own mouth.
"Good girl. That's good. You can listen."
He pulled out. Your cunt clenched on nothing, empty and aching, and you made a noise of protest that he ignored. His hand came up between your faces, his finger glistening, slick coating his knuckle all the way to his palm.
"Look at this," he said. "Look at what you did."
You watched him bring his finger to his mouth. Watched his lips close around it. Watched his eyes flutter shut for just a second while he tasted you, his tongue cleaning his own skin with an obscene thoroughness that made your stomach drop.
"Sweet," he said, pulling his finger free. "I knew you'd be sweet."
"Please. Please, I need—"
"I know what you need." His hand was back between your legs before you finished, two fingers this time, sliding through your slick and then pushing in, stretching you open, filling you so fast your breath caught and held.
"Breathe," he said. "Breathe through it. You can take it."
You could. You did. His fingers were thick—surgeon's fingers, strong and precise—and they knew exactly what to do. Pumping deep, curling, finding that spot again and again while his palm ground against your clit and his mouth covered yours to swallow every sound.
The kiss was sloppy now. Desperate. You were breathing into each other, sharing air, his tongue pushing past your teeth at the same rhythm as his fingers. You could taste yourself on him—salt and musk and something sweeter underneath—and it made you wild, made your hips buck against his hand, made you ride his fingers like you'd die if you stopped.
"That's it," he growled. "Fuck my hand. Show me how bad you want it."
Your fingers clawed at his shoulders. Found his neck. Dug into the short hair at his nape and pulled, and he hissed, and his fingers drove deeper, faster, the wet slap of his palm against your clit turning filthy and loud.
"You're close," he said. "I can feel it. You're clenching—yeah, like that. You're gonna come on my fingers. Right here on my desk. And you're gonna be quiet while you do it."
"I can't—"
"You can." His lips brushed your ear. His breath was ragged now, finally losing that iron control. "You can because I'm telling you to. Because you're a good girl. Because you want to be good for me."
The words hit somewhere deep. Somewhere you didn't know existed. Your cunt spasmed around his fingers and he laughed again, dark and pleased, and then his thumb pressed hard against your clit and circled and his fingers curled and—
You came.
Silent. Or close enough—a gasp that died in your throat, your whole body locking up, your cunt milking his fingers in rhythmic pulses you couldn't control. He held you through it, hand steady, murmuring something low against your temple that you couldn't hear over the roar in your ears.
When you came down, your forehead was pressed to his shoulder. His scrub top was wet—sweat, tears, spit, you didn't know. His fingers were still inside you, still, just resting there, letting you feel the fullness.
"Good girl," he said again. Quieter now. Almost gentle. "That's my good girl."
You lifted your head. His face was inches away, dark eyes searching yours, and for a moment the mask slipped—just a second of something raw, something that looked almost tender before he blinked and it was gone.
"Now you," you said. Your voice was wrecked. "I want to—let me."
He didn't stop you. His fingers slid out of you, slow, and you felt the loss like a physical ache. Your hand dropped to his waist, found the drawstring of his scrub pants, and pulled.
His hand caught your wrist.
You froze. Waiting. His grip was tight but not painful—just stopping you, holding you still while he looked at your face like he was making a decision.
"This has to be quick," he said. "Someone's going to notice we're both gone."
"Then quick."
He held your eyes for another beat. Then his grip loosened. "Go on."
You untied the drawstring. Your fingers were shaking—from the orgasm, from the adrenaline, from the sheer impossibility of this moment—but you managed. His scrub pants sagged, and when you pushed them down his hips together with his boxers, his cock sprang free, thick and flushed and already leaking at the tip.
He was bigger than you expected. Not just long—thick, the kind of thick that would hurt in the best way, the kind that made your cunt clench just looking at it. His shaft was veined, curving slightly toward his stomach, the head a deep angry red and slick with pre-cum.
"You're staring," he said.
"I'm admiring."
"Admire faster."
You wrapped your hand around him. His breath caught—loud, sharp—and his hips jerked into your grip before he controlled himself. His cock was hot in your palm, silk-soft skin over iron-hard flesh, and when you squeezed, a bead of pre-cum welled at the tip and dripped down over your knuckle.
"Fuck," he breathed.
You stroked him. Slow at first—learning the weight, the shape, the way he twitched when your thumb pressed against the underside just below the head. His hand came up and fisted in your hair again, not pulling, just holding, like he needed an anchor.
"Faster," he said. "Come on. Faster."
You sped up. Your wrist found a rhythm, twisting on the upstroke the way you knew felt good, and his head dropped forward, forehead pressing to yours, his breath hot and uneven on your lips.
"You've done this before."
"A few times."
"Not to me." His hips were moving now, fucking into your fist, uncontrolled in a way that made heat pool low in your belly all over again. "Not—like this—"
You squeezed harder. Twisted faster. His hand in your hair tightened, the other slamming down on the desk beside your hip, and the sound of his palm hitting wood was loud enough to echo.
"Look at me," you said.
His eyes opened. Glazed. Desperate. His mouth was wet, lips parted, and he looked nothing like the cold controlled attending who'd locked the door. He looked ruined.
"I want to watch you," you said. "I want to watch you come in my hand."
"Jesus—"
"Come on." Your voice dropped, mimicking his from earlier. "Come for me. I want to see it."
His hips stuttered. His cock pulsed in your grip. And then he was coming, silent, jaw clenched so tight you could see the tendon stand out in his neck, his cum spilling hot over your fingers and dripping down your wrist in thick white ropes.
You stroked him through it. Milked every pulse, every spasm, until he was shuddering and oversensitive and his hand shot down to grip your wrist and stop you.
"Enough," he rasped. "Enough."
You stopped. Your hand was a mess—his cum coating your palm, your fingers, dripping between your knuckles. You could smell it, salt and musk and him, and without thinking, without planning, you lifted your hand to your mouth.
He watched.
Your tongue touched your palm first. The taste was sharp—bitter and salty and undeniably male. You licked a stripe up to your wrist, gathering the slickness, and then you wrapped your lips around your own index finger and sucked.
His pupils swallowed what was left of the thin blue rings.
You pulled your finger free with a lewd pop and licked your lips. "Tastes like you."
He didn't say anything. Just stared, chest heaving, cock still wet and softening against his thigh.
Then he kissed you. Not fast this time. Not punishing. His mouth dragged over yours with a filthy kind of patience, tongue sliding in like he was tasting himself there and hated how much he wanted more of it. His hand stayed at your jaw, thumb pressed beneath your chin, holding you still while he licked into your mouth again, deeper, making the kiss feel less like an ending than a promise he had no business making in his office.
When Jack finally pulled back, it wasn’t because either of you had cooled off. It was because whatever sense he had left had finally clawed its way back to the surface.
You stayed on the edge of his desk, breath wrecked, fingers still curled in his scrub top. He looked almost composed, which would’ve been insulting if his mouth weren’t swollen from yours, if his chest weren’t moving with too much effort, if his gaze didn’t keep dropping to all the places he had just touched. For a second, he only stared at you, taking in the mess he’d made: your loosened scrubs, your bare thighs, the flush crawling up your throat, the way your body still hadn’t figured out how to stop wanting him.
Then he reached for his phone.
You went still.
He saw it immediately. Of course he did. Jack caught everything.
“No,” he said, voice rough but steady. “Not unless you say so.”
The phone stayed low in his hand. He didn’t lift it. Didn’t angle it. Didn’t take anything just because he could. That was the worst part, maybe—how badly he wanted and how clearly he still made it your choice. He stood there with his scrub pants retied badly, his hair mussed, your taste still on his mouth, and waited like permission mattered more than whatever filthy thought had put the phone in his hand.
“I got rid of the first one,” he said.
“I know.”
“It wasn’t mine.”
Your throat tightened.
His gaze moved over you again, not detached, not clean, not pretending. “This one would be.”
The words went through you with a fresh, obscene little twist. The first photo had been panic and accident, a naked image thrown into the wrong hands. This one would be different. You were still open on his desk, still marked by his mouth, still shaking from what he’d done to you and what you’d done to him. This wouldn’t be a mistake sitting in a thread. This would be proof. Permission. Something given on purpose.
Jack watched your face. “Say no, and I put it away.”
You looked at the phone, then at him. “Yes.”
His jaw tightened. “Full sentence.”
Your face burned, but you didn’t look away. Not after everything. Not with his cum still barely wiped from your skin and your body still aching from his fingers.
“You can take a picture of me.”
For a second, he didn’t move.
Then he lifted the phone.
He only took one.
That made it worse somehow. Hotter. No posing you over and over. No making a show of it. Just one photo in the dim office light: you perched on the edge of his desk, wrecked and unmistakably touched, your scrubs shoved out of place, his hand visible at your thigh like a signature he had no right to leave. The first photo had been you alone in your bed, naked and deliberate. This one had him in it without showing his face—the watch at his wrist, the edge of his sleeve, the possessive press of his fingers against your skin.
Jack looked at the screen.
Whatever he saw there hit him. You watched it happen in the clench of his jaw, the pause in his breathing, the way his thumb hovered before he locked the phone like he needed to put the image away before he did something stupider than taking it.
“That one stays?” you asked.
His eyes lifted to yours.
“That one stays.”
The words settled low and dirty, right where his voice had already ruined you.
After that, he fixed you with the same practical attention he gave everything else. Scrub top straightened. Badge adjusted. Hair smoothed back into place, though his fingers lingered for half a second longer than necessary. It should’ve felt clinical. It didn’t. It felt intimate in a way that made your chest ache a little.
“You okay?” he asked.
You nodded.
His brows drew together. “Words.”
A small, breathless laugh escaped you. “I’m okay.”
He studied you for another moment, then handed you the water bottle from his desk. “Drink.”
You did, because saying no felt pointless when your legs were still unreliable and he was looking at you like he would stand there all night if that was what it took to make sure you could walk out without falling apart. When he was satisfied, he took the bottle back and set it down.
Then the mask started returning.
You watched him pull himself together piece by piece. The rough edges tucked away. The heat banked. The attending sliding back over the man who had just ruined your ability to think clearly. By the time his hand reached the lock, he almost looked like himself again.
Almost.
Before opening the door, he turned back. “No more accidents.”
Your pulse jumped. “No?”
His gaze dropped once to your mouth. “You want my attention,” he said, low enough that only you could hear, “you ask for it properly.”
Then he opened the door, and the hospital rushed back in.
The fluorescent light felt obscene after the dimness of his office. Voices, alarms, wheels, footsteps, the relentless machinery of the department grinding on like nothing had happened. Jack stepped out first. You followed a few seconds later, trying to look normal with your pulse still everywhere it shouldn’t be.
At the nurses’ station, Mel glanced up. “You good?”
You picked up a chart mostly to have something to do with your hands. “Yeah. Fine.”
Across the department, Jack didn’t look at you once, but that almost made it worse. He didn’t have to. The proof was already in his pocket, locked behind his passcode, tucked against his body while he moved through the rest of the shift like nothing had happened. You watched him speak to Robby near the board, watched him take a chart from Dana, watched him disappear behind the curtain of trauma two with that same gruff composure he’d worn all day, and all you could think was that there was a photo of you on his phone now.
Not the accidental one. Not the one he had deleted because it hadn’t belonged to him.
The other one.
The one you had given him.
That thought followed you through sign-out and the locker room and the cold shock of night air when you finally stepped outside. It sat low and warm in your stomach on the ride home, getting worse every time you remembered the way his jaw had tightened when he looked at the screen. By the time you unlocked your apartment, the silence felt different from the one he’d given you earlier. Not cruel this time. Anticipatory.
Your apartment was dark except for the lamp by your bed. The same bed from the first photo waited at the end of the room, sheets still rumpled from the morning, low light spilling over the fabric in a way that made your heart skip. Last night, that room had been private. Tonight, it felt altered, like Jack had already been invited into the idea of it.
You dropped your keys into the bowl by the door and stood there for a second, still in your scrubs, looking at the bed.
Your phone buzzed.
You turned it over.
Jack Abbot:
Home?
Your mouth went dry.
You:
Yes.
Three dots appeared, disappeared, then appeared again. You stood in the dark with your scuffed Dansko clogs still on, heart beating too hard over a text message from a man who had spent all day saying nothing. Then his reply came through.
summary: who knew a simple compliment could spur robby on so much
word count: 1.3k
warnings: smut! 18+, jerking off, musk kink, robby being a lil freak (change my mind i dare you), sir kink (if you squint), robby is a perv 🙂↕️, lowercase writing (done on purpose) if i missed any lmk!
robby masterlist - main masterlist — request a fic!
a/n: if you are a minor go away before i whack you with a stick. this was really fun to write, like a lot more than it probably should've been LMAO. thank you to @gayestcowboyintown for planting this seed in my brain. if you know me irl? no the fuck you don’t. ps thank you for 100 followers omg 😭🩷
reminder: this is an 18+ blog! minors PLEASE dni!
robby's still riding the high of whitaker's words as he stumbles into his apartment, the twenty minute walk from work doing nothing to clear his mind. "wow, you smell really good right now." the words were innocent enough, but he couldn't help the way they fed straight into his ego. dennis had caught robby at the end of his shift, speaking softly as robby had tugged his scrub top off, leaving him in his sweat soaked undershirt. the naïve words shot straight to his cock, his entire face and neck turning a deep red. robby tugged his hoodie on desperately trying to rush home before anyone noticed him chubbed up near the lockers. once he had all of his things, he awkwardly said his goodbyes, practically rushing out of the emergency room and making his way home. he doesn't even bother with dinner yet, making a beeline to his bedroom once his shoes are off and bag is on the floor.
the belt buckle hits his bedroom floor with a soft clang and his hoodie soon follows. he makes his way to his bed, turning on his bedside lamp and rummaging through the drawer. he finds a small bottle of lube, holding it in his hands to warm it up for a moment before tossing it on the bed. robby feels his cock swell in his boxers as dennis’ words bounce around in his brain. he lets out a soft sigh, climbing onto his bed and nestling himself against the pillows.
he whimpers quietly as he runs his hand over his cock, still trapped in the confines of his boxers. robby tugs his shirt off, setting it next to his head. the sweet smell of his sweat fills his nose as he digs the heel of his palm into his cock, reveling in the friction. a moan rumbles at the back of robby's throat and he frees his cock, starting to feel impatient. a small dribble of cum pools on his stomach, sticking to the small thatch of hair on his tummy. he kicks his boxers off, tossing them to the other side of his bed. he grabs the lube popping it open and pouring some into his hand before finally touching his dick, hissing softly at the contact.
the mix of precum and lube coats his cock as he strokes himself. he fists himself, thinking of how sincere dennis was earlier, actually commenting on the smell of his sweat. he had always appreciated his musk, especially after a long day at work, but the sweet words of the ms4 heightens his love for the stench. that combined with the fact that he had forgone deodorant that morning makes the compliment that much more erotic for robby. he whines, blindly reaching for his shirt with his left hand. he grabs it, desperately bringing it to his nose as he takes a big whiff. the scent of his skin and sweat scorches in his gut, and his cock leaks over his fingers. he shudders softly, pushing his shirt deeper into his face.
"f-fuck me..." robby groans, squeezing his cock as he strokes. heat pools in his gut at an alarming pace and he reluctantly lets go, his cock bobbing angrily as he backs away from the edge of pleasure. he squeezes his eyes shut, pushing his sweaty shirt further into his face as he thinks of dennis. robby imagines the boy smelling him, inhaling his stench and his cock weeps, cum collecting on his stomach. he slowly trails his hand back down, and a soft schlick noise fills the room as he brings his other hand up cautiously, tweaking his nipple roughly. robby chokes on a gasp as his hips jerk, seeking friction that’s unavailable. robby leaves his shirt laying on his face, his teeth holding it as he cups his balls. soft whines fill the air as he fondles himself, his thumb and forefinger rolling his nipple as sparks shoot down his spine.
the nub is soon abandoned as he drags his fingernails down his chest, picturing dennis below him. “oh fuck… dennis…” he moans softly, wrapping his fingers back around his cock. in his mind, it’s dennis at the end of his bed, smiling that cockeyed smile as he strokes robby’s dick. heat scorches his veins, the shame of thinking this way about his inferior making it that much hotter for him.
his strokes pick up, desperation flooding his gut as he nears his orgasm. in a moment of realization, his eyes snap open, and he desperately reaches for his boxers, stroking himself steadily. the grey shirt that was previously on his face, drops to the bed as robby flops back, bringing his used underwear to his nose. he inhales deeply, the pungent smell of his workday and sweat flowing through his body. he moans, the strong, heady aroma fueling his desire as he works his fist up and down his cock.
robby pictures dennis sniffing with him, the younger man’s hand wrapped around his cock. “you-you smell sooo good sir.” he’d whimper. the moan that escapes robby’s mouth can only be described as pathetic, thinking about all the times dennis meekly called him sir with purely respectful intentions. he rubs his thumb on his frenulum and feels his balls draw tight.
what seals the deal for robby is thinking about dennis asking him to smell his boxers, the words probably sounding so sweet and saccharine falling from his mouth. he takes one final inhale, and his hips stutter as he finally cums, gasps scratching their way from his throat. robby lays limp on his bed, his lungs trying to get back on track as the cum dries over his knuckles and lower stomach. he sighs to himself, grabbing his t-shirt from earlier, wiping his hand and tummy before tossing it towards the hamper.
robby lies there for a moment, taking a heavy breath before willing his body to move. he takes his boxers and moves to the hamper, tossing them in, along with his shirt. his footsteps barely register against the hardwood as he makes his way to his bathroom, desperately needing a shower. he showers with efficiency, almost as if he was trained to do so. he ignores how his cock aches, and he pushes the thoughts of dennis far from his mind. once he's decided he's clean enough, he turns the water off, grabbing a towel to dry himself off. he sighs, running the towel over his face before bringing it to his bedroom, dropping it in the hamper. robby moves to his bureau, silently grabbing another pair of boxers before sliding them over his hips and making his way out to the kitchen.
the refrigerator light beams towards robby as he stares at his almost empty fridge. he quickly grabs his takeout leftovers, nuking them before digging in. his mind drifts to the blond farmer boy, dennis’ competency and understanding of his job causing his neck to flush. he drags his large hand down his face, and he forces himself to scroll facebook, an app he rarely uses, to get his mind off the younger man. he sighs as he sees another med school peer of his has gotten married, and he shuts his phone off, washing his dishes and putting them away.
robby begrudgingly treks to the bathroom, brushing his teeth and washing his face again, before making his way to his bedroom once more. the inside of his cheek finds its way between his canines, him nibbling lightly as he lazily makes his bed presentable before climbing in. robby sets the lube back on his nightstand, deciding it can be taken care of tomorrow, and he stretches to shut the lamp off. he makes himself comfortable in the mess of blankets, ignoring the guilt creeping into his brain once more. with a soft sigh, he closes his eyes, deciding that the knowledge of him jerking off to his inferior stays between him and whatever higher power may be out there.
How it feels to genuinely enjoy the Pitt and not get caught up on every little bad thing a character has done because they’re all complex human beings and none of them are truly evil like everyone in this fandom seems to think
i love enjoying things with nuance and media literacy the pitt is truly an exercise in seeing people and characters in their entirety good and bad and some of you need to do this exercise more
this is not about what kinks you write, no one gives a fuck if you write the most taboo, dark shit in the world. (and if they do, they can scroll or get off tumblr)
but TAG YOUR SHIT PROPERLY.
this includes tagging x readers on fic tags, taking MALE CHARACTER x reader under lesbian/sapphic x readers.
if you’re going to have dark or taboo kinks, tag them.
if you’re going to have talk about bodily fluids or functions, you tag it.
violence? tag it.
death or severe injury? tag it.
mental health tag it.
you tag shit so everyone knows what they’re getting into.
this isn’t rocket science, it’s common fucking courtesy. if this is too much work, go make a fucking wattpad or something.
tag your shit and no one has to make posts like this.
thank you ao3 for being an archive and not an algorithm. thank you for letting me like things without consequences, thank you for being free with no ads, thank you for having lawyers to defend our freedom of speech. thank you tag wranglers. thank you to all authors and thank you ao3
