nobody really knows me

Laura, 30s ✧ multifandom gifs ✧ fics

[lauraneedstochill]

bite the bullet

pairing: Jack Abbot x surgeon!f reader summary: when Jack arrives in the ER in his SWAT uniform, he is surprised to see a new surgeon. and right away, he takes a liking to your brazen tone and notices your skills. he finds you intriguing. except, you hate everything about his hobby, and you aren’t afraid to let him know.

warnings: ACAB! her attitude gives enemies-to-lovers vibes, but Jack is mostly flabbergasted; mentions of a shootout, deaths and guilt; some hurt/comfort (while he’s shirtless...), PLOT TWIST. also, I added one slur (to indicate that the character is racist, not because I would ever use that word irl). P.S. please don’t get offended on Jack’s behalf. he’s fictional, he can take it. / words: 7K / author’s note: guys, I know no one asked for this... but it came to me in a dream. it was also fuled by the rage I feel daily bc I have to work with men. and yes, I love it when Jack is touch-starved and yearning ♡ READ ON AO3 / MASTERLIST

Sweat tastes like salt, and gunshots smell like fireworks, and the loud sounds still echo in his head. Jack takes deep, measured breaths. The car shakes as it takes a turn, but he is staying calm. Collected. He keeps his hand on the bag valve and presses rhythmically to force more air into Hiro’s lungs. His gaze is focused on the deep wound on his neck, the bandages soaked through.

Blood is just blood.

Wet, warm, staining the skin with crimson.

The splatters of it dried up on his hands and vest. It’s been a while since he had to treat an injury this bad. Out in the field, under active fire, with the adrenaline blazing through his bloodstream. Except, that feeling he once loved and chased has recently become less thrilling. More unnerving. And underneath the layers of the synthetic fibers and his years-old restraint, a heaviness has settled in his chest. Jack knows it’s not about the bleeding — at least, not the one he did manage to stop.

Because as they ride through the tunnel, the light flickers — from bright to dull fluorescent one — and Hiro’s face is momentarily replaced by someone else’s.

Someone way younger, in his twenties, his eyes widened in horror, his mouth opening to push the panicked words out. His teeth are colored red —

Then Jack blinks. The sunlight floods the car again.

“How are we doing back there, doc?” Levington asks him from the driver’s seat.

Abbot feels Hiro’s pulse — it’s slow, thready. “Not great. He’s getting harder to bag.”

“Those damn beaners got him good. But your guys will patch him up, right? 'Cause I’m supposed to be one of his groomsmen, and let me tell you, those tux rentals ain’t cheap —”

“Lev, can you just shut the fuck up and step on it?” a gruff voice interrupts.

“Got it, Sarge!”

The engine roars.

The weight in Abbot’s chest sinks deeper. But he is nothing if not pro at pushing his emotions down. So he does just that.

They ride straight to the ambulance bay, and two paramedics help them transfer Hiro on a gurney. The numbness in Jack’s wrist gives way to tingling as he moves his hand a little; he keeps his fingers clasped around the bag. He keeps his calm. Pretending that he doesn’t feel the pain stinging his shoulder blade, a deep graze where the bullet missed him.

And there’s some relief in coming into the ER, a safe space with the well-known faces — Robby’s the first to greet him, already on alert.

“Intubated neck wound, sats not great,” Jack explains, his hands moving on autopilot — one pressing on the bag, the other checking Hiro’s pulse. “You got a trauma room open?”

“Trauma 1,” Robby nods, helping to move the gurney in the right direction. “What’s the story?”

“Officer Hiro, high-velocity GSW. Warehouse robbery gone sideways,” Jack lists, avoiding further details.

Because if he says more, he’ll have to deal with questions he has yet to find the answers to. Because he’s used to making clean cuts, having a clear conscience, taking a clear course of action. But the truth is messy. And he doesn’t have time for that.

Instead, Abbot takes notice of Hiro’s barely moving chest, just as they roll the gurney in, Santos and Perlah already in the room.

Trinity’s gaze flits between two men in uniform, not with dismay but with her usual curiosity. With the excitement some might consider odd. Jack doesn’t. He also wonders when was the last time his job made him excited. He can’t remember. Definitely not today.

“Did you do this intubation?” Santos takes the bag from him.

“Under active fire, yeah. I go in with the team in case there’s an injury,” Jack tells her casually, a pair of scissors already in his hands, the metal blades hastily cutting through the bandages.

“That’s badass,” Trinity notes with a small grin, her eyes bright with amusement.

Jack only shrugs. His face expression stays unfazed. Behind it, there’s a roaring concern: with how much air he’s been pumping into Hiro’s lungs, they should inflate way more. They should make his chest rise and fall, a steady breath-like pattern. A vital pattern.

The monitor goes off.

“Sats down to 85,” Robby warns.

A respiratory failure means that they have to act fast. It also means that he missed something. And getting confirmation hurts Jack way more than being shot at.

“Shit, his trachea’s transected,” he grunts as he removes the dirty bandages, “I didn’t notice.”

“So if we intubate again, it will come straight out the wound,” Trinity guesses from behind his shoulder.

“Bingo. Need another plan,” he takes the plastic tube out of Hiro’s mouth, and she promptly puts the mask on him, with the same bag attached to it.

It’s the same working principle: her fingers squeeze the bag, the air goes in. And Jack helplessly watches as it leaks through the neck wound, blood bubbling at the edges.

The beeping doesn’t stop.

Robby shakes his head. “Sats down to 83.”

“He’s not moving any air,” Jack mumbles, “Can’t send him up like this.”

Robby catches his gaze, hums, thinks it over. “How about a neonatal mask?”

“A neonatal?” Santos sounds confused. “But how can it —”

“Put it to his neck,” Jack realizes. “Seals the wound, allows the air to go where it’s supposed to.”

Trinity nods. Then runs up to the supply cabinet, and just a tiny bit of her excitement does rub off on him. Jack lets out a breath, sweat beading on his brow; his heart is still restless with worry. Seconds drag out while he waits, and the neonatal mask actually works — sats climb up to 98, the oxygen finally filling up the lungs. But Abbot knows it’s not a permanent solution.

Robby knows, too. He steps back to give a call to the OR.

Jack figures out a way to keep his hands busy in the meantime: a syringe with a needle and two ampules he asks Perhal for — lidocaine for numbing and epi to reduce the bleeding. He carefully works around the wound, peppering it with injections, as Trinity checks up the lungs.

“Good lung sliding, no pneumo,” she reads the monitor.

This is good news. They are unfortunately followed by Robby hanging up the phone with a loud sigh.

“The OR is packed, they can take him in 20 minutes at best.”

“Wish I could say I am surprised,” Jack huffs, feigning a tone that will not give away how much he hates it — wait, and uncertainly, and feeling like he’s failing someone. “It’s always on this day when people collectively decide to lose a few of their limbs.”

“More like a few of their brain cells,” Perlah mutters, earning a laugh from Santos.

“Think he can hang in there for 20 more minutes?” Robby asks.

“I don’t want to sit and wait,” Jack counters and puts the syringe away. “Any suggestions?”

“Mine would be to sit and wait.”

“That’s just lazy, man.”

“Well, sorry I’m not a wellspring of ideas, some of us been working since 6 a.m.”

They aren’t seriously bickering — it’s just a way to keep Jack’s mind distracted, an impromptu grounding technique. Robby’s aware, so he plays along. Jack welcomes it.

“What do you think I’ve been doing? Does this camo make it look like I returned from a vacation?”

“I’m starting to think you just enjoy watching people shoot at each other.”

“Says the guy whose definition of fun is riding a bike without the damn helmet.”

“Which only happened once, meanwhile you continuously —”

The door swings open, putting their conversation to a halt.

And then a smile stretches Robby’s lips as his eyes land on someone else.

“Do you ever take breaks?”

“Do you?” you quip and hastily throw on a gown. “Cause you aren’t leading by example, that’s for sure.”

Jack instantly turns to the sound. He doesn’t recognize your voice — confident, brazen even — nor your hair color. He only glimpses your profile before you put a mask on, your movements quick, honed. Not hesitating once. He’s yet to learn your name, but your dark scrubs give him a hint: you’re a surgeon.

The one Robby already seems acquainted with. He keeps his gaze on you while you reach for the gloves.

“And why is it always you who comes down to us?”

“That is a weird way of saying thank you.”

“I just don’t want our promising new hire to burn out too fast. And I am seeing some troubling signs.”

“What you are seeing is eight hours of sleep paired with a healthy dose of caffeine. Not that you’d know what it looks like,” you scoff at Robby, mirth in your voice. “Also, promising? What a compliment.”

“We’ve only been working together for two weeks, I can’t go soft on you. Or people will start talking,” Robby steps back to let you take his place, like he is used to it. Like there is a rhythm you two have learned to fall into.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you tell him bluntly, but your attention is on Hiro — you quickly look over his bloodied chest and wounded neck, a slight furrow between your brows. “The neonatal mask was a good call.”

Then finally, you spare Jack a glance.

Your eyes catch on his uniform for a perceptible few seconds, then dart up to his face. And Jack involuntarily, immediately tenses. Because it feels like he is staring down the barrel of a gun, and your gaze is loaded. Like there are words you want to fire at him, a shot that will be deadly.

His heartbeat stutters.

But you don’t say a thing.

You silently look back at Hiro. And suddenly, a thought comes to Jack’s mind: something about you is incredibly familiar.

Robby stands right behind you, oblivious to any tension and still smiling. “You aren’t gonna let me win, will you? Emery warned me —”

“You bring her up so often, I’m starting to suspect you have a crush, Robinavich,” — you throw a look at Trinity, “Santos, help me cut down a 6-0 ET tube,” — then, back at Robby, “Sorry to break it to you, but you are not her type.”

“Is it the beard?”

“Among other things,” you chuckle.

Jack really wants to interfere with your banter — it feels like things are slipping out of his control: no one is asking for his opinion or his help, although it’s his friend who is about to bleed out on the table.

But you’re a natural at multitasking.

You talk while your sharp gaze does the inspection, while you draw up a plan. You tell Trinity where to cut the tube and ask for clamps, your fingers pulling up the mask from Hiro’s neck, your gloves already covered in his blood.

“The problem must be in my erratic working schedule,” Robby muses teasingly, watching you work.

Your eyebrows flicker up at his remark. Behind your mask, there’s an expression that Abbot guesses is a smirk. “No, I’d say it’s more about your pathological refusal to commit to a serious relationship and instead fucking around and calling it casual. Which does sound funny coming from a man in his fifties,” you deadpan.

Perlah gives Robby a pointed look, not hiding that she does agree with you. Santos is trying very hard (and failing) to hold back a laugh. And unexpectedly, despite his whirlpool of emotions that are far from funny, Jack feels his mouth smiling too.

You keep your focus on the wound and add nonchalantly: “Please tell me you haven’t been casual with anyone in this room.”

Robby is blushing — profusely, from his ears to his cheeks. “You overestimate my charm.”

“I’m yet to find any. But somehow that doesn’t stop so many other women,” you tsk. Then mercifully grant him some reprieve. “His sats will tank, he’s in need of an airway. Trinity, come help me with the tube.”

“Allow me,” the words come out before Jack can rationalize them, his body leaning slightly toward yours across the table.

Like he is following a pull.

You don’t object. But now that he is standing closer, Jack catches how your eyes dart to the side, your brows pinched together. Almost as if you fight the urge to look at him again, to say something.

But for the second time, you don’t.

And even though Abbot is not inclined to think about it too hard — of how he looks and how he carries himself, and what effect it might have on people — he cannot help but wonder if your discomfort comes from that. Maybe you also feel the pull, maybe you’re trying to be professional about it.

He doesn’t mind the quiet. It drapes over you two as you work in accidental tandem: Santos gives Jack the tube, and he waits patiently for you to find the distal trachea. He checks the monitors. Although he’s drawn to keep his eyes on you. As much as Abbot is still worried, he is also undeniably intrigued.

His tension slowly eases —

Until the door creaks open, and Levington clumsily pushes half of his body in. The holster on his hip bumps against the wall, the handle of the gun making a dull sound.

“How’s it going, guys? This one didn’t kick the bucket yet?”

Jack doesn’t want to get distracted — or worse, to distract you. Not when you’re concentrated on the task, the metal shanks bloody and gleaming as you rotate them, trying to grip the windpipe and leave everything intact. Abbot looks up at Robby.

Robby first looks at you.

He then loses his smile and the amiability he usually uses around patients. Which is weird. He turns to Levington.

“It’s better if you wait outside, and we’ll update you once he’s out of surgery,” Robby says dryly. His voice drops slightly when he adds, “Should be more careful with the gun.”

“The safety’s on,” Levington brushes off, then chuckles. “Wouldn’t want to shoot myself in the leg and end up on the table too.”

“Weapons of any kind aren’t allowed in the ER,” you say without looking at him, way louder than Robby.

And there’s a stark change in your tone — it’s lacking playfulness, it is completely void of any warmth, each word spoken so firmly that you sound almost... Angry. Jack catches on to that.

Levington doesn’t.

“Oh, I’m a big boy, I can handle —”

“Wasn’t exactly a suggestion,” you cut him off. “You aren’t allowed in here, period. Go flash your gun some place else. Am I being clear?”

For just a second, you do look at him, a brief turn of your masked face in his direction.

And Levington — six feet tall, almost two hundred pounds of chiseled muscles and blissful ignorance — flinches under your stare. He throws both hands up.

“S-sorry, already leaving,” he stutters and backs out of the room.

The sats drop down to 91.

“I got it,” you say in the same second.

Jack’s part is easier: he only needs to place the tube in. Gently, securely. His face inches closer to yours, his gaze grazing the high points of your cheeks, the lines of your throat. You surely can feel him staring, but you don’t move away. Eventually, he does.

“I’m in. Balloon up.”

The chestpiece of Robby’s stethoscope glides over Hiro’s chest. The number on the monitor is climbing up. Everyone shares a sigh of relief.

“Good breath sounds,” Robby confirms, a corner of his mouth curling. “Not bad, you guys.”

But when Jack tries meeting your gaze, you don’t give him the satisfaction, your face not softened one bit. Nor is your voice when you say coolly:

“Good thing that whoever shot him couldn’t aim for shit.”

That scratches off some of Jack’s pretense. Most of his nonchalance. Because you masterfully fish out not only the trachea, but also the damned memories he has been trying to suppress.

The rows of corridors, the piles of packaged and hastily abandoned goods. Shadows that move across the floor, hide behind structured rows of shelves. Hushed conversations. Hectic decisions. They are on the run.

Hiro’s voice booming.

“Kid, you don’t even know how to use that thing! Just put your weapon down!”

Shots fired — intentional, precise, hitting the targets as expected. But one is sudden, accidental, the bullets ricocheting off the metal with bright tiny sparks.

Hiro gets hit.

His hand clasped weakly over his neck, red pouring through his fingers until Jack can apply more pressure. Until they rush him out of the building.

There are two dead bodies left behind.

The third one is still fighting against the imminent demise. Convulsing limbs and bloodied teeth and scared eyes — looking straight at Jack.

Robby’s palm on his shoulder brings him back.

“— don’t have to stay for this,” he repeats, “We can take it from here.”

He sounds more cautious, like he can finally feel that something’s off. But he can’t figure out what exactly. Robby steps to where you’re standing.

“I’ll sew the trachea to the skin. Can’t let you do all the work around here.”

You don’t argue. But your gloved hand brushes Hiro’s half-naked body, your fingers moving to his side. You pull away the piece of his torn t-shirt. There is a spot beneath his ribs — big, blooming violet.

“Missed a bruise. Left upper quadrant.”

Santos picks the ultrasound transducer. “Wasn’t he wearing body armor?”

“High-velocity projectile doesn’t have to penetrate to damage,” Jack notes.

He stays to help Robby with suturing. You take the transducer from Trinity, maneuvering your body and your hand to move around Abbot so you can get an image while still keeping your distance.

And this doesn’t feel like you are fighting an attraction to him, no. It comes off as avoidance. Dislike even.

But why?

“No fluid in the suprasplenic space. Looks like a subcapsular hematoma of his spleen,” you say, ignoring Jack’s existence as if your arm isn’t bumping into his.

“So he needs an abdominal CT,” Santos suggests.

“CT angio of the neck first. Then CT chest, abdomen, pelvis.”

“Geez, I wonder what the other guy looks like,” Trinity mumbles.

Abbot pretends he didn’t hear the question. But now that he’s the one ignoring something obvious, you glance at him. He feels it — your gaze comes with the safety off. And he remembers that he also has a gun. The chances that you haven’t noticed aren’t very high. Which may be what’s been bothering you.

“How did that even happen?” Santos wonders, and this one time Jack wishes she could be less curious. Trinity adds, a tad bit awkward. “I mean, if it’s not a top secret.”

Since everyone is staring at him, he can’t help but talk.

“Some guys naively thought today was the day to rob a goods warehouse. Didn’t think about how long it would take to load the appliances,” Jack explains half-heartedly. “They panicked when the SWAT rolled in. All hell broke loose.”

“His recovery will also feel like hell,” Perlah nods toward Hiro with a small, sympathetic frown.

“Good thing someone else didn’t catch a bullet,” Robby remarks, both disapproving and concerned, his gaze fixed on the wound.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack notices you move away. As if you aren’t very interested in this discussion. But Perlah is — she squints at Jack, and there’s more confusion than disapproval in her words:

“Why’d you volunteer for something like that?”

You snap your gloves off, one then the other; then your mask.

“My therapist said I needed a hobby,” Abbot says.

It’s an excuse packed as a joke, but both work poorly — there is a glaring proof of how unsafe the job is, with Jack’s hands still on Hiro’s wounded neck. Proof that it isn’t just a fun, carefree pastime.

Because there’s no enjoyment in watching someone die.

And Jack has seen too many deaths already. He doesn’t know how long he can keep pushing it all down, deeper, until he will start cracking at the seams. So he has made it into a habit to talk his way out of situations he struggles to process.

“I mean, they just need someone to help them if things go south,” he continues, seemingly unruffled. “It’s a high-risk job. These guys put their life on the line.”

There is a sound — a huff mixed with a laugh, not airy and mirthful but instead cold and sharp. The sound comes from you.

“Do they really?”

His head snaps in your direction, and there’s no hiding how flabbergasted he is by your tone. You give him no chance to recover.

“You mean the men in military-style tactical gear who usually show up armed to the teeth? In teams, with vests, shields and helmets? Which, by the way, they get paid really well for. So how high is the risk exactly?” You glance at Hiro. “At least this one came in one piece. How many were brought in body bags today thanks to you?”

The room goes silent.

Jack’s face grows hot. And only now, belatedly, he realizes: for you, there is no pull. The only urge you’re fighting is to tear him to shreds.

Correction: you aren’t fighting it.

“Shit happens,” Abbot tries to argue. “You point a gun at a police officer, and they’re allowed to engage.”

“Are they allowed to negotiate first? Or do you usually prefer to skip that part? Sorry, my bad — not you, your team buddies.”

The truth is, he’s not really involved in the decision-making. He stays back and he follows orders, and there is no time to question them. He does sometimes, though. It has been happening more often.

You stare him down like you can read his thoughts.

“Are you allowed to help the other guys? Like, if some criminal is bleeding out on the pavement. Or does the Hippocratic Oath apply only to the upstanding citizens with a clean record and high morals?”

His heart pounds, no doubt fueled by adrenaline that’s triggering the body’s “fight or flight” response. Jack’s always been a fighter, he has learned to be — he went from jumping into fights at school to jumping out of helicopters straight into war zones. But none of that experience can help him.

His vest, his self-restraint, his wit are suddenly all useless against you.

“There are priorities of life. Civilians first, then the acting officers,” Jack forces out, because it feels unbearable not to fight back or at least try to. “The criminals come —”

“Aren’t they innocent until proven guilty? Pointing a gun at someone isn’t against the law.”

“Shooting at people is.”

“Undoubtedly, yes. Shouldn’t they be prosecuted for that?”

“Undoubtedly,” Jack echoes, not wryly but warily, like he’s afraid to walk into a trap. He does.

“Would be hard to do that when they are dead,” you note swiftly, your voice level, but your gaze is burning. Always on him. It makes Jack’s grit falter, so when you change topics, he is caught off guard.

“Where’s that warehouse you mentioned?”

Robby is finishing the stitches, his brown eyes glancing between you two with ever-growing apprehension. Perlah and Trinity are gazing at you like they just got front row tickets to some drama show. Jack doesn’t find any of this entertaining.

“I’m not sure I can disclose that information.”

You let out a hum. Dismissive. Like that’s exactly what you expect from him, like your expectations of him aren’t very high.

“Since he didn’t bleed out, and your hand didn’t fall off from pumping air into his lungs, it can’t be too far. The warehouse in Millvale sounds about right.”

Abbot’s jaw clenches. Your mouth twitches, as if you’re about to sneer.

“Isn’t that the one owned by Amazon? I’m sure one of the world’s richest men is ugly crying over a few boxes of packaged goods someone tried to steal from him.”

There’s so much tension in Jack’s face, he is about to start grinding his teeth.

“I don’t think we should let people steal whatever shit they want.”

“And I do not encourage stealing,” you retort, easily grinding on his nerves, “I’m saying you should take guilty people to court. Not kill them on the spot.”

“You ever heard about self-defence?”

“You ever tried not shooting people in the head?”

“I don’t shoot anyone. Or give orders to.”

“But you work for the men who do. Kinda sounds like you don’t have a problem with it.”

An irritated deep sigh burns his throat, but Abbot holds it back. So you push on.

“I’m not judging,” but it sounds like you are. “The job probably pays well. Wouldn’t hurt to get an extra check in this economy.” He doesn’t buy into you being conciliatory. You prove him right when you add. “I heard that ICE is hiring.”

There’s an immediate shift in the air. The silence deafening, all eyes on Jack again, as if he has to actually prove that he’d never consider that job offering.

“Since you’re so fond of law enforcement —”

“I’m not gonna join fucking ICE,” Jack hisses as he fully turns to you.

Your words send redness creeping across his cheeks, the color of both embarrassment and indignation. You turn a blind eye to his feelings.

“Oh, you have a moral compass? Would you look at that.”

The guilt is back, and now it takes the shape of a dumbbell, the weight so heavy, it’s threatening to crush his chest. At least, that’s what it feels like. His voice comes out a little strangled.

“You seem to like rushing to judgment.”

“I was merely asking. ICE loves recruiting cops.”

It’s in this moment when Robby tries to interfere. He walks closer, his eyes moving from Jack to you and back. “Guys, maybe you should —”

“They will recruit any uneducated douchbag, it has nothing to do with what the SWAT does,” Abbot insists.

“The unit of the public institution that is responsible for quarter of a million civilian injuries a year? I think my judgment is just fine,” you say, adamant in your aversion. “Those are the same guys who do forced-entry raids and treat human rights like a suggestion they are free to ignore.”

“They don’t —”

But Abbot finds himself unable to finish that sentence. We wants to say they aren’t like that, except he actually can’t be certain. He and Hiro did form a surprisingly tight friendship, but Jack has never cared to hang out with the rest. He has a schedule and a full-time job, he gets tired faster, he sometimes feels too old to get their jokes.

He’s getting irritated at how effortlessly you can sniff out his hesitation.

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“But you don’t know it either, do you?” you challenge.

For him, it takes a lot of effort — to push back his emotions, to stop himself from bluntly asking Did something happen to make you so uncompromising? There is a lot of sense in what you’re saying. But Jack sticks to his own version of truth.

“From my experience, many of them are not bad people.”

It backfires. As quickly as if he stepped on another mine. You tell him, ruthlessly straightforward:

“From my experience, half of them choose that job to flaunt their power, the other half just love cosplaying their old army days because they are adrenaline junkies who can’t be left alone with their thoughts.”

Your words land like a punch into his sternum. Because you read him like you’ve got a PhD in Jack Abbot’s supposedly complex internal turmoil. He exhales sharply. Takes a breath and bristles.

“Are you a therapist now too?”

“Am I wrong? Sorry, did it hit too close to home?”

“Guys!” Robby barks out, and that does shut you both up.

You and Jack look at him, and he glances intently at the table. At Hiro, who you two almost forgot about. You only now notice that he’s starting to wake up, his eyelids fluttering as his head moves slightly to the side.

Abbot is sombre and distrustful — he doesn’t want any of your prejudice to hit Hiro, who’s in no shape to argue or to even speak. He watches you with narrowed eyes. You briefly check — the fluids Hiro is hooked up to, his stitched-up neck. And you don’t look at Jack at all.

“Welcome back to consciousness,” you keep your voice down — and you’re believably polite. Perfectly amiable. “You may feel some discomfort in your throat, there is a tube placed there to help you breathe. It’s temporary, and we will take it out during surgery. It won’t take long, and you won’t feel a thing. You may want to stay out of karaoke for a while, though.”

Hiro’s lips curve up a little at the corners.

Jack’s guilt could take half of the room. The floor. (The building?)

He makes his face look less sour as he walks closer. It helps that he is genuinely happy to see Hiro doing better. (Most importantly, not dead.)

Jack pats him on the shoulder, although the touch barely lands. “You’re gonna be okay, Hiro. You’re in good hands.”

Your argument (or was it a fight?) has momentarily gone from sizzling to smoldering. Robby moves to stand between you, a self-proclaimed referee.

“What’s the plan?”

“The Radiology first. Head and Neck will have an OR ready with thoracic standing by,” you explain.

“How soon can they take him?”

“We’re still backed up with Westbridge patients, but I can speed things up. Let’s start with CT.”

“Can I ride up with you?” Trinity asks, never apologetic for her ambitions.

And you must like it, because you give her a half-smile as you nod. “The more the merrier.”

It stings Jack’s pride a little how easily you get along with people. With anyone but him.

He helps to transfer Hiro on a gurney, and you two stand shoulder to shoulder for a moment. You only level him with a glare. Your eyes unreadable, your body moving out of the room like you wish to never share it with Abbot.

The space’s left empty, save for him and Robby.

“What the hell was that?” Jack says under his breath, eyes still glued to the place where you were standing.

“That was our new surgeon,” Robby informs him casually, his tone suggesting you and him work pretty well together. “She likes to come down between the surgeries to check up on the critical cases, see if she can help. No idea when she manages to actually take breaks, but I’m not complaining.”

Jack watches as Robby pulls down his gown, feeling his emotions simmer, his cheeks still warm. “That’s not what I’m asking.”

Robby sends him a glance, then lets out a long exhale.

“Wish I could give you an answer,” although he doesn’t sound too bothered by the lack of it. “Last week, a couple of cops brought in one of theirs, tried to stick by while he was on the table. And she almost dragged them out of the ER with her own hands,” Robby takes off his gloves and tosses them into the trash can. “To be fair, their buddy did shoot himself in the thigh, and they all reeked of beer. So she didn’t seem totally unreasonable, and I didn’t want to push her. Maybe she’s anti-gun, maybe something happened to her? Hell if I know. It’s none of my business unless it affects her job. And it doesn’t. You saw it too.”

Jack can’t argue with that.

He also can’t stop thinking about it — your voice laced with aversion, your words biting, your eyes never shying away from his. You. He doesn’t know how to stop thinking about you.

Robby must see in his face — or maybe he just knows him well enough to guess. He asks Jack quietly:

“She did get under your skin, huh?”

Jack’s mouth is set into a straight line. He cannot master a reply, and Robby knows better than to force one out. He briefly closes his eyes, bringing his hand up to rub his neck.

“Listen, I’m as clueless as you are. But if you want to get some inside scoop, maybe try asking—”

“Dr Robby?” Mel peeks into the room. “Sorry, we’ve got a trauma incoming. A 12-year-old kid, a firecracker exploded in his hand.”

“Not again,” Robby grumbles. “Anyone ever thought of banning those fucking firecrackers? I think we should.”

“Start a petition, I’ll sign it,” Dana chuckles as she walks by.

Robby relents and steps toward the door, his hand landing on Jack’s shoulder to give it a supportive squeeze. Unknowingly, he touches his wound, and Abbot barely manages to hold back a groan.

This time, the pain in his back lingers.

And when he’s left alone, in the room that smells like blood and antiseptics, what lingers on his mind is the thought of you.

Jack looks for an empty exam room so he can quickly change and clean the wound. He doesn’t want to ask for help, knowing how busy this day’s been, which also serves as an excuse for him to stay for a few hours.

He tells himself it has nothing to do with you. It sounds like a lie.

Jack tiredly removes his sweat-stained long-sleeve, wincing when the material drags over his bruised shoulder blade. He takes the holster off, makes sure the gun is safely placed inside, then slowly pulls up his t-shirt. He barely has time to take it off when he hears quick footsteps approaching.

“Mr Diaz?” Samira calls out, loud and excited. The door clicks open. “Mr Diaz, I have a surprise for you,” she yanks the curtain to the side. Her eyes widen a little at the sight of Abbot, her tone quickly dulled to apologetic. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Jack says, a bit self-conscious, hands fumbling with the t-shirt.

Mohan pays him no mind, looking around the room. “Have you seen my patient? Orlando.”

He shakes his head. “This room was empty.”

She curses under her breath, and her face crumbles into an expression of unease that’s borderline on panic. Her eyes wander back to the hall, unsure, until they stop on someone Jack can’t see.

“Have you seen Mr Diaz?”

“The diabetic? He’s up in the med-surg. They’re gonna put him on an insulin protocol and monitor him for a couple of days.”

Jack’s fingers clutch the t-shirt tighter at the sound of your voice. He takes a step back and almost stumbles when he sees you. There’s a short pause while Samira’s scrambling for words.

“Wait, are you— Are you sure? He refused to get admitted, I barely could talk him into staying here, in the ER.”

“Yeah, it looked like he wasn’t gonna stay for long, because I caught him on the stairs in his hospital gown,” you say, a small chuckle tucked in after the last two words. “He seemed very agitated and definitely not in the best shape to leave. So I called for a psych consult.”

“Oh. I didn’t think about that,” Samira sighs, shaking her head, no doubt already taking all the blame. “I should’ve thought about that, I didn’t even— Thank you so much.”

Remarkably, as you approach her, your demeanour changes — your voice goes softer, and so does your gaze; your palm caresses her shoulder in a soothing manner.

“That’s not on you. Today’s been pretty rough, and you have to juggle dozens of cases. You can’t think of every single thing,” and you wait until Samira looks at you, until she breathes out with somewhat of a relief. “Besides, I wasn’t the one to persuade him, it’s all Kiara.”

“Guess I need to thank her too,” Samira mumbles, a bit bashful, way more hopeful.

You nudge her in the direction of the elevators, a hint of a smile on your lips — sincere and friendly, something Jack wishes he could get from you. Your gaze follows Samira as she walks away. You add:

“Maybe grab a snack on your way up. I’m pretty I haven’t seen you sit down once since the morning.”

Mohan is out of Jack’s sight, but she does something to make your almost-smile turn into a wide one, your eyes crinkling at the corners as you laugh. Jack has to sit down. He’s quick to memorize it — joy on your face, the sound of your laugh, your whole stance relaxed, if only for a couple of seconds.

He doesn’t wait for the inevitable change that will come once you see him.

Abbot averts his gaze and reaches for the medkit to take out everything he needs — alcohol wipes and cotton swabs, a tub of Vaseline, gauze pads and band-aids. It is an easy process. And yet, all he can think about is that he didn’t hear you leave. That the door is open.

And even now, after you argued, after you glared at him, after you made it evidently clear how much you hate his principles and choices, the pull is still there. So he glances up.

To find that you’re already looking at him.

Your face unsmiling and emotionless, no softness in your voice when you say:

“You are Hiro’s emergency contact.”

Jack nods and holds your gaze for a long moment. Then looks away, picking a cotton swab to scoop up a globe of Vaseline with it. He’s definitely skipping a few steps. His heart skips — not just one beat, but a couple — as you confidently move into the room.

“He doesn’t want his fiancée to freak out if something happens,” he explains, trying to focus on his wound. “So usually it’s one of us. I’m his pick for the summer since I’m not going on vacation any time soon,” Jack cannot reach his shoulder blade, and each attempt makes him feel more annoyed. Clumsy. He puts the cotton swab down, shifting in place under your stare. And yet, he’s stalling.

“He’s doing alright up there?”

“Neck angio is negative. A small splenic injury, but no free fluid in the abdomen. He’s getting prepped for the surgery,” you tell him flatly.

Nothing in your voice or face suggests you find his company enjoyable. So Jack’s expecting you to turn and go away.

You don’t.

Your gaze sweeps over his body, from his shoulders and chest down to his hands. You suddenly step to the wall to grab a pair of gloves. Before he even thinks to ask what you’re doing, you move closer and take the cotton swab from him.

Then your fingers graze the raw skin on his back.

Jack goes rigid all over.

You don’t ask questions, silently examining his wound. And Abbot doesn’t expect you to be particularly gentle with him. He almost wishes that you won’t be. If you are rough, then your presence will be something he just needs to tolerate. Sit here and wait for you to get it over with.

That’s not what happens.

Because despite your sharp voice and unfriendly attitude, your hands are warm. He feels it even through your gloves, he’s startled by that feeling: you touch him — and goosebumps rise up on his back. You must notice, it would be hard not to. But you don’t comment on it.

You work fast, as you always do: you use a wipe soaked in alcohol to clear the wound, pressing it firmly in a patting motion over the graze. You ditch the cotton swab, choosing to apply the Vaseline with your gloved finger, spreading it carefully in a thin layer. And every time you come in contact with his skin, his body’s drawn to lean into your touch. A treacherous, unfathomable yearning. Of course, Jack stops himself. He’s sitting with his hands crossed over his chest, mentally counting seconds, hoping his torture will be over soon.

Hoping you’ll stay for longer.

Hoping he’ll somehow manage to erase this moment from his memory. And already knowing that he won’t.

You cover his graze with a gauze pad and put four band-aids at the corners of the fabric to secure it in place. You smooth it out with your thumbs —

and then you’re done.

Then comes the part where Jack searches for the right thing to say. His arms still locked together, his heartbeat erratic, just as his thoughts are. He only manages two quiet words:

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

And there’s no stalling on your part because you promptly step away, the gloves off, the shield of your indifference already up.

“I mean that. Don’t bring this up ever, it was just a one-and-done,” you tell him, and now you do turn away, and he isn’t audacious enough to reach for you. But as you’re about to leave, you stop. “And it’s three, by the way.”

His shoulder doesn’t hurt, but something in his chest does. It claws its way out, spills into his arteries and veins, and fills him down to his bones: guilt. Jack knows what you’re about to tell him.

Still, he asks:

“Three what?”

“Three dead bodies,” and when it’s just the two of you, you are less feisty, and you mostly sound tired. Not of your job, he thinks; no, it must be something else — personal, painful, haunting. But you look at him with the same heavy gaze. “They were diverted here from Westbridge. Two were in their mid-thirties, GSWs in head and chest. Probably died fast. The third one was seventeen. Two bullets in his lungs, one in his spleen, one in his arm. Isn’t that too much? He wasn’t a rapist or a murderer, he was just a kid. There should be hope for someone like him. Rehabilitation, reintegration into society, a second chance,” you yourself don’t seem hopeful as you give him the explanation. “Instead, he had to lie there and wait for the blood to fill his lungs while choking on it. But hey, your friend? He will be fine. He was wearing a vest,” and this is so much worse — when you address him not with anger but with disappointment. “As were you.”

You don’t wait for him to come up with a reply, and Abbot watches you walk out into the hall.

His guilt stays.

He sits with it, puts clothes over it, gets on his feet and carries it around as he goes back to the nurse station. He picks a chart, but he’s having a hard time focusing on names and numbers. The noise of the ER is muted while he’s deep in thought.

It’s not a hobby, and there’s rarely any enjoyment in it, and everyone (his therapist included) has found ways to tell him that they do not approve. So why does he keep doing it?

Should he keep doing it?

Someone is walking up to him — Jack catches movement out of the corner of his eye.

“Hi there,” Emery leans on the table, hands in her pockets. “Met the new surgeon?”

Jack barely registers the question, not really in the mood for talking. “Yeah.”

“This is the part where you’re supposed to tell me that I’m the more talented one,” she smirks and tilts her head a little, trying to catch his gaze. Despite it being evident that his attention is elsewhere, she continues. “Okay, talent runs in the family would be a nice second option.”

It takes Jack a second to understand what she just said. And that does make him turn his head to look at her. “What family?”

“She didn’t tell you? I saw you two talking, so I assumed you knew.”

Walsh stares back at him, one of her brows raised, like she is waiting for a punch line. But Jack’s face is a canvas of indeniable confusion. Slowly, a smile tugs at her lips, a little bit amused — and very satisfied that she’s the one to tell him:

“She’s my half-sister.”

He lets her words sink in. And then it hits him — the familiarity he noticed came from you and Emery having the same eyes. The same eye shape and, most importantly, the same gaze — direct, intense and unapologetic. That made him feel like he owed you an apology, but he is yet to figure out what for.

“Wow, Jack Abbot rendered speechless, that’s a new one. What, did she leave that good of a first impression?” Emery chuckles.

That is one way to put it.

Jack is not sure how to tell her that you made him reevaluate the choices he was dead set on. The ones he kept making for months. But he can’t have this conversation with her now, here, when he’s in disarray and operating on barely five hours of sleep.

He manages a smirk. “Maybe talent does run in your family. Hard for me to tell when I’ve barely worked with you.”

“Memory loss is one of the symptoms of senility, you know,” she pats his arm with a mocking sympathy but with no offence. “I’ll make sure to make our every interaction memorable for you from now on.”

There’s a glint in her eyes, not threatening but invigorating, and that’s what Jack has always liked about her: even if their methods clash, even when they argue (which happens often), Emery never holds a grudge.

“Can’t wait for it, Dr. Walsh,” Jack grins.

She flips him off on her way to the elevator.

His phone vibrates.

Jack pulls it out of his pocket and looks down at the pop-up on the screen.

Levington:

You still up for next Friday? We’re placing bets, mine’s on some gang shit. Haven’t gotten one of those in a while, seems sus.

The same question starts flashing through his mind, like a red light at a crossroad. Should he keep doing this?

Hiro will still be in recovery, and he’s the only one Jack usually hangs out with. Except, no one takes on that job to hang out, and all the common reasons don’t resonate with Jack: he isn’t on it for the money, he doesn’t go out on calls to render justice, his morals have become quite flexible over the years. They’ve got enough time to find another medic for the task. And he really should find himself a better hobby.

So Abbot bites the bullet and types a short reply.

Sorry, something came up, I have to pass on this one. I’ll text Sarge.

He turns on silent mode and puts the phone away.

It comes to him way easier than he’d imagined. The harder task will be to not give in when he’s alone in his apartment, when he’s got day-offs and not too many friends to spend them with, when he’ll have to dissect his logic for his therapist.

The hardest will be trying to talk to you.

If not for giving an apology, then just to offer you an explanation. It feels important to let you know he isn’t who you think he is, to get a chance to make things right. To get a chance to be in your proximity for any reason, really.

Because deep down, he grows infatuated with that jarring contrast — your words harsh, but your fingers gentle.

Your voice cold, but your touch warming his whole body up.

And somehow, he craves both.

✧ soooo is this anything? would anyone want a part 2?

the idea behind the fic was to explore how a person’s views can change with time and/or under some dire circumstances. but also what it’s like to fall for someone who’s done things in the past you don’t agree with. I think it would be interesting to find out why Abbot joined the army and how it affected him, but also why he decided to help the SWAT team. because I have a sneaking suspicion that the show will not answer any of these questions... aaanyways, I didn’t want to write a super long oneshot, I think it’d work best as a three-parter, so this is the first one. sorry there’s no smut, I know that’s what everyone cares about these days. I spent almost a week debating if I should even post this fic. but it’s been on my mind for a while, and I just want to move on lol but thank you to the few people who will read this <3 (also, to clarify — yes, reader does have her reasons to hate cops. but the statistics I mentioned are very much real).

✧ dividers by @/pixopix and @/cafekitsune; ⏩ PREV FIC / ⏩ MASTERLIST ✧ English isn’t my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any mistakes. reblogs and comments are very appreciated!

[lauraneedstochill]

bite the bullet

pairing: Jack Abbot x surgeon!f reader summary: when Jack arrives in the ER in his SWAT uniform, he is surprised to see a new surgeon. and right away, he takes a liking to your brazen tone and notices your skills. he finds you intriguing. except, you hate everything about his hobby, and you aren’t afraid to let him know.

warnings: ACAB! her attitude gives enemies-to-lovers vibes, but Jack is mostly flabbergasted; mentions of a shootout, deaths and guilt; some hurt/comfort (while he’s shirtless...), PLOT TWIST. also, I added one slur (to indicate that the character is racist, not because I would ever use that word irl). P.S. please don’t get offended on Jack’s behalf. he’s fictional, he can take it. / words: 7K / author’s note: guys, I know no one asked for this... but it came to me in a dream. it was also fuled by the rage I feel daily bc I have to work with men. and yes, I love it when Jack is touch-starved and yearning ♡ READ ON AO3 / MASTERLIST

Sweat tastes like salt, and gunshots smell like fireworks, and the loud sounds still echo in his head. Jack takes deep, measured breaths. The car shakes as it takes a turn, but he is staying calm. Collected. He keeps his hand on the bag valve and presses rhythmically to force more air into Hiro’s lungs. His gaze is focused on the deep wound on his neck, the bandages soaked through.

Blood is just blood.

Wet, warm, staining the skin with crimson.

The splatters of it dried up on his hands and vest. It’s been a while since he had to treat an injury this bad. Out in the field, under active fire, with the adrenaline blazing through his bloodstream. Except, that feeling he once loved and chased has recently become less thrilling. More unnerving. And underneath the layers of the synthetic fibers and his years-old restraint, a heaviness has settled in his chest. Jack knows it’s not about the bleeding — at least, not the one he did manage to stop.

Because as they ride through the tunnel, the light flickers — from bright to dull fluorescent one — and Hiro’s face is momentarily replaced by someone else’s.

Someone way younger, in his twenties, his eyes widened in horror, his mouth opening to push the panicked words out. His teeth are colored red —

Then Jack blinks. The sunlight floods the car again.

“How are we doing back there, doc?” Levington asks him from the driver’s seat.

Abbot feels Hiro’s pulse — it’s slow, thready. “Not great. He’s getting harder to bag.”

“Those damn beaners got him good. But your guys will patch him up, right? 'Cause I’m supposed to be one of his groomsmen, and let me tell you, those tux rentals ain’t cheap —”

“Lev, can you just shut the fuck up and step on it?” a gruff voice interrupts.

“Got it, Sarge!”

The engine roars.

The weight in Abbot’s chest sinks deeper. But he is nothing if not pro at pushing his emotions down. So he does just that.

They ride straight to the ambulance bay, and two paramedics help them transfer Hiro on a gurney. The numbness in Jack’s wrist gives way to tingling as he moves his hand a little; he keeps his fingers clasped around the bag. He keeps his calm. Pretending that he doesn’t feel the pain stinging his shoulder blade, a deep graze where the bullet missed him.

And there’s some relief in coming into the ER, a safe space with the well-known faces — Robby’s the first to greet him, already on alert.

“Intubated neck wound, sats not great,” Jack explains, his hands moving on autopilot — one pressing on the bag, the other checking Hiro’s pulse. “You got a trauma room open?”

“Trauma 1,” Robby nods, helping to move the gurney in the right direction. “What’s the story?”

“Officer Hiro, high-velocity GSW. Warehouse robbery gone sideways,” Jack lists, avoiding further details.

Because if he says more, he’ll have to deal with questions he has yet to find the answers to. Because he’s used to making clean cuts, having a clear conscience, taking a clear course of action. But the truth is messy. And he doesn’t have time for that.

Instead, Abbot takes notice of Hiro’s barely moving chest, just as they roll the gurney in, Santos and Perlah already in the room.

Trinity’s gaze flits between two men in uniform, not with dismay but with her usual curiosity. With the excitement some might consider odd. Jack doesn’t. He also wonders when was the last time his job made him excited. He can’t remember. Definitely not today.

“Did you do this intubation?” Santos takes the bag from him.

“Under active fire, yeah. I go in with the team in case there’s an injury,” Jack tells her casually, a pair of scissors already in his hands, the metal blades hastily cutting through the bandages.

“That’s badass,” Trinity notes with a small grin, her eyes bright with amusement.

Jack only shrugs. His face expression stays unfazed. Behind it, there’s a roaring concern: with how much air he’s been pumping into Hiro’s lungs, they should inflate way more. They should make his chest rise and fall, a steady breath-like pattern. A vital pattern.

The monitor goes off.

“Sats down to 85,” Robby warns.

A respiratory failure means that they have to act fast. It also means that he missed something. And getting confirmation hurts Jack way more than being shot at.

“Shit, his trachea’s transected,” he grunts as he removes the dirty bandages, “I didn’t notice.”

“So if we intubate again, it will come straight out the wound,” Trinity guesses from behind his shoulder.

“Bingo. Need another plan,” he takes the plastic tube out of Hiro’s mouth, and she promptly puts the mask on him, with the same bag attached to it.

It’s the same working principle: her fingers squeeze the bag, the air goes in. And Jack helplessly watches as it leaks through the neck wound, blood bubbling at the edges.

The beeping doesn’t stop.

Robby shakes his head. “Sats down to 83.”

“He’s not moving any air,” Jack mumbles, “Can’t send him up like this.”

Robby catches his gaze, hums, thinks it over. “How about a neonatal mask?”

“A neonatal?” Santos sounds confused. “But how can it —”

“Put it to his neck,” Jack realizes. “Seals the wound, allows the air to go where it’s supposed to.”

Trinity nods. Then runs up to the supply cabinet, and just a tiny bit of her excitement does rub off on him. Jack lets out a breath, sweat beading on his brow; his heart is still restless with worry. Seconds drag out while he waits, and the neonatal mask actually works — sats climb up to 98, the oxygen finally filling up the lungs. But Abbot knows it’s not a permanent solution.

Robby knows, too. He steps back to give a call to the OR.

Jack figures out a way to keep his hands busy in the meantime: a syringe with a needle and two ampules he asks Perhal for — lidocaine for numbing and epi to reduce the bleeding. He carefully works around the wound, peppering it with injections, as Trinity checks up the lungs.

“Good lung sliding, no pneumo,” she reads the monitor.

This is good news. They are unfortunately followed by Robby hanging up the phone with a loud sigh.

“The OR is packed, they can take him in 20 minutes at best.”

“Wish I could say I am surprised,” Jack huffs, feigning a tone that will not give away how much he hates it — wait, and uncertainly, and feeling like he’s failing someone. “It’s always on this day when people collectively decide to lose a few of their limbs.”

“More like a few of their brain cells,” Perlah mutters, earning a laugh from Santos.

“Think he can hang in there for 20 more minutes?” Robby asks.

“I don’t want to sit and wait,” Jack counters and puts the syringe away. “Any suggestions?”

“Mine would be to sit and wait.”

“That’s just lazy, man.”

“Well, sorry I’m not a wellspring of ideas, some of us been working since 6 a.m.”

They aren’t seriously bickering — it’s just a way to keep Jack’s mind distracted, an impromptu grounding technique. Robby’s aware, so he plays along. Jack welcomes it.

“What do you think I’ve been doing? Does this camo make it look like I returned from a vacation?”

“I’m starting to think you just enjoy watching people shoot at each other.”

“Says the guy whose definition of fun is riding a bike without the damn helmet.”

“Which only happened once, meanwhile you continuously —”

The door swings open, putting their conversation to a halt.

And then a smile stretches Robby’s lips as his eyes land on someone else.

“Do you ever take breaks?”

“Do you?” you quip and hastily throw on a gown. “Cause you aren’t leading by example, that’s for sure.”

Jack instantly turns to the sound. He doesn’t recognize your voice — confident, brazen even — nor your hair color. He only glimpses your profile before you put a mask on, your movements quick, honed. Not hesitating once. He’s yet to learn your name, but your dark scrubs give him a hint: you’re a surgeon.

The one Robby already seems acquainted with. He keeps his gaze on you while you reach for the gloves.

“And why is it always you who comes down to us?”

“That is a weird way of saying thank you.”

“I just don’t want our promising new hire to burn out too fast. And I am seeing some troubling signs.”

“What you are seeing is eight hours of sleep paired with a healthy dose of caffeine. Not that you’d know what it looks like,” you scoff at Robby, mirth in your voice. “Also, promising? What a compliment.”

“We’ve only been working together for two weeks, I can’t go soft on you. Or people will start talking,” Robby steps back to let you take his place, like he is used to it. Like there is a rhythm you two have learned to fall into.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you tell him bluntly, but your attention is on Hiro — you quickly look over his bloodied chest and wounded neck, a slight furrow between your brows. “The neonatal mask was a good call.”

Then finally, you spare Jack a glance.

Your eyes catch on his uniform for a perceptible few seconds, then dart up to his face. And Jack involuntarily, immediately tenses. Because it feels like he is staring down the barrel of a gun, and your gaze is loaded. Like there are words you want to fire at him, a shot that will be deadly.

His heartbeat stutters.

But you don’t say a thing.

You silently look back at Hiro. And suddenly, a thought comes to Jack’s mind: something about you is incredibly familiar.

Robby stands right behind you, oblivious to any tension and still smiling. “You aren’t gonna let me win, will you? Emery warned me —”

“You bring her up so often, I’m starting to suspect you have a crush, Robinavich,” — you throw a look at Trinity, “Santos, help me cut down a 6-0 ET tube,” — then, back at Robby, “Sorry to break it to you, but you are not her type.”

“Is it the beard?”

“Among other things,” you chuckle.

Jack really wants to interfere with your banter — it feels like things are slipping out of his control: no one is asking for his opinion or his help, although it’s his friend who is about to bleed out on the table.

But you’re a natural at multitasking.

You talk while your sharp gaze does the inspection, while you draw up a plan. You tell Trinity where to cut the tube and ask for clamps, your fingers pulling up the mask from Hiro’s neck, your gloves already covered in his blood.

“The problem must be in my erratic working schedule,” Robby muses teasingly, watching you work.

Your eyebrows flicker up at his remark. Behind your mask, there’s an expression that Abbot guesses is a smirk. “No, I’d say it’s more about your pathological refusal to commit to a serious relationship and instead fucking around and calling it casual. Which does sound funny coming from a man in his fifties,” you deadpan.

Perlah gives Robby a pointed look, not hiding that she does agree with you. Santos is trying very hard (and failing) to hold back a laugh. And unexpectedly, despite his whirlpool of emotions that are far from funny, Jack feels his mouth smiling too.

You keep your focus on the wound and add nonchalantly: “Please tell me you haven’t been casual with anyone in this room.”

Robby is blushing — profusely, from his ears to his cheeks. “You overestimate my charm.”

“I’m yet to find any. But somehow that doesn’t stop so many other women,” you tsk. Then mercifully grant him some reprieve. “His sats will tank, he’s in need of an airway. Trinity, come help me with the tube.”

“Allow me,” the words come out before Jack can rationalize them, his body leaning slightly toward yours across the table.

Like he is following a pull.

You don’t object. But now that he is standing closer, Jack catches how your eyes dart to the side, your brows pinched together. Almost as if you fight the urge to look at him again, to say something.

But for the second time, you don’t.

And even though Abbot is not inclined to think about it too hard — of how he looks and how he carries himself, and what effect it might have on people — he cannot help but wonder if your discomfort comes from that. Maybe you also feel the pull, maybe you’re trying to be professional about it.

He doesn’t mind the quiet. It drapes over you two as you work in accidental tandem: Santos gives Jack the tube, and he waits patiently for you to find the distal trachea. He checks the monitors. Although he’s drawn to keep his eyes on you. As much as Abbot is still worried, he is also undeniably intrigued.

His tension slowly eases —

Until the door creaks open, and Levington clumsily pushes half of his body in. The holster on his hip bumps against the wall, the handle of the gun making a dull sound.

“How’s it going, guys? This one didn’t kick the bucket yet?”

Jack doesn’t want to get distracted — or worse, to distract you. Not when you’re concentrated on the task, the metal shanks bloody and gleaming as you rotate them, trying to grip the windpipe and leave everything intact. Abbot looks up at Robby.

Robby first looks at you.

He then loses his smile and the amiability he usually uses around patients. Which is weird. He turns to Levington.

“It’s better if you wait outside, and we’ll update you once he’s out of surgery,” Robby says dryly. His voice drops slightly when he adds, “Should be more careful with the gun.”

“The safety’s on,” Levington brushes off, then chuckles. “Wouldn’t want to shoot myself in the leg and end up on the table too.”

“Weapons of any kind aren’t allowed in the ER,” you say without looking at him, way louder than Robby.

And there’s a stark change in your tone — it’s lacking playfulness, it is completely void of any warmth, each word spoken so firmly that you sound almost... Angry. Jack catches on to that.

Levington doesn’t.

“Oh, I’m a big boy, I can handle —”

“Wasn’t exactly a suggestion,” you cut him off. “You aren’t allowed in here, period. Go flash your gun some place else. Am I being clear?”

For just a second, you do look at him, a brief turn of your masked face in his direction.

And Levington — six feet tall, almost two hundred pounds of chiseled muscles and blissful ignorance — flinches under your stare. He throws both hands up.

“S-sorry, already leaving,” he stutters and backs out of the room.

The sats drop down to 91.

“I got it,” you say in the same second.

Jack’s part is easier: he only needs to place the tube in. Gently, securely. His face inches closer to yours, his gaze grazing the high points of your cheeks, the lines of your throat. You surely can feel him staring, but you don’t move away. Eventually, he does.

“I’m in. Balloon up.”

The chestpiece of Robby’s stethoscope glides over Hiro’s chest. The number on the monitor is climbing up. Everyone shares a sigh of relief.

“Good breath sounds,” Robby confirms, a corner of his mouth curling. “Not bad, you guys.”

But when Jack tries meeting your gaze, you don’t give him the satisfaction, your face not softened one bit. Nor is your voice when you say coolly:

“Good thing that whoever shot him couldn’t aim for shit.”

That scratches off some of Jack’s pretense. Most of his nonchalance. Because you masterfully fish out not only the trachea, but also the damned memories he has been trying to suppress.

The rows of corridors, the piles of packaged and hastily abandoned goods. Shadows that move across the floor, hide behind structured rows of shelves. Hushed conversations. Hectic decisions. They are on the run.

Hiro’s voice booming.

“Kid, you don’t even know how to use that thing! Just put your weapon down!”

Shots fired — intentional, precise, hitting the targets as expected. But one is sudden, accidental, the bullets ricocheting off the metal with bright tiny sparks.

Hiro gets hit.

His hand clasped weakly over his neck, red pouring through his fingers until Jack can apply more pressure. Until they rush him out of the building.

There are two dead bodies left behind.

The third one is still fighting against the imminent demise. Convulsing limbs and bloodied teeth and scared eyes — looking straight at Jack.

Robby’s palm on his shoulder brings him back.

“— don’t have to stay for this,” he repeats, “We can take it from here.”

He sounds more cautious, like he can finally feel that something’s off. But he can’t figure out what exactly. Robby steps to where you’re standing.

“I’ll sew the trachea to the skin. Can’t let you do all the work around here.”

You don’t argue. But your gloved hand brushes Hiro’s half-naked body, your fingers moving to his side. You pull away the piece of his torn t-shirt. There is a spot beneath his ribs — big, blooming violet.

“Missed a bruise. Left upper quadrant.”

Santos picks the ultrasound transducer. “Wasn’t he wearing body armor?”

“High-velocity projectile doesn’t have to penetrate to damage,” Jack notes.

He stays to help Robby with suturing. You take the transducer from Trinity, maneuvering your body and your hand to move around Abbot so you can get an image while still keeping your distance.

And this doesn’t feel like you are fighting an attraction to him, no. It comes off as avoidance. Dislike even.

But why?

“No fluid in the suprasplenic space. Looks like a subcapsular hematoma of his spleen,” you say, ignoring Jack’s existence as if your arm isn’t bumping into his.

“So he needs an abdominal CT,” Santos suggests.

“CT angio of the neck first. Then CT chest, abdomen, pelvis.”

“Geez, I wonder what the other guy looks like,” Trinity mumbles.

Abbot pretends he didn’t hear the question. But now that he’s the one ignoring something obvious, you glance at him. He feels it — your gaze comes with the safety off. And he remembers that he also has a gun. The chances that you haven’t noticed aren’t very high. Which may be what’s been bothering you.

“How did that even happen?” Santos wonders, and this one time Jack wishes she could be less curious. Trinity adds, a tad bit awkward. “I mean, if it’s not a top secret.”

Since everyone is staring at him, he can’t help but talk.

“Some guys naively thought today was the day to rob a goods warehouse. Didn’t think about how long it would take to load the appliances,” Jack explains half-heartedly. “They panicked when the SWAT rolled in. All hell broke loose.”

“His recovery will also feel like hell,” Perlah nods toward Hiro with a small, sympathetic frown.

“Good thing someone else didn’t catch a bullet,” Robby remarks, both disapproving and concerned, his gaze fixed on the wound.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack notices you move away. As if you aren’t very interested in this discussion. But Perlah is — she squints at Jack, and there’s more confusion than disapproval in her words:

“Why’d you volunteer for something like that?”

You snap your gloves off, one then the other; then your mask.

“My therapist said I needed a hobby,” Abbot says.

It’s an excuse packed as a joke, but both work poorly — there is a glaring proof of how unsafe the job is, with Jack’s hands still on Hiro’s wounded neck. Proof that it isn’t just a fun, carefree pastime.

Because there’s no enjoyment in watching someone die.

And Jack has seen too many deaths already. He doesn’t know how long he can keep pushing it all down, deeper, until he will start cracking at the seams. So he has made it into a habit to talk his way out of situations he struggles to process.

“I mean, they just need someone to help them if things go south,” he continues, seemingly unruffled. “It’s a high-risk job. These guys put their life on the line.”

There is a sound — a huff mixed with a laugh, not airy and mirthful but instead cold and sharp. The sound comes from you.

“Do they really?”

His head snaps in your direction, and there’s no hiding how flabbergasted he is by your tone. You give him no chance to recover.

“You mean the men in military-style tactical gear who usually show up armed to the teeth? In teams, with vests, shields and helmets? Which, by the way, they get paid really well for. So how high is the risk exactly?” You glance at Hiro. “At least this one came in one piece. How many were brought in body bags today thanks to you?”

The room goes silent.

Jack’s face grows hot. And only now, belatedly, he realizes: for you, there is no pull. The only urge you’re fighting is to tear him to shreds.

Correction: you aren’t fighting it.

“Shit happens,” Abbot tries to argue. “You point a gun at a police officer, and they’re allowed to engage.”

“Are they allowed to negotiate first? Or do you usually prefer to skip that part? Sorry, my bad — not you, your team buddies.”

The truth is, he’s not really involved in the decision-making. He stays back and he follows orders, and there is no time to question them. He does sometimes, though. It has been happening more often.

You stare him down like you can read his thoughts.

“Are you allowed to help the other guys? Like, if some criminal is bleeding out on the pavement. Or does the Hippocratic Oath apply only to the upstanding citizens with a clean record and high morals?”

His heart pounds, no doubt fueled by adrenaline that’s triggering the body’s “fight or flight” response. Jack’s always been a fighter, he has learned to be — he went from jumping into fights at school to jumping out of helicopters straight into war zones. But none of that experience can help him.

His vest, his self-restraint, his wit are suddenly all useless against you.

“There are priorities of life. Civilians first, then the acting officers,” Jack forces out, because it feels unbearable not to fight back or at least try to. “The criminals come —”

“Aren’t they innocent until proven guilty? Pointing a gun at someone isn’t against the law.”

“Shooting at people is.”

“Undoubtedly, yes. Shouldn’t they be prosecuted for that?”

“Undoubtedly,” Jack echoes, not wryly but warily, like he’s afraid to walk into a trap. He does.

“Would be hard to do that when they are dead,” you note swiftly, your voice level, but your gaze is burning. Always on him. It makes Jack’s grit falter, so when you change topics, he is caught off guard.

“Where’s that warehouse you mentioned?”

Robby is finishing the stitches, his brown eyes glancing between you two with ever-growing apprehension. Perlah and Trinity are gazing at you like they just got front row tickets to some drama show. Jack doesn’t find any of this entertaining.

“I’m not sure I can disclose that information.”

You let out a hum. Dismissive. Like that’s exactly what you expect from him, like your expectations of him aren’t very high.

“Since he didn’t bleed out, and your hand didn’t fall off from pumping air into his lungs, it can’t be too far. The warehouse in Millvale sounds about right.”

Abbot’s jaw clenches. Your mouth twitches, as if you’re about to sneer.

“Isn’t that the one owned by Amazon? I’m sure one of the world’s richest men is ugly crying over a few boxes of packaged goods someone tried to steal from him.”

There’s so much tension in Jack’s face, he is about to start grinding his teeth.

“I don’t think we should let people steal whatever shit they want.”

“And I do not encourage stealing,” you retort, easily grinding on his nerves, “I’m saying you should take guilty people to court. Not kill them on the spot.”

“You ever heard about self-defence?”

“You ever tried not shooting people in the head?”

“I don’t shoot anyone. Or give orders to.”

“But you work for the men who do. Kinda sounds like you don’t have a problem with it.”

An irritated deep sigh burns his throat, but Abbot holds it back. So you push on.

“I’m not judging,” but it sounds like you are. “The job probably pays well. Wouldn’t hurt to get an extra check in this economy.” He doesn’t buy into you being conciliatory. You prove him right when you add. “I heard that ICE is hiring.”

There’s an immediate shift in the air. The silence deafening, all eyes on Jack again, as if he has to actually prove that he’d never consider that job offering.

“Since you’re so fond of law enforcement —”

“I’m not gonna join fucking ICE,” Jack hisses as he fully turns to you.

Your words send redness creeping across his cheeks, the color of both embarrassment and indignation. You turn a blind eye to his feelings.

“Oh, you have a moral compass? Would you look at that.”

The guilt is back, and now it takes the shape of a dumbbell, the weight so heavy, it’s threatening to crush his chest. At least, that’s what it feels like. His voice comes out a little strangled.

“You seem to like rushing to judgment.”

“I was merely asking. ICE loves recruiting cops.”

It’s in this moment when Robby tries to interfere. He walks closer, his eyes moving from Jack to you and back. “Guys, maybe you should —”

“They will recruit any uneducated douchbag, it has nothing to do with what the SWAT does,” Abbot insists.

“The unit of the public institution that is responsible for quarter of a million civilian injuries a year? I think my judgment is just fine,” you say, adamant in your aversion. “Those are the same guys who do forced-entry raids and treat human rights like a suggestion they are free to ignore.”

“They don’t —”

But Abbot finds himself unable to finish that sentence. We wants to say they aren’t like that, except he actually can’t be certain. He and Hiro did form a surprisingly tight friendship, but Jack has never cared to hang out with the rest. He has a schedule and a full-time job, he gets tired faster, he sometimes feels too old to get their jokes.

He’s getting irritated at how effortlessly you can sniff out his hesitation.

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“But you don’t know it either, do you?” you challenge.

For him, it takes a lot of effort — to push back his emotions, to stop himself from bluntly asking Did something happen to make you so uncompromising? There is a lot of sense in what you’re saying. But Jack sticks to his own version of truth.

“From my experience, many of them are not bad people.”

It backfires. As quickly as if he stepped on another mine. You tell him, ruthlessly straightforward:

“From my experience, half of them choose that job to flaunt their power, the other half just love cosplaying their old army days because they are adrenaline junkies who can’t be left alone with their thoughts.”

Your words land like a punch into his sternum. Because you read him like you’ve got a PhD in Jack Abbot’s supposedly complex internal turmoil. He exhales sharply. Takes a breath and bristles.

“Are you a therapist now too?”

“Am I wrong? Sorry, did it hit too close to home?”

“Guys!” Robby barks out, and that does shut you both up.

You and Jack look at him, and he glances intently at the table. At Hiro, who you two almost forgot about. You only now notice that he’s starting to wake up, his eyelids fluttering as his head moves slightly to the side.

Abbot is sombre and distrustful — he doesn’t want any of your prejudice to hit Hiro, who’s in no shape to argue or to even speak. He watches you with narrowed eyes. You briefly check — the fluids Hiro is hooked up to, his stitched-up neck. And you don’t look at Jack at all.

“Welcome back to consciousness,” you keep your voice down — and you’re believably polite. Perfectly amiable. “You may feel some discomfort in your throat, there is a tube placed there to help you breathe. It’s temporary, and we will take it out during surgery. It won’t take long, and you won’t feel a thing. You may want to stay out of karaoke for a while, though.”

Hiro’s lips curve up a little at the corners.

Jack’s guilt could take half of the room. The floor. (The building?)

He makes his face look less sour as he walks closer. It helps that he is genuinely happy to see Hiro doing better. (Most importantly, not dead.)

Jack pats him on the shoulder, although the touch barely lands. “You’re gonna be okay, Hiro. You’re in good hands.”

Your argument (or was it a fight?) has momentarily gone from sizzling to smoldering. Robby moves to stand between you, a self-proclaimed referee.

“What’s the plan?”

“The Radiology first. Head and Neck will have an OR ready with thoracic standing by,” you explain.

“How soon can they take him?”

“We’re still backed up with Westbridge patients, but I can speed things up. Let’s start with CT.”

“Can I ride up with you?” Trinity asks, never apologetic for her ambitions.

And you must like it, because you give her a half-smile as you nod. “The more the merrier.”

It stings Jack’s pride a little how easily you get along with people. With anyone but him.

He helps to transfer Hiro on a gurney, and you two stand shoulder to shoulder for a moment. You only level him with a glare. Your eyes unreadable, your body moving out of the room like you wish to never share it with Abbot.

The space’s left empty, save for him and Robby.

“What the hell was that?” Jack says under his breath, eyes still glued to the place where you were standing.

“That was our new surgeon,” Robby informs him casually, his tone suggesting you and him work pretty well together. “She likes to come down between the surgeries to check up on the critical cases, see if she can help. No idea when she manages to actually take breaks, but I’m not complaining.”

Jack watches as Robby pulls down his gown, feeling his emotions simmer, his cheeks still warm. “That’s not what I’m asking.”

Robby sends him a glance, then lets out a long exhale.

“Wish I could give you an answer,” although he doesn’t sound too bothered by the lack of it. “Last week, a couple of cops brought in one of theirs, tried to stick by while he was on the table. And she almost dragged them out of the ER with her own hands,” Robby takes off his gloves and tosses them into the trash can. “To be fair, their buddy did shoot himself in the thigh, and they all reeked of beer. So she didn’t seem totally unreasonable, and I didn’t want to push her. Maybe she’s anti-gun, maybe something happened to her? Hell if I know. It’s none of my business unless it affects her job. And it doesn’t. You saw it too.”

Jack can’t argue with that.

He also can’t stop thinking about it — your voice laced with aversion, your words biting, your eyes never shying away from his. You. He doesn’t know how to stop thinking about you.

Robby must see in his face — or maybe he just knows him well enough to guess. He asks Jack quietly:

“She did get under your skin, huh?”

Jack’s mouth is set into a straight line. He cannot master a reply, and Robby knows better than to force one out. He briefly closes his eyes, bringing his hand up to rub his neck.

“Listen, I’m as clueless as you are. But if you want to get some inside scoop, maybe try asking—”

“Dr Robby?” Mel peeks into the room. “Sorry, we’ve got a trauma incoming. A 12-year-old kid, a firecracker exploded in his hand.”

“Not again,” Robby grumbles. “Anyone ever thought of banning those fucking firecrackers? I think we should.”

“Start a petition, I’ll sign it,” Dana chuckles as she walks by.

Robby relents and steps toward the door, his hand landing on Jack’s shoulder to give it a supportive squeeze. Unknowingly, he touches his wound, and Abbot barely manages to hold back a groan.

This time, the pain in his back lingers.

And when he’s left alone, in the room that smells like blood and antiseptics, what lingers on his mind is the thought of you.

Jack looks for an empty exam room so he can quickly change and clean the wound. He doesn’t want to ask for help, knowing how busy this day’s been, which also serves as an excuse for him to stay for a few hours.

He tells himself it has nothing to do with you. It sounds like a lie.

Jack tiredly removes his sweat-stained long-sleeve, wincing when the material drags over his bruised shoulder blade. He takes the holster off, makes sure the gun is safely placed inside, then slowly pulls up his t-shirt. He barely has time to take it off when he hears quick footsteps approaching.

“Mr Diaz?” Samira calls out, loud and excited. The door clicks open. “Mr Diaz, I have a surprise for you,” she yanks the curtain to the side. Her eyes widen a little at the sight of Abbot, her tone quickly dulled to apologetic. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Jack says, a bit self-conscious, hands fumbling with the t-shirt.

Mohan pays him no mind, looking around the room. “Have you seen my patient? Orlando.”

He shakes his head. “This room was empty.”

She curses under her breath, and her face crumbles into an expression of unease that’s borderline on panic. Her eyes wander back to the hall, unsure, until they stop on someone Jack can’t see.

“Have you seen Mr Diaz?”

“The diabetic? He’s up in the med-surg. They’re gonna put him on an insulin protocol and monitor him for a couple of days.”

Jack’s fingers clutch the t-shirt tighter at the sound of your voice. He takes a step back and almost stumbles when he sees you. There’s a short pause while Samira’s scrambling for words.

“Wait, are you— Are you sure? He refused to get admitted, I barely could talk him into staying here, in the ER.”

“Yeah, it looked like he wasn’t gonna stay for long, because I caught him on the stairs in his hospital gown,” you say, a small chuckle tucked in after the last two words. “He seemed very agitated and definitely not in the best shape to leave. So I called for a psych consult.”

“Oh. I didn’t think about that,” Samira sighs, shaking her head, no doubt already taking all the blame. “I should’ve thought about that, I didn’t even— Thank you so much.”

Remarkably, as you approach her, your demeanour changes — your voice goes softer, and so does your gaze; your palm caresses her shoulder in a soothing manner.

“That’s not on you. Today’s been pretty rough, and you have to juggle dozens of cases. You can’t think of every single thing,” and you wait until Samira looks at you, until she breathes out with somewhat of a relief. “Besides, I wasn’t the one to persuade him, it’s all Kiara.”

“Guess I need to thank her too,” Samira mumbles, a bit bashful, way more hopeful.

You nudge her in the direction of the elevators, a hint of a smile on your lips — sincere and friendly, something Jack wishes he could get from you. Your gaze follows Samira as she walks away. You add:

“Maybe grab a snack on your way up. I’m pretty I haven’t seen you sit down once since the morning.”

Mohan is out of Jack’s sight, but she does something to make your almost-smile turn into a wide one, your eyes crinkling at the corners as you laugh. Jack has to sit down. He’s quick to memorize it — joy on your face, the sound of your laugh, your whole stance relaxed, if only for a couple of seconds.

He doesn’t wait for the inevitable change that will come once you see him.

Abbot averts his gaze and reaches for the medkit to take out everything he needs — alcohol wipes and cotton swabs, a tub of Vaseline, gauze pads and band-aids. It is an easy process. And yet, all he can think about is that he didn’t hear you leave. That the door is open.

And even now, after you argued, after you glared at him, after you made it evidently clear how much you hate his principles and choices, the pull is still there. So he glances up.

To find that you’re already looking at him.

Your face unsmiling and emotionless, no softness in your voice when you say:

“You are Hiro’s emergency contact.”

Jack nods and holds your gaze for a long moment. Then looks away, picking a cotton swab to scoop up a globe of Vaseline with it. He’s definitely skipping a few steps. His heart skips — not just one beat, but a couple — as you confidently move into the room.

“He doesn’t want his fiancée to freak out if something happens,” he explains, trying to focus on his wound. “So usually it’s one of us. I’m his pick for the summer since I’m not going on vacation any time soon,” Jack cannot reach his shoulder blade, and each attempt makes him feel more annoyed. Clumsy. He puts the cotton swab down, shifting in place under your stare. And yet, he’s stalling.

“He’s doing alright up there?”

“Neck angio is negative. A small splenic injury, but no free fluid in the abdomen. He’s getting prepped for the surgery,” you tell him flatly.

Nothing in your voice or face suggests you find his company enjoyable. So Jack’s expecting you to turn and go away.

You don’t.

Your gaze sweeps over his body, from his shoulders and chest down to his hands. You suddenly step to the wall to grab a pair of gloves. Before he even thinks to ask what you’re doing, you move closer and take the cotton swab from him.

Then your fingers graze the raw skin on his back.

Jack goes rigid all over.

You don’t ask questions, silently examining his wound. And Abbot doesn’t expect you to be particularly gentle with him. He almost wishes that you won’t be. If you are rough, then your presence will be something he just needs to tolerate. Sit here and wait for you to get it over with.

That’s not what happens.

Because despite your sharp voice and unfriendly attitude, your hands are warm. He feels it even through your gloves, he’s startled by that feeling: you touch him — and goosebumps rise up on his back. You must notice, it would be hard not to. But you don’t comment on it.

You work fast, as you always do: you use a wipe soaked in alcohol to clear the wound, pressing it firmly in a patting motion over the graze. You ditch the cotton swab, choosing to apply the Vaseline with your gloved finger, spreading it carefully in a thin layer. And every time you come in contact with his skin, his body’s drawn to lean into your touch. A treacherous, unfathomable yearning. Of course, Jack stops himself. He’s sitting with his hands crossed over his chest, mentally counting seconds, hoping his torture will be over soon.

Hoping you’ll stay for longer.

Hoping he’ll somehow manage to erase this moment from his memory. And already knowing that he won’t.

You cover his graze with a gauze pad and put four band-aids at the corners of the fabric to secure it in place. You smooth it out with your thumbs —

and then you’re done.

Then comes the part where Jack searches for the right thing to say. His arms still locked together, his heartbeat erratic, just as his thoughts are. He only manages two quiet words:

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

And there’s no stalling on your part because you promptly step away, the gloves off, the shield of your indifference already up.

“I mean that. Don’t bring this up ever, it was just a one-and-done,” you tell him, and now you do turn away, and he isn’t audacious enough to reach for you. But as you’re about to leave, you stop. “And it’s three, by the way.”

His shoulder doesn’t hurt, but something in his chest does. It claws its way out, spills into his arteries and veins, and fills him down to his bones: guilt. Jack knows what you’re about to tell him.

Still, he asks:

“Three what?”

“Three dead bodies,” and when it’s just the two of you, you are less feisty, and you mostly sound tired. Not of your job, he thinks; no, it must be something else — personal, painful, haunting. But you look at him with the same heavy gaze. “They were diverted here from Westbridge. Two were in their mid-thirties, GSWs in head and chest. Probably died fast. The third one was seventeen. Two bullets in his lungs, one in his spleen, one in his arm. Isn’t that too much? He wasn’t a rapist or a murderer, he was just a kid. There should be hope for someone like him. Rehabilitation, reintegration into society, a second chance,” you yourself don’t seem hopeful as you give him the explanation. “Instead, he had to lie there and wait for the blood to fill his lungs while choking on it. But hey, your friend? He will be fine. He was wearing a vest,” and this is so much worse — when you address him not with anger but with disappointment. “As were you.”

You don’t wait for him to come up with a reply, and Abbot watches you walk out into the hall.

His guilt stays.

He sits with it, puts clothes over it, gets on his feet and carries it around as he goes back to the nurse station. He picks a chart, but he’s having a hard time focusing on names and numbers. The noise of the ER is muted while he’s deep in thought.

It’s not a hobby, and there’s rarely any enjoyment in it, and everyone (his therapist included) has found ways to tell him that they do not approve. So why does he keep doing it?

Should he keep doing it?

Someone is walking up to him — Jack catches movement out of the corner of his eye.

“Hi there,” Emery leans on the table, hands in her pockets. “Met the new surgeon?”

Jack barely registers the question, not really in the mood for talking. “Yeah.”

“This is the part where you’re supposed to tell me that I’m the more talented one,” she smirks and tilts her head a little, trying to catch his gaze. Despite it being evident that his attention is elsewhere, she continues. “Okay, talent runs in the family would be a nice second option.”

It takes Jack a second to understand what she just said. And that does make him turn his head to look at her. “What family?”

“She didn’t tell you? I saw you two talking, so I assumed you knew.”

Walsh stares back at him, one of her brows raised, like she is waiting for a punch line. But Jack’s face is a canvas of indeniable confusion. Slowly, a smile tugs at her lips, a little bit amused — and very satisfied that she’s the one to tell him:

“She’s my half-sister.”

He lets her words sink in. And then it hits him — the familiarity he noticed came from you and Emery having the same eyes. The same eye shape and, most importantly, the same gaze — direct, intense and unapologetic. That made him feel like he owed you an apology, but he is yet to figure out what for.

“Wow, Jack Abbot rendered speechless, that’s a new one. What, did she leave that good of a first impression?” Emery chuckles.

That is one way to put it.

Jack is not sure how to tell her that you made him reevaluate the choices he was dead set on. The ones he kept making for months. But he can’t have this conversation with her now, here, when he’s in disarray and operating on barely five hours of sleep.

He manages a smirk. “Maybe talent does run in your family. Hard for me to tell when I’ve barely worked with you.”

“Memory loss is one of the symptoms of senility, you know,” she pats his arm with a mocking sympathy but with no offence. “I’ll make sure to make our every interaction memorable for you from now on.”

There’s a glint in her eyes, not threatening but invigorating, and that’s what Jack has always liked about her: even if their methods clash, even when they argue (which happens often), Emery never holds a grudge.

“Can’t wait for it, Dr. Walsh,” Jack grins.

She flips him off on her way to the elevator.

His phone vibrates.

Jack pulls it out of his pocket and looks down at the pop-up on the screen.

Levington:

You still up for next Friday? We’re placing bets, mine’s on some gang shit. Haven’t gotten one of those in a while, seems sus.

The same question starts flashing through his mind, like a red light at a crossroad. Should he keep doing this?

Hiro will still be in recovery, and he’s the only one Jack usually hangs out with. Except, no one takes on that job to hang out, and all the common reasons don’t resonate with Jack: he isn’t on it for the money, he doesn’t go out on calls to render justice, his morals have become quite flexible over the years. They’ve got enough time to find another medic for the task. And he really should find himself a better hobby.

So Abbot bites the bullet and types a short reply.

Sorry, something came up, I have to pass on this one. I’ll text Sarge.

He turns on silent mode and puts the phone away.

It comes to him way easier than he’d imagined. The harder task will be to not give in when he’s alone in his apartment, when he’s got day-offs and not too many friends to spend them with, when he’ll have to dissect his logic for his therapist.

The hardest will be trying to talk to you.

If not for giving an apology, then just to offer you an explanation. It feels important to let you know he isn’t who you think he is, to get a chance to make things right. To get a chance to be in your proximity for any reason, really.

Because deep down, he grows infatuated with that jarring contrast — your words harsh, but your fingers gentle.

Your voice cold, but your touch warming his whole body up.

And somehow, he craves both.

✧ soooo is this anything? would anyone want a part 2?

the idea behind the fic was to explore how a person’s views can change with time and/or under some dire circumstances. but also what it’s like to fall for someone who’s done things in the past you don’t agree with. I think it would be interesting to find out why Abbot joined the army and how it affected him, but also why he decided to help the SWAT team. because I have a sneaking suspicion that the show will not answer any of these questions... aaanyways, I didn’t want to write a super long oneshot, I think it’d work best as a three-parter, so this is the first one. sorry there’s no smut, I know that’s what everyone cares about these days. I spent almost a week debating if I should even post this fic. but it’s been on my mind for a while, and I just want to move on lol but thank you to the few people who will read this <3 (also, to clarify — yes, reader does have her reasons to hate cops. but the statistics I mentioned are very much real).

✧ dividers by @/pixopix and @/cafekitsune; ⏩ PREV FIC / ⏩ MASTERLIST ✧ English isn’t my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any mistakes. reblogs and comments are very appreciated!

[lauraneedstochill]

CURRENT WIPs / updated: 21.06.2026 / 🆕 — recent fics / 🔞 — smut / 🔪 — angst

🆕 BITE THE BULLET (Jack Abbot x surgeon!reader) / 7K when Jack arrives in the ER in his SWAT uniform, he is surprised to see a new surgeon. and right away, he takes a liking to your brazen tone and notices your skills. he finds you intriguing. except, you hate everything about his hobby, and you aren’t afraid to let him know.

🆕 TALK YOU THROUGH IT (Jack Abbot x surgical resident!reader) / 13K 🔞 your work’s been leaving you exhausted, but you’re struggling to fall asleep, you barely can relax. Javadi recommends you an audio erotica app. and it does help you unwind. until you realize that the orgasmic raspy voice in your headphones belongs to one of your attendings — none other than Jack Abbot.

STAINED WITH YOU (Jack Abbot x ex!reader) / 20K 🔪🔞 you and Jack broke up a year ago — it was so painful, you barely recovered. when you meet again at the Pitt Fundraiser, you’re dead set on keeping your distance. he is dead set on getting you back. (or, alternatively: Jack on his knees. that’s it.)

FLAMES ON YOUR TONGUE (Jack Abbot x resident(singer)!reader) / 5K Jack is not a man who picks up bad habits, yet you are so easy to get addicted to. (reader has tattoos and nipple piercings) ˋ°•*⁀➷❥જ⁀➴♥︎˚ MAD ABOUT YOU (Jack Abbot x lawyer!reader, miniseries) it was supposed to be a one-night stand, but Jack can’t stop thinking about you. what he expects the least is for you to arrive at his ER — and not as a patient. (alternatively: Jack meets the right person at the right time. and he lets love in) • mad about you / 17K 🔞 • unleashed / 12K 🔞 • love-filled (WIP) 🔞🔪 • part 4

⭒˚‧︵‿.·:*¨¨*:·.୭˚.੭ SAFE HAVEN (Jack Abbot x senior resident!reader, miniseries — ON HIATUS) he is puzzled with you first, then vexed, and he can’t understand his feelings. in an attempt to get to know you better, Abbot accidentally crosses the line. (alternatively: what if Jack met someone similar to him in many ways. traumatic past included) • can’t pretend / 7K 🔪 • silence my storm / 9K 🔪 • part 3

💬················∘ ficlets: • Jack has a competence kink (but only when it comes to you).

🎬 MY GIFS ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ♡ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── 💌 FIC RECS

✧ I don’t take requests because my inspiration is a bitch that comes and goes as she pleases, and my perfectionism won’t leave. so it may take me a while to finish a fic, and I’d hate to leave anyone waiting. BUT I’d love to chat! two things to know about me: I am a yapper and I have opinions. slide into my inbox any time.

✧ English isn’t my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any mistakes. reblogs & comments are appreciated! tell me if you want to be tagged ♡

[sammy-bryant]

SHAWN HATOSY The Tonight Show

[cuti3-81]

bye i cant breathe oh my goodness we finally got the full pics

[lauraneedstochill]

talk you through it

pairing: Jack Abbot x surgical resident!reader summary: your work’s been leaving you exhausted, but you’re struggling to fall asleep, you barely can relax. Javadi recommends you an audio erotica app. and it does help you unwind. until you realize that the orgasmic raspy voice in your headphones belongs to one of your attendings — none other than Jack Abbot.

warnings: implied age gap (that you can ignore); mutual pining, Jack isn’t that good at flirting when he catches feelings. he compensates for it with his other talents 😏 smut {dirty talk, masturbation, praise kink, teasing, fingering (with two hands, idk if that’s a thing?), piv, aftercare}; Park is an unintentional wingman, Javadi is the bestest of friends / words: 13K / author’s note: this was suuuper unplanned, I wrote the whole thing in a couple of days. is the smut too detailed? maybe. idc ♡ READ ON AO3 / MASTERLIST

Late in the evening, the cafeteria makes for a perfect place for naps.

With day and night shifts overlapping, everyone’s busy with the paperwork and greetings, and that’s when you prefer to slip away. You aren’t alone at this uncommon hiding spot — Santos already dozed off at a table further off, earbuds in, hood up. She can sleep anywhere and anytime. But you aren’t that lucky.

You spent ten minutes genuinely trying — deep breaths, and meditation, and counting sheep. Now you’re just sulking, helpless against your permanent exhaustion. You catch the footsteps first — quick, quiet, a woman on a mission. The door creaks just a little when it opens.

Closes.

You know the quiet won’t last long.

“I can feel you staring. You’d suck as a spy,” you say, grudgingly opening one eye to see Javadi leaning on the fridge door.

She shakes her head — half disapproval, half concern. “You know, each time I see you here, I’m not sure if you’re asleep or dead.”

“And they let you talk to suicidal people like that? Maybe I plan on walking out of the nearest window.”

“You won’t make it that far,” she chuckles and hands it to you — her peace offering: a frozen Butter Pecan Swirl, topped with whipped cream and sprinkled with crushed nuts. It’s like an orgasm in a cup (a huge one), which you are happy to accept.

Javadi sits right next to you, concern still very present in her deer-like dark eyes. “I think even the patients on a psych hold look better than you do.”

“Wow, that comparison really cheered me up. You should be thankful, by the way,” you’re savouring the icy, jarringly sweet drink. “If I didn’t look like death, you’d still be dreaming about getting into surgical residency. My eyebags changed the course of your life. You’re welcome.”

“I am forever in your debt. I’ll pay it off with coffee,” she smiles and leans back on the wall, stretching her legs out — black scrubs pants, grey sneakers, a sigh of relief.

And you think — suddenly and stupidly, because that’s how your brain’s now wired — of that one time Jack brought you the same drink. Sat with you on this same spot. Looked at you with his eyes crinkled at the corners, his usual smirk turned into a softer smile. You don’t even remember what he talked about, but the feeling stayed: of just how calm his presence made you. How comforting it was.

For a good minute, your coffee loses taste.

You blink. Take another sip. Look up — and see him walking through the door. And then it feels like you’re losing it in general. You pinch yourself. He doesn’t disappear.

“Long time no see,” Jack says, very much real. Casual. He goes to look for something in the fridge, a crumb of time for you to get yourself together. Then he looks back at you. “Tough shift?”

Tough week. Or month. Actually, life’s been pretty tough since you stopped working by his side. But you remind yourself that it was your decision.

“Bearable,” you say, pretending to take interest in the thick swirls of syrup on the inside of your cup. Hoping he’d take a hint. And yet, despite him being good at many things, Jack is perpetually bad at leaving you alone.

You left him first. You thought he’d hate you.

Instead, you hear his voice tinged with warmth:

“Didn’t you just patch up the guy with a ruptured aorta? That was badass.”

His compliment feels like a glass of water, and you’ve been parched with thirst.

“Yeah,” you meet his gaze, because you’ve missed him terribly. He’s looking at you like he hoped you would. And you can’t help the smile. “I guess it was.”

He doesn’t stop there. He comes a step closer, crossing his arms over his chest — unreasonably, sinfully buff arms — and stares straight at you:

“Remind me where’d you learned that clamping trick?”

He’s being smug now, and you have missed this too. Slowly, the room is narrowing to the small space he takes. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I might have more tricks up my sleeve. Can teach you somethin' else.”

He holds your gaze. Pins you to the spot with his. And just as always, he makes you feel like no one in the world exists except you two —

But you aren’t really alone.

You catch movement out of the corner of your eye. No doubt, it’s Javadi wishing she could blend in with the wall. And when you snap back to reality, Jack follows.

He clears his throat, taking a step back. “Teach you in the ER, I mean. If you want to or—or if you ever decide to come back, you know. But no pressure or anything.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Dr. Abbot,” you tell him, in the politest tone that you can master. Already grieving that small moment you knew could never last.

Javadi can barely wait for him to leave — before her face breaks into a smile. “Aw, he has a crush on you.”

“Which you have told me a dozen times, and I’ll continue to reply that no, he doesn’t,” although your own face treacherously heats up.

“He flirted with you just now.”

“He flirts with everyone. He’s like an energy vampire, that’s why he doesn’t look his age.”

Trinity groans somewhere behind you. She takes her earbuds out and sits up, stretching her shoulders. “To be fair, his flirting isn’t that impressive.”

“I think half of the ER would disagree,” Javadi eagerly retorts. If there’s one thing these two don’t ever get tired of, it’s bickering.

“Oh no, he is charming. With everyone but her,” Trinity turns to you with a shit-eating grin. “With you, he’s awkward. Which, don’t get me wrong, is hilarious to witness. But Crash does have a point — he’s totally into you.”

“Did you two just agree on something? I must be hallucinating.”

Javadi rolls her eyes. Santos just huffs a laugh. She grabs her backpack, smartphone and an already opened silvery-blue can.

“He’s also been very moody since you moved to the upper floor. Just saying,” she winks at you and walks out, loudly gulping her Red Bull.

Your mood hasn’t been good either. It gets a little worse once you realise you reached the bottom of your frothy drink. And somehow, your second wind didn’t kick in.

“Can you develop a high tolerance to coffee? I feel like I should be way more awake. This cup is literally the size of a newborn.”

“Babe, you know there’s barely any coffee in it,” Javadi says, no judgment, just a little bit of pity. “You just crave sugar because your body needs some fuel to continue functioning.”

“But what if coffee isn’t working anymore... What’s the next best option? Cocaine?”

“You can’t afford cocaine.”

“I’ll sell a kidney.”

“Can’t do that either, you need them both.”

“I didn’t say I would sell mine.”

The laugh she gives you sounds half-hearted. Her face looks serious when she notes. “I know that humour is your defensive mechanism, but sometimes it’s okay to actually talk about what’s bothering you.”

“I’m very bothered by the amount of unsolicited therapy you keep bringing into our friendship,” you quip. And your regret is instant. “Sorry, I genuinely don’t remember the last time I slept for more than five hours.”

“Has Park been riding you too much? You know you are allowed to take breaks, even if he doesn’t think so.”

“No, it’s not that I don’t have free time, I just— I can’t fall asleep. I drag my feet and doze off ten times a day, but the second my head hits the pillow — nothing. My body is not... bodying or whatever the fuck it’s called.”

And then you watch her worry bleed into a different expression. She looks at you, a little coy, a little bit excited.

“I might have an idea. But I need you not to laugh at me.”

“Vic, I am physically closer to a zombie than to a human being. If there’s any way to help me fall asleep faster, I’ll try it.”

“Okay, there’s this app... With a collection of audios. Recorded by men and women, you can pick. They sort of play out different imaginary scenarios, like meeting you for the first time and getting to know each other. And maybe, like, kissing or —”

“Just to clarify, you recommend that I listen to some porn?” you’re trying to drag out some of the whipped cream with a straw.

“It’s not porn!” she hisses, adorably ashamed. “I mean, not always. They aren’t all explicit. The ones I’ve listened to, they were... Really immersive. And it just feels nice. Helps to take your mind off things. I don’t know, I kinda thought you’d be into it.”

“Masturbation? I feel like I should be offended.”

“No, the whole... Talking thing.”

With your mouth full, you raise a brow at her, somewhat confused.

“I mean, isn’t that why you liked working with Abbot? He was explaining everything to you, always talked you through the procedures and stuff. And now you are super annoyed because Park barely speaks. Just glares at people.”

“I assure you, I’m not at all annoyed that my attending does not turn me on.”

Javadi giggles, leaning toward you. “So what you’re saying is that... Abbot turned you on?”

“You know what, now I actually want to kill myself.”

“No, you still have an hour of your shift left. And then,” she rubs your arm with small, comforting circles, back to her serious self. “You will come home, take a scalding shower, just as you like it, pop in a couple of melatonin gummies, and get some sleep.”

“Those gummies don’t do shit. I ate four last time and then stared at the ceiling for two hours.”

She playfully nudges your shoulder with hers. “Well, there’s always another option,” Javadi laughs at your grimace and gets up. “I need to go back to other unstable people. Text me when you get home. I’m serious.”

“Will do, mom.”

She flips you off on her way out.

Whatever little caffeine’s been in your drink, it helps you look less dead and more like a person who can be trusted with a scalpel. The OR floor is quiet and cool, and from afar, Park can be mistaken for a statue: a tall body made of sharp lines and muscles, staying completely still as he looks through a patient’s file.

He waits for you to reach the nursing station. Gives you one quick look, his eyes deep blue, cold like ice.

“Got enough coffee to keep you standing? Don’t want to scrape you off the floor.”

You give him a dry chuckle. “When have you ever scraped me off the floor?”

One corner of his mouth moves up, merely an inch. “Fair,” he says, his gaze back to the tablet. “I’d like for it to stay that way.”

“So who’s the last one for today? Anything exciting?”

“Male, 63, a proximal humerus fracture. It’s all in his file. I’ll see you in ten.”

Big fucking thanks for the detailed reply.

“They say that brevity is the soul of wit, but no one tells you it’s also such a mood killer,” you mutter, not bothering to keep your voice down.

Park makes a sound that’s more of a long hum than a real laugh. He throws the words over his shoulder: “I’ll let you do the CRPP.”

“Thanks, I’m smiling on the inside.”

He never really smiles. Or says more than he needs to. And sometimes you’re thankful that he doesn’t: it unironically makes him almost the perfect mentor for you.

Unlike the previous one.

You may never admit it out loud, but you’ve come to enjoy working with Park. He’s harsh at times, yes, but he is also quick and talented and not that bad at teaching. The problem isn’t that he doesn’t talk much. You don’t mind doing your own research, and you’re actually okay with him being closed off.

The real problem is Jack Abbot. Who has been driving you insane.

At first, there were no signs of trouble.

You picked the night shift for your rotation because you’ve always been more of a night owl, and you enjoyed the challenge that comes with the variety of traumas. You two clicked from day one — Jack carried just the right amount of confidence to seem trustworthy, but his male ego didn’t get offended by someone else’s talent. He smiled at you and made small talk and always offered answers to your questions. He also smiled and talked to literally everybody else, so you didn’t think much of it. At least, you tried not to. You told yourself that you came to the ER to learn, that you wouldn’t allow your feelings to interrupt your job.

Even when said feelings turned into a crush. That felt like an addiction.

It started with you waiting. Wanting. More of his words, his gaze, his flattering attention. Jack always knew exactly how to land a compliment — his words were short, sure. Accompanied by that hint of a smile. He’d stand close, just on the edge of inappropriately close, his steady voice providing guidance. He’d push you when he knew that you could handle it. He’d tell you all the necessary steps and walk you through them and somehow make you feel like you succeeded on your own. “Yes, that’s the move.” “Look at you taking risks, kid.” “Good” —

— “girl”, you wanted Jack to add.

So good for him, you wanted him to think.

You wanted him. God knows, you wanted him so badly.

It didn’t help that Shen soon started calling you “Jack’s favorite”. Sometimes in front of Abbot, who hasn’t denied it once. Ellis discreetly (so she thought) tried leaving you alone with him more often. And even Crus once told you that you were the only resident Jack paid so much attention to.

It could’ve been a picture-perfect start of a love story, if only not for one crucial piece missing: Jack never crossed the line.

Even after you’ve caught his gaze lingering, his hands reaching for you, his warmth grazing your shoulder or your spine. On more than one occasion. And still, it led nowhere. There were no accidental touches, no flirting outside of the ER, he didn’t even try to get your number.

Inevitably, it made you feel self-conscious. Stupid. Pathetic even. What’s worse, his presence was distracting, and losing focus was the one thing you absolutely couldn’t do.

So you looked for a way out that’d let you save your dignity and your career. Switching to surgery helped you with both. Despite the fact that you had to restart your year. Despite seeing the very obviously hurt expression on Jack’s face when you informed him. He didn’t try to stop you, though. You didn’t tell him why exactly you were leaving. Instead, you dived right into work: from dealing with small fractures and arthritis to sports injuries, torn muscles, spinal disorders and crushed bones. It was in no way easy, but it felt empowering — knowing that you could fix something so strong and weighty, the living tissues made of minerals and collagen, the bony structure that allows people to move.

And on the rare occasions your paths crossed, Abbot kept being friendly. But you kept your distance.

Even if deep down, you still missed him.

His gaze, his guidance. Most of all, his voice.

It takes you two more days to finally give up and ask Javadi about the app.

Hey, so that app that’s totally not audio porn... Can you please give me the name. And then forget I asked.

Actually, forgetting might not be enough. Next time you come over, I’ll need you to swear on the Bible.

There’s no way you have a Bible at home.

Well, another option is a blood oath.

I’m this 🤏 close to admitting you into our psych ward.

Just say you miss me and want to see me more often. There’s no shame in it!

Please, get fucked (literally 😛).

You click the App Store link she sent, then press on the newly downloaded icon on the screen.

The layout is pretty simple — pale colors, normal-sized fonts, a short video guide. You don’t waste time and tap on the male voices' section to look through their audio titles. They aren’t at all exhilarating. A Trip to the G-spot (thanks, been there), Hold on to my nuts! (yikes), Your Daddy’s Home (double yikes), The Song of Praise and Cum (this calls for a lobotomy). You spend another minute on it, already battling frustration — and you’re about to log off, when finally a title catches your attention:

A Helping Hand.

“Okay, a little on the nose,” you mumble to yourself.

It is a series of recordings, about half an hour each. It seems that he is relatively new, but he’s got great reviews. His nickname is Nightcrawler. He has no profile photo. His bio says: “I guess, this is my new hobby.”

You’re positive that it won’t work on you.

You take a shower, put on your pajamas and your noise-cancelling headphones. You sit in bed, your back against the pillows. With zero expectations (except maybe to find it all ridiculous and cringe).

You press play.

At first, there’s just silence.

And then he starts, his voice unhurried like a rustle of the wind:

“Hi, baby. You look so tired,” he murmurs. “You’ve had a hard day, I can tell.”

You pause immediately. But not because you hate it. It startles you — how much you like him from the get-go, how just a sentence of this stranger’s voice made heat flash in your stomach.

You try to sit a little straighter. Then press play again.

“All that tension in your body, that slight soreness of your muscles... We really need to do something about it, honey. I can’t have you going to sleep so tense.”

Yeah, you don’t want that either.

His every quiet word strikes home: your limbs are heavy with exhaustion, your mind is clouded with it. You let out a breath you didn’t realize that you were holding. And you don’t think that him saying all that is a hell of a coincidence. Instead, it actually feels nice: for someone else to talk about your struggles. For it to sound like understanding.

“Don’t worry, I can fix that. You just lie down and listen to my voice.”

So you slide lower in your bed, the pillows now behind your head and shoulders. And when he asks to close your eyes, you do.

You follow every single one of his instructions. His raspy, gently voiced commands: he’s telling you to take deep breaths, to slowly stretch out your arms and legs, to draw small circles over your temples, to put your hands lower and massage your neck. He’s telling you he wishes he was there to help you. That he would know exactly where to rub and press. And that his fingers would’ve felt much better.

Then he’s instructing you to put hands on your chest, to run them up and down your body to get your blood flowing. You do just that. And soon you feel your skin prickle with warmth.

“Need you to relax, to shut off that beautiful brain of yours,” he says, with a controlled and hushed insistence. “Don’t think about anything. It’s just you and me, sweetheart.”

Your thoughts are light; there’s nothing on your mind but him. Your muscles pliantly unravel as he continues speaking. About how warm your skin must feel, how pretty you are looking — laid out for him on your bedcovers. And there’s another feeling that feeds off his voice: a spark of fire that grows and spreads and makes you ache for more.

You hear him telling you to move your hands down to your stomach. He says he wishes he could touch you there, to slowly drag his fingers down to your navel —

“Wish I could feel how wet you are right now.”

Your eyelids flutter open.

You probably should’ve predicted this turn of events. And truthfully, you aren’t as opposed to it as you thought you would be. You’re just not sure it will work. But when you slide your hand beneath the waistband of your panties —

you find the fabric in between your legs already soaked.

All that from someone talking to you nicely?

There must be something in his voice.

That same voice whispers:

“Touch yourself.”

Barely a second passes before you do.

This isn’t your first time, but somehow, it feels very different. More satisfying. Way more intimate. Pads of your fingers move against your clit, exactly how he tells you:

“want you to go slow for me, baby. rub it in circles, ju-ust like that,”

“apply more pressure with your index finger — feels good, yeah? c’mon, don’t stop,”

“now move a little lower, feel what a mess you’re making. I know you must be dripping”.

He’s right, you are. And then your eyes fall shut again, a whimper tumbling from your lips.

“I bet you’d feel so tight around my fingers,” he says hoarsely, making you clench around nothing.

If he was here, in your room, you’d shamelessly beg for more. A long-forgotten pleasure starts coiling in your stomach.

“Want you to put a finger in,” he orders. “Imagine that it’s mine.”

You start with one. Just one, and yet, it’s getting difficult to focus on his words. And fleetingly, with your chest heaving, you wonder what his fingers would feel like. As if he reads — or guesses — where your thoughts are wandering, he tells you, a smirk heard in his voice:

“But mine would be a lot thicker, so I need you to add another one,” — you slip the second finger in, and he lets out a hum, like he can see you, — “There you go. Don’t rush it, we’ve got time. I’d never rush it with you, honey.”

Despite you trying to move slowly, you’re getting dangerously close to cumming. You want to drag it out, you do, but he is making it too hard. When he is whispering to spread your legs wider. To set a rhythm, to start moving your hips a little. When he is telling you that you’re doing so good.

When he wants you to use your free hand to touch your nipples. When he says, teasingly, how much he wishes he could put his lips on you.

When you can hear him sigh, like all this also turns him on.

“Want you to go faster,” his words come out in low grunts. “Yes, keep going, don’t stop. Keep fucking yourself. Need to get you loosened up and ready for me. Fuck, your cunt would feel so perfect wrapped around my cock —”

Your orgasm crashes over you, sudden and shuddering.

You’re gasping, too loudly to hear what he is saying, your body floating in the waves of bliss. It takes a moment for you to catch your breath.

The audio ends abruptly on his own heavy breathing.

You are left stupefied and sweaty. And satisfied beyond description. Your headphones end up thrown across the bed, but you’re too tired to move an inch. It is a very pleasant kind of tired.

Before you know it, you are fast asleep.

What’s meant to be just a one-off soon turns into a habit. And you don’t really feel ashamed about it.

There is a certain thrill to it — having a secret you don’t want to share, the one thing you can’t wait to get home to. It does help you to take the edge off, yes: with just his words, he makes your tension melt away, makes all the worries disappear. Leaving you dazed and gasping at the thought of how good he’d fuck you.

But sometimes, as you come down from your high, your thighs wet and hands trembling, and he is soothing you back into consciousness — the stranger’s voice reminds you of Jack’s.

It can’t be him, of course.

You wish it was.

You also wish you could move on. Unstitch him from your memories that he’s been woven into, his face and arms and words seemingly always on your mind. They shouldn’t be, not when your feelings are so obviously one-sided.

So, since you’re able to wake up well-rested, you start to pile on more work.

You take your time to learn about non-invasive treatments: you get to know the PTMC’s physician and psychiatrist, you print out studies about injections and post-operative care, you spend your breaks leafing through the countless pages. You learn fast. You grab at every chance to practice. You ask to scrub in on some of Garcia’s cases, you’re lucky to assist Javadi’s mother a few times. And even though you feel that Park’s a little bit suspicious of your ardor, he asks no questions.

You don’t see Jack. He’s still on nights, and you are mostly up in the OR, and even when you do come down, you do your best to stay away. You hope that a tight schedule and your daily orgasms will be enough of a distraction. That at some point, your crush will quietly die down.

It’s no surprise that you’re working on the 4th.

And it’s predictably a shitshow: the waiting room is packed with patients, swamped with the summer heat, every new injury is worse — and way more gruesome — than the other. You deal with fractured, broken bones, you get to help with torn-off fingers, bashed-in skulls and penetrating wounds. You rush from one OR into the other. You barely get time to take a breath. And once you finally do, you get called down to the ER.

“Look who it is. Since when does surgery send its best residents to us poor mortals?” Robby puts on a smile to greet you.

“Garcia is still operating on Howard, Park’s dealing with your water slide case. I’m just happy to treat someone with intact bones for a change.”

“Can’t promise it will be a pretty sight.”

“Didn’t count on it.”

He cackles, his gloved hand pointing toward the sliding doors the gurneys come through. “Here’s the reason we called for a consult. Yours is the one with Old Glory jammed in his chest.”

And in the next second, your own chest tightens, anxiety bruising your ribcage like a seatbelt in a crash. Because the aforementioned patient is rolled in by Jack.

He doesn’t see you yet. You can’t help but notice — the tension roped around his back, the sheen of sweat around his forehead, faint sleepless shadows spilled under his eyes. Reflexively, you step out of the way so he can move down the hall without bumping into you. So you can stay unnoticed.

The injured man is in the middle of a screaming match with some guy whose cheek is slashed in half.

“I’m gonna take that thing out of my chest and shove it down your ass!”

“You hit me with a fucking Rolling Rock, man!”

“Because you are a cheater! And now my chest fucking hurts!”

“You’re the one who broke the rules! You know every detail must be —”

“Take yours into trauma 2 before I go deaf on one ear,” Abbot mumbles to Ellis, then tries to shush his patient. It isn’t working.

And you can tell that Jack is low on patience.

He grips the gurney with both hands and pushes it into the room, his voice coming out low and clipped:

“Sir, we are gonna get you more pain meds, but you need to shut your fucking mouth.”

It is a quick remark, maybe a little out of his character — too blunt, too rude; although acceptable under the current circumstances. And in the never-ending noise and busyness of the ER no one would ever waste their time on lecturing him. You aren’t even sure they heard.

But you freeze. As if a bomb just went off. The world around you is momentarily devoid of all the other sounds.

It isn’t the specific words, but the emotions you could hear behind them — intensity Jack usually reigns in, the punctuated heat of anger that slipped through his “shut” and “fucking”. You aren’t surprised he said those words. Or used that tone. Or lost his self-restraint for a few seconds.

You’re struck by the realization that you have heard him talk like that before.

“If his heart was damaged, he surely wouldn’t be yelling,” Robby comes up to you, eyeing the rowdy patient. “But the stabbing’s definitely within the cardiac box. What do you think?”

“Cardiac box it is. I’d bet on a pneumothorax,” you say, on some miraculous autopilot. But you aren’t looking at the patient.

Jack grabs the scissors to remove the man’s clothes, his hands working around the wooden stick he is impaled on; his gaze grazes you. On accident or maybe out of habit Jack hasn’t managed to unlearn. He turns to throw away the ruined, blood-stained fabric — then stops. And then his eyes come back to you, this time with purpose. He meets your gaze, his own confused a little, one of his brows crawling up. Because you’re staring at him, and he has no idea why.

It’s almost funny to imagine how you’d explain to him your stupor. Hey, Jack, is there a chance you like recording steamy audios? 'Cause I believe that I’ve been getting off to the sound of your voice.

But at the moment, you aren’t laughing.

You make an effort to drag your gaze away, your heartbeat loud in your ears. This can’t be happening. It cannot actually be him.

“Do an ultrasound to get a confirmation, I’ll go up to prep the OR,” you say to Robby flatly, eager to leave the room, to have a minute to yourself.

You take the stairwell, thoughts rushing as your feet are. And very quickly, your shock gives way to irritation. Surely, Jack is allowed to do whatever in his free time. But now that you suspect it’s him — his low voice that is so masterful at saying all those dirty things — you don’t think you’ll be able to relax. It would also be kinda inappropriate to continue listening to that.

But then you spend another seven hours on your feet. Three surgeries, two breaks (about ten minutes in total), a lot of blood and bones, a few of Park’s dry words. You miss the fireworks, the get-together with your former colleagues, the friendly chatter that maybe could’ve helped you to unwind. And by the time you cross the hall of your apartment, you find it hard to care about propriety.

You put the headphones on, fully aware that you’re about to hear Jack.

It doesn’t ruin things for you. It only turns you on instead.

Because it’s not some random guy — it’s Jack who puts you on all fours. Jack who tells you to put your fingers in your mouth. To suck them, to then take them deeper, to gag on them, just like he could’ve made you gag around his cock.

“Ass up for me, baby,” he instructs, his every word now carrying more weight — you cannot stop imagining him being here, whispering it all into your ear. “Bet your pussy is wet enough to take two fingers right away. C’mon, be a good girl. Show me.”

You never even think about reaching for your toys. You don’t need to: not when his voice alone makes waves of heat roll through your body, makes you pulsate with want, moan with longing.

“Want you to think of my cock slowly stretching you,” Jack rasps, “Because it’s all I think about,” and you’re imagining his chest pressed to your back, the sounds he would make while thrusting deep, deeper, relentless movement of his hips, his lips grazing your neck, “I know you’ll take my cock so well. Like it was made for fucking you.”

His big hands roaming over your body. His hot breath on your skin. Him, him, it has always been him.

“I’d make you feel so good. Until you drip all over my cock. Until you’re sobbing for me to fill you up,” he whispers heatedly. “I will. Just so I can fuck my cum back into you when we go for round two. I know my girl is always greedy for more.”

And he is right, you would be.

“Like you were made for it. For me.”

You cum as hard as always, breathless and shaking. And this time, with his name helplessly gasped against your pillow. A few long seconds after that, in your sweet postorgasmic haze, you get a very clear thought: you still want Jack, now more than ever.

And you two really need to talk.

You press Call before you can come up with yet another argument for why this is a bad idea. She picks up in four seconds, but you don’t let her say a word.

“Hey, so do remember when you guys went out last time, and I couldn’t go because of that leg amputation thing, and you told me you ended up in some new bar, with those big plants or whatever, and Abbot was there too?”

“Wow, are you already on cocaine?” Javadi laughs.

“No, I just had a good night of sleep, so please keep up. You’re coming to the same bar this Friday, right?”

“Yep, that’s the plan. You decided to join us?”

“I’m thinking about it. But I’m gonna be at least an hour late, cause I’d have to get home to change and then —”

“Or you can just come right after work. The place isn’t that fancy. You can do casual.”

“I don’t want casual. I wear jeans 360 days a year, it’d be nice to actually feel pretty for once.”

“Oh, cut the crap, I know you’d look great in anything!”

“That’s very kind of you to say, but I’m not calling to discuss my wardrobe. I was wondering if you can... If by any chance Jack shows up again —”

“O-ooh.”

“No, don’t oh at me. You don’t even know what I’m about to ask.”

“If Abbot shows up, I’m gonna tell him that you are coming too, so he’ll stay and wait for you.”

“Okay, you can add mind-reading to your resume, you witch.”

“You’re both kinda predictable,” Javadi notes with a chuckle. “When he came last time, he left immediately after he found out you weren’t there.”

“Or he just remembered he left the stove on and didn’t want his flat to burn down. It’s not like he explicitly told you why he was leaving.”

“He didn’t need to,” she argues. “He came in, went straight to the bar where we were hanging out, ordered a beer and managed the small talk for barely a minute before he flat-out asked if you were there. Looked like a kicked puppy when I told him you didn’t come. Wished us a good night and took off, didn’t even take his beer.”

That does sound like he came to see you. You find it cute. But only for a moment — until you get a stinging thought: if he wanted to see you outside of work, why has he never asked you out?

“I’ll text you when I’m done,” you say, trying to sound unconcerned, unruffled by the possibility of your months-long feelings being reciprocated. “The spinal fusion should take about three hours.”

“Ugh, it sounds so cool when you say it, but then I remember what that process actually is like.”

“It is pretty cool.”

“And I am very glad you think that,” she’s quick to reassure. “Go fuse some vertebrae, so we’ll have something to drink to!”

The surgery takes four hours.

It is a slow, meticulous procedure accompanied by Park’s curt advice and your own strategic guesses — and usually, something like that would leave you drained. Hardly in the mood for socializing. But this evening, you step out of the OR with a wide grin.

“Good call about rotating the metal plates,” Park says, his voice emotionless. Like he’s not sure himself that it’s a compliment.

Still, you take it.

“Thank you, I did some reading beforehand,” you tell him, throwing away your dirty gloves and gown. “Should help with healing, too. But knock on wood, we’ll see what his post-op scans show.”

And you’re already doing some non-work-related calculations in your head. 10 minutes on filling out the patient’s file, 10 more for ordering a cab and waiting for it, then if you’re lucky, you’ll be home in 20 —

“Abbot was right about you.”

That makes you stop. Makes an uncomfortable feeling settle in your stomach. You haven’t seen Brendon and Jack talk once. And you cannot imagine them talking about you.

You turn to Park, not smiling anymore:

“Care to explain?”

“He wrote you a recommendation letter. Didn’t he tell you?” he casually clarifies. “Not that I asked for it. But he delivered it himself, four pages in Times New Roman,” the straight line of his mouth curves a little. Almost a smirk, but not unkind. And he does seem sincere when he adds, “Abbot was right, you are great. Glad to have you on our team.”

“Hold on. I just want to get a few facts straight,” and your tone is astonishingly calm, despite it feeling like your blood is simmering. “So he came to you. With a printed-out letter. And then what, you guys talked?”

“Yes. About the letter.”

“About me, you mean.”

“The letter was about your competence and skills. What else was there to discuss,” he deadpans. “Is this interrogation over?”

“Oh, come on, that was only two questions. Don’t act like I am waterboarding you,” you huff, hands on your hips.

Park breathes out through his nose, then shakes his head. You’re half expecting him to grouse about it some more. But he does what you expect the least.

“He talks about you, you talk about him,” Park muses coolly. “You guys just need to fuck it out.”

He shoves his own gown in the trash, turns on his heels and leaves.

And under other circumstances, you would’ve been so glad to hear it. Jack talked about you! Jack seems to care!

Except, he had a perfect chance to actually show you that. But on your final day in the ER, he barely said a word. It stayed stuck in your memory, the last nail in the coffin where your hopes were buried: Jack’s weird avoidance, no jokes, no flirting, none of his usual penchant for eye contact. He spent the whole shift painfully indifferent to your departure. Only once you started saying your goodbyes, he came by to wish you luck. To say that he was sure you’d do great. Two sentences was all he managed.

And yet, he had no trouble talking about you with Park?!

You’d really like to get a fucking explanation.

You don’t go home to change. You come straight to the noisy bar, in your plain jeans and baggy shirt. And wrapped up in anger. You scan the crowd for familiar faces and spot Victoria from afar: some tipsy guy is cornering her, wildly gesticulating with his hands. She doesn’t really seem scared, mostly annoyed. But you are in no mood for being civil.

You unceremoniously walk up to them and grab the stranger by the shoulder to pull him back.

“Her face clearly suggests she’s not interested. Get lost.”

“Hello to you too,” he whistles, leering at you. “You wanna be our third, babygirl? I’m always down for... some new experiences.”

“I can help you with that. You ever heard about a comminuted fracture? It’s when a bone is broken in two or more places. Which you are about to experience if you don’t leave in 10 seconds.”

“You’re into human anatomy? That’s hot,” the man grins drunkenly, but his flirting sounds less sure.

“I’m an orthopedic surgeon. There are 3 long bones in your arm, 27 in your hand. Which one would hurt more when broken, how do you think? You’ve got seven seconds. Six —”

“Geez, fucking chill, girl,” he mutters and steps back to hastily retreat.

Javadi snorts a laugh. “Thank you, he was so annoying, I just didn’t want to make a scene. You’d think the "Let’s go, lesbians!" t-shirt would help him get a hint but —” and then she takes you in — your searching gaze and furrowed brows and pursed lips. “What’s wrong?”

“Where’s Abbot?”

“It depends. Am I gonna be an accomplice to murder if I tell you?”

“You may be a witness.”

“I don’t think that’s any better,” but luckily, she knows you well enough to figure out that there’s no point in questions. Javadi holds both hands up in surrender. “Okay-okay, last time I saw him, he was at the bar.”

You go for it, barrelling through the crowd like an icebreaker through the frozen water. You notice Trinity, Dennis, Mel, Frank and Jesse nearby. You only have eyes for one man in particular. But at the long table where the drinks are being poured and paid for, there is no sign of Jack. You stop and wait; one minute, two, three pass by. And just as quickly, your determination crumbles.

You wanted him to tell you that he needed you to stay, all these days back, in person. You wanted him to wait for you today. Both times, he didn’t.

It makes you feel self-conscious again. Stupid. Even more pathetic.

You turn around, suddenly too overwhelmed by your own feelings.

The music is too loud now, the smell of alcohol mixing with sweat and perfume, and making your head hurt. You faintly hear someone call out your name, but you don’t stop, too desperate to get back to the exit. Too tired of waiting for the one thing that clearly isn’t meant to be.

The street is quiet, and the air is cold; it doesn’t help to cool you down. You’re walking a thin line between infuriated and upset. It gnaws away at you — that you spent so much time delusionally sure that Jack felt something for you. Cared for you. You think about his watchful gaze on you, the tension hung between you two, his hands he kept a little bit too close, his words that guided you through surgeries and orgasms, his goddamn voice —

You are so deep in your frustrations, you miss the sound of the door opening, the footsteps rushing toward you.

“Hey,” he says it carefully, and yet, you flinch. You turn around to find Jack standing at arm’s length already. Black jeans, grey t-shirt and black denim jacket; he looks unfairly handsome. He also looks concerned. “Is everything alright? The way you left got me worried.”

“Yeah, everything’s just peachy.”

But Jack ignores your sarcasm — or rather looks right past it, reading the very clear displeasure on your face. “Is it Park? Did something happen?”

And his concern doesn’t sound feigned.

It all comes to your mind at once — the unsaid words, unresolved tension, the longing gazes thrown at each other, the shamefully short distance your bodies never crossed. It roars your emotions to a boil.

“Why does everyone assume— You know what? Park is actually perfect,” you snap at him. “He barely speaks to me in the OR, he hates small talk, he is allergic to long sentences and, I suspect, to any sign of real human emotion. So I just clock in every shift to spend 15 hours trying to help people with very little to no guidance. And turns out, I still rock! Even when my mentor is as emotionally evolved as a toothpick!”

“Ok-kay,” Jack draws, “I’m not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing?”

“It’s freaking amazing. Especially compared to the alternative,” and then you step to him, your palms angrily pushing against his chest. “Because you made me feel like I couldn’t breathe!”

Your hands don’t hurt him. But your words do. His eyes go wide, he’s speechless for a moment. Then slowly, very quietly, Jack says:

“Wait, what?”

“You wrote me a recommendation letter, but you couldn’t say a word when I was leaving? After the months we worked together, all you could manage was good luck? The hell is wrong with you?!” and his shell-shocked expression only spurs you on. “You act all nicely, you’re glued to me in the ER, with your advice and your attention and your— your smirking! And what’s with the intense eye contact? How was I supposed to work with you looking at me like that? You know how hard it was for me to focus?! It’s not like I was holding scalpels half of the time!” you huff angrily.

Still, he isn’t moving.

“Sure, it didn’t mean anything to you, you don’t like me like that. And I love surgery, I’m glad I transferred, I wouldn’t want to waste my time on someone who is emotionally mute. But then I find out — oh, you’re actually very talkative! And it’s not like I wanted to find out, I just needed something to help me unwind, anything, because it’s been so damn exhausting — not just the job, but also you and your mood swings and your stupid voice and—” you cross your arms over your chest and add, with an unbridled boldness, “And honestly? After everything, I should be the one you lend a helping hand to.”

The dim streetlights can offer some discreteness — but not enough to cover the flush of color that spreads over Jack’s cheeks. You don’t back off — instead, you take your phone out and click the app’s icon to show it to him on the screen. His gaze flicks down to it. Then back to your face.

You stare at each other.

And then you think: he is about to tell you you’re an idiot. A sleep-deprived one, because it wasn’t really his voice. He has no clue what you just talked about, he obviously isn’t on any apps nor is he —

Jack breathes out a laugh.

He clasps his hands behind his back, the muscles of his chest pulling his t-shirt tight. His gaze is locked on yours. Then it falls lower — to your lips, then your neck, your chest and stomach, leaving a hot trail down your body.

“It got that bad, huh?” a corner of his mouth twitches up. Not condescending but amused. And then his voice drops — to that exact honeyed murmur that dragged so many orgasms out of you. “F’course, I can help you out. Should’ve asked me sooner, sweetheart.”

The sound knocks the anger out of you. The air, too.

You knew he sounded good on audio, when his words reached you through the headphones, when he so charitably helped you reach your high.

But in reality, he’s lethal.

When this same voice is paired with his gaze, with the intensity and confidence that you’re disarmed by. Entranced by. When Jack comes closer, you stay frozen.

“Mine or yours?” he asks calmly.

“W-what?”

“My place or yours?”

You catch small specks of golden light lost in his hazel eyes. You blink twice to stop staring. “Mine is about 40 minutes away.”

Emotion flashes across his face — surprise that’s borderline on worry. He lets it slide. He takes your hand in his, firmly, putting his fingers between yours.

“I live much closer. My car is parked around the corner,” Jack notes and leads the way, carefully pulling you along.

You let him.

You know it’s impolite to gawk, but you can’t help it — you’re pretty sure his hallway alone can fit half of your flat. It is a spacious, very minimalistic place: tall walls, a lot of lights and very little furniture. You guess that he hand-picked each piece — from wooden shelves and cupboards to small colourful pouffes. You also don’t think he spends too much time in here.

“So how many roommates do you have?” you ask cautiously as you get out of your shoes.

“None,” Jack chuckles. “It’s my apartment.”

“You live here by yourself? This place could fit a football team,” your own chuckle is nervous. As is your involuntary blabbing. “I’m serious, 11 full-grown men could stay here, and half of them won’t even see each other. Is there a bowling alley somewhere? A golf course? Ten jacuzzis? —”

He wraps his arm around your waist, pressing your back into his chest. Solid and warm, and rendering you silent.

“How about I do the talking,” his breath scatters against the side of your neck. Both of his hands find your hips, and very slowly, he turns you to face him. His eyes look a shade darker when he says, “I’ll walk you to the bedroom.”

And then his mouth is on yours.

There is no build-up and no hesitation — he kisses you so hungrily and deeply, like he’s been starving this whole time. Just like you were. Your shuddering breath turns into a moan. His lips move seamlessly, matching his insatiability to yours, in a deliberately slow pace that leaves you dizzy, heated, panting. Your memory is wiped clean of every other man you’ve kissed before him.

You can only crave more.

Jack starts walking without breaking the kiss. He gently pushes you forward, his hands maneuvering your body around the furniture and into doorways — you’re blindly following his lead. Until he stops you.

He tsks against your lips. “Careful, you almost ran into a wall.”

“Well, it’s not like I can really see —”

Jack silences your protests with another kiss, one of his palms laid flat over your spine to steady you. Not once do you take a peek at your surroundings, entirely too focused on the movement of his mouth, and with his every touch, your heart grows louder.

All of a sudden, your legs bump into something — and in a second, your back hits layers of bedcovers, the fabric silky to the touch. You exhale shakily, taking a couple of seconds to collect yourself. The task proved to be impossible under his heavy stare.

The room is dim, drowned in the colors of the sunset that sinks in through the big uncovered windows. He took the jacket off somewhere along the way, and you watch as the coppery light sneaks into his curls, contours the lines of veins and muscles of his arms, his body standing right next to the bed, legs almost touching yours.

You guess that he is stalling in case you want to stop.

“Aren’t you gonna tell me what to do?” you want your words to sound like a challenge — instead, they come out as a plea.

You don’t mind. There’s nothing on your mind but him.

Jack gives you just a ghost of a smile, a low hum coming from deep in his chest.

“Ask me nicely,” he says, in that gravelly voice that makes desire spark up in your bloodstream.

And he already knows that he won’t meet resistance — Jack leans over the bed, palms firmly gliding up your thighs until he finds the zipper of your jeans. He takes the slider between two fingers but doesn’t pull it down. And you’re glad that you aren’t standing, because the way he’s staring at you makes your whole body weak, your bones and muscles turning liquid.

“Please, I’ll do anything,” you whisper.

You do not need to ask him twice.

Jack yanks the slider down and pulls your jeans — down to your knees, then fully off. He parts your thighs with his leg, his gaze drawn to your panties, to where the fabric is already dampened with your arousal. You watch him slowly wet his lips, your body shivering in anticipation of his touch. And then he’s climbing on the bed, his body propped up on his arms, his weight between your thighs. He doesn’t hover over you — because he’s equally impatient: instead, he leans down to eagerly capture your mouth with his.

His lips trap you in place — while his hands undress you: his fingers are unbuttoning your shirt to take it off, then sliding beneath your cotton tanktop, dragging it up over your ribcage —

then Jack sucks in a breath.

His words are muffled, his lips brushing yours:

“No bra?”

“I don’t— don’t like the feeling of it,” you explain bashfully.

That earns you a pleased smirk. He actually pulls back to take a look, to hastily pull your last piece of clothing off. Then Jack ducks his head.

“And how’d you like this?” he asks before catching your nipple into his mouth.

You cry out at the sensation, and Jack uses one hand to pin you to the bed. He pulls more sounds out of you, swirling his tongue around your nipples, biting and sucking at them, his hunger mixed with admiration. Your heartbeat’s pounding in your ears, the pleasure surging through you like a heat wave —

But unexpectedly, Jack pulls away.

He reaches out to click the lamp on the nightstand. The light is faint, warm, draping your shadows over the silk. Jack lies down on his side, keeping his face close to yours.

“Show me how you do it.”

“You— Um. You want me to show you how—”

“Touch yourself for me,” he orders.

Blood rushes to your cheeks. But you comply, too eager for his praise. For all of his recorded promises to finally come true.

Jack watches raptly as your hand moves lower, slowly, just like he taught you the first time — until your fingers dip under the fabric of your underwear. You bite your lower lip, stifling a whimper, feeling the arousal leaking out of you. You spread your legs wider, the thin cotton not leaving much to the imagination as you start toying with your clit.

Jack swallows noisily, his breath uneven. But his voice stays measured. “I want these off. Need to see you, baby.”

You hook your thumbs under your panties and tug them off, a bit too hastily, but Jack makes no attempts to slow you down. Although unvoiced, his own desire is so palpable, it sets your nerves on fire. And when the cool air grazes your wetness, you can’t help but moan.

You do not wait for his command — you spread your legs further apart, your fingers drawn to rub your aching clit. You feel Jack’s cheek pressed to your shoulder, his gaze glued to your hand.

“So what’s the preference? Do you like circling it or just the up-and-down motion?” he muses with a grin. “I see, I have some room for improvisation,” and then his breath skates up your throat, the words mouthed against your pulse point, “You’re doing so good for me. You can pick up the pace.”

You do immediately, your movements quick and frantic, and Jack’s not keeping his hands to himself. He cups your breast, pinching your nipple into a peak, rolling it expertly between his fingers, his lips wrapped tightly around the other one. Your back is arching into his touch, heat pooling in your lower belly, your fingers gliding faster up and down your slit — and then one slips inside.

Jack pulls his mouth off with a pop. “Would you look at that,” his voice is low, teasing, “Your pussy’s drooling all over the bed.” And then he smiles, hungrily baring his teeth, grazing your collarbone with them as his palm lies flat on the inside of your thigh. “Go ahead, make yourself cum.”

He is still clothed, and the material of his t-shirt rubs constantly against your naked skin as he continues his arousing, agonizing torture. You feel him everywhere — Jack’s warm breath on your neck, your cheek, his mouth placing kisses along your jaw. His hands are steadying your body as your two fingers plunge into your cunt, as you’re so diligently coaxing yourself into an orgasm. But something’s missing.

“What’s wrong? Your fingers aren’t enough?” Jack taunts. “Does my girl want me to help her?”

You nod desperately, rocking your hips into your hand, trying to get some extra friction, trying and failing to reach that sweet high on your own. He easily catches your wrist, forcing you to halt all movement, your moans reduced to needy cries.

“Tell me what you want,” Jack whispers, lips to your ear.

“I w-want your fingers. Need your fingers inside me, please —”

But just as you’re about to pull your hand away, he covers it with his.

His wide palm firmly cups your mound, pushing your fingers back into your clenching hole. Jack drags his index and middle fingers through your folds, collecting your creamy arousal. And then he eases his slicked digits into you.

He watches as your lips part in a silent moan, your thighs twitching involuntarily as you’re adjusting to the fullness. With two of your fingers already in, it is a very tight fit.

“Relax for me. I know you can take all four,” Jack coos, although his voice gets a bit strained as he feels your walls clamp down around him.

Your hand stays limp, so he pulls his thick fingers out — then ramms them back in, knuckles-deep. A choked cry leaves your mouth; but you don’t try to crawl away from the intrusion. He puts your fingers between his and starts moving them all together, unhurriedly, carefully stretching your wet cunt, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit, your juices trickling down on the bedcovers.

Before you even realize you’re doing it, you push your hips back against his palm.

“Yes, just like that,” Jack murmurs. “Feels good, doesn’t it? About to get even better.”

This time, only his hand is moving while he’s staying still, drinking you up — your body quivering, skin bathed in a sheen of perspiration, your pussy slurping around the unrelenting fingers. The sounds you’re making are downright obscene, loud moans mixed with incoherent pleas as you’re getting lost in the pleasure he gives you so freely.

Jack’s other hand comes up to turn your face to him:

“Eyes on me.”

And as you look at him through lidded eyes, he curls your own fingers inside you, pushing them up against your G-spot. The sudden pressure drags you into a climax, so powerful, you’re blinded for a second, your lungs emptied with a long-drawn exhale as you keep soundlessly mouthing his name.

Jack pulls out his fingers first, then yours. Your hand is drenched and numb, and you barely register as Abbot brings it to his mouth. He licks your fingers clean, one by one, and you are coming to your senses at the sight: his mouth sucking in your digits, your wetness smeared across his lips, his gaze piercing as he keeps eye contact. And just like that, it threads through your veins and bones: your craving for him you’re yet to satisfy.

Before you can even ask him for a kiss, he leans in to give it to you.

It’s hot, it’s messy, his tongue darting between your lips, your hands tugging at his t-shirt, then sneaking under it to feel him tense under your touch. One of his hands grips your hip, the other moving back between your legs, where you’re still sensitive, making you whimper into his mouth.

“Wanna get a proper taste,” he mumbles, his lips already trailing lower.

But you have something else in mind. You close your legs and clutch his t-shirt, your fingers roughly crumpling the fabric, making him meet your gaze again.

“Jack, I’m very grateful for the offer, but I need you to fuck me,” you don’t bother hiding your impatience. “And please, take your damn clothes off.”

He grins, and this is a command he is willing to follow. Jack brings a hand behind his neck to grab the collar of his t-shirt and pulls it up over his head in one swift motion. Your eyes rake over the broad planes of his chest, his toned arms, his freckled skin flushed pink. Before he can think of his next move, you straddle him, leaning to nibble at his neck, your fingers tracing his flexing muscles.

“Someone’s very eager,” he notes with a chuckle.

And yet, the gravel in his voice is thinned out by his own keenness. When your gaze drops down, you see his cock straining against the coarse fabric of his jeans.

“Makes two of us,” you note cheekily and palm him through the denim.

His chuckle turns into a low, long groan. Like he is breaking character, like it is not as easy for him to keep his feelings under control.

You hide your smile, taking his jeans off to throw them on the floor, barely half a minute before you’re climbing back onto his lap. The bulge is now even more prominent beneath his boxer briefs: he’s thick and big, way bigger than you thought, than you imagined, than you’ve ever had. Your mouth parts on the inhale; you are dazed just from the look of it. You feel yourself already getting wet again.

Your words are stumbling out, while your brain is still somewhat functioning:

“I have an IUD, I’m clean. Haven’t been with anyone for a while.” 

“Me neither. For way longer than you probably,” Abbot admits in a half-whisper, watching you attentively. Getting as drunk on the anticipation as you are.

Your fingers go for the waistband at his hips when you catch faint light glinting off the metal. Your palm briefly lies under his scarred knee.

“This okay?”

Him leaving the prosthesis on, you mean. But it is getting harder to put words into coherent sentences.

Jack gets it. “Yeah, m’fine. You want me to...?”

Remove it, is what he wants to say.

For just a moment, it comes up to the surface: his lack of confidence, not necessarily in himself but maybe in how he can be perceived, in what he looks like in your eyes. Being so close, so open, naked.

But this has always been exactly what you wanted.

“I couldn’t care less,” you whisper and tug down his briefs to free his cock.

Then you look down, and your breath hitches.

He is thick, fully hard, the tip red and already weeping. And instantly, you wonder how he tastes. How warm, how heavy he’d feel in your hand. When you reach it impulsively to wrap around him, Jack stops you, his voice a low warning:

“We both know I don’t need that.”

You almost want to whine. But you smother your discontent and move your hands up to his shoulders, holding your hips up, hovering just above his girthy length. A sigh spills from your mouth when his cock brushes your slick entrance —

And right then, Jack’s hands clamp around your thighs. His grip not bruising, but it is firm enough that you can’t move. Can’t lower yourself on him.

“Now, where are your manners, sweetheart?” he asks, playfully cruel.

He knows you’re trapped. You know it too. To prove his point, he rubs his tip against your clit, more slickness gushing out of you at the mere contact. You do let out a miserable whine, your thighs are shaking. But he stays unmoving.

And so you beg. Just like you thought you would.

“I want you, please, I want you so fucking much,” your words pour out rushed and heated, all in one breath, “Want you to fuck me, Jack, please, been thinking about it for months. Before the app, when we were still working together, each time you— you stood next to me or leaned closer during surgeries or talked me through them or— fuck, it was anything, everything, I could barely focus, only kept thinking how much I wanted you to touch me, please-please-please—”

Jack hums. His hands relent. He repositions them so he can guide you instead of stopping you.

“Months, huh? I know the feeling,” he murmurs, with unexpectedly raw honesty.

It lingers. It almost sounds like a confession. But you do not get time to catch the meaning of his words before he starts pushing his cock into your throbbing warmth.

You gasp. He’s easing you down slowly. As your nails dig into his shoulders, his grip tightens; but he keeps composure. Jack’s watching you — your eyes screwed shut and brows pinched together, your body shifting, mouth gulping air as you’re allowing him to stretch you open. He moves one of his hands to draw light circles on your clit, to help you take him, all of him, until you’ve bottomed out.

Your body stills. He feels you clench around him, your pussy gripping him so tightly, he chokes back a groan. Your forehead dips forward, helplessly.

“You are— s’big, so-o —”

“Breathe for me,” Jack instructs, both palms secured at your hips, sounding a little out of breath himself. He watches as your chest rises and falls, the uneven cadence of inhales and exhales. He mercifully gives you a minute to adjust. “Need you to start moving, baby. Yeah?”

You scramble for an answer, all your words slurring out into whines, your body barely used to the stretch. But you want to be good for him. And so you lift your hips. Just a few inches. Then sink onto his cock again, trembling at the overwhelming ache of being stuffed so full.

The pause lasts for barely three seconds.

Then your hips start moving up and down on their own, because it feels too good to stop, because the ache is quickly dissipating into pleasure.

“There she is.”

He lets you find and set the rhythm, at first more grinding and slow, your pussy swallowing him whole each time. As you let the sensation build, as it spreads and turns searing. Euphoric. And your head tips back with a moan.

“Look how well you’re taking me,” Jack praises, his voice husky with lust. “Just like I knew you would.”

His hands grip harder at your hips, and without warning, he starts bouncing you on him. His pace is quicker, harsher, the fat head of his cock rubbing against the spot that makes your vision blur. Jack leans closer to rasp the words into your ear:

“Who do you think I thought about—” his fingers move down to open your legs wider, “While making all these audios—” and he plunges deeper, “For my favorite girl—” and your moans pitch louder, “After her tiresome shifts?”

You’re too cockdrunk to even think of a reply. You’re only capable of moving your hips in time with his, nails scraping at his sweat-covered skin, your slick oozing down to his balls.

“I’m— I’m close,” you mewl. “M’gonna cum, Ja-ack.”

“Think I should let you?” he says through gritted teeth, his own control already slipping.

“P-please,” you stutter out weakly as his hips snap up, “Wanna cum, wanna— want you— t-to make me cum, please.”

A grunt escapes him, and Jack adjusts his hold, his chest heaving against yours, skin rubbing against skin. His mouth latches onto your throat, each word punctuated with a trust:

“That’s a good — fucking — girl.”

His hands drop lower to cup your ass, giving it a squeeze — and then the world around you spins as he effortlessly flips you on your back.

Your legs fall open for him, and he manages to keep his cock nestled so perfectly in your fluttering hole. He doesn’t slow down for a second: Jack shifts his weight on his left leg, angling his hips a little to hit that spot inside you over and over, making your eyes roll back in your head. The room fills with your breathy moans, your cunt squelching around his thick length, your body caged under his weight. In stark contrast, his lips are weightless — against your chest, your collarbones, your arm, mouthing pet names or more praises — or just the letters of your name, you honestly can’t tell. The meaning of his words escapes you.

“Yeah, that’s right. Need your head empty,” Jack groans, breath ragged, his pace relentless. “Need you to only think about how good I’m fucking you.”

He surely is.

Your whole body tenses.

You are so close.

And then you feel his forehead against yours, a pressure of his fingers on your clit, a command given with the utmost softness:

“Let go, baby. I got you.”

The second orgasm tears through you, white-hot and all-consuming. You cum with a sob falling from your lips, your fingers scrabbling at his shoulders as your pussy spasms wildly around his cock. He fucks you through it, he does try to last a little longer, but the combination of all this — the way you look, feel, finally his — pushes him over, his own pleasure so intense, he’s powerless against it. Jack’s hips jerk as he cums, filling you up, his broken groans pressed into your neck.

The room is still.

You wait for your breath and heart to calm. His hand brushes a loose strand of hair out of your face, and he whispers, still a little breathless:

“You good?”

You nod first. Then open your mouth:

“That was—” you have to swallow the slight hoarseness of your voice, “Literally the best sex I’ve ever had.” Three heartbeats later, you add with a tired laugh. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Too late.”

You feel him smile against your cheek before he places a kiss there.

Jack pulls out carefully, leaving you empty — you have to stop yourself from reaching for him, from chasing his familiar warmth. You quietly watch him clamber off the bed and pull his briefs up, then close your eyes so he won’t catch you staring. You listen to him walk out of the room, and suddenly, a realization kicks in: his footsteps sound uneven.

Like he is limping.

Jack comes back with a wet towel and gently cleans you up, then helps you put your panties on and brings you a glass of water. And every time you look at him, your gaze catches on how he is obviously leaning on his healthy leg.

You slowly stretch your neck and shoulders, then tap on the spot next to you. “Come here.”

Jack sits down, a little bit unsure where this is going. And very much tense in the exact place you thought he would be. You move your hands to his right knee and feel his hamstrings flex involuntarily.

“You spend too much time on your feet,” you say, working your fingers over his muscles. “And you put too much pressure on it. Your leg feels like it’s made out of concrete.”

Without even looking, you can tell that now he’s tense all over.

You have seen Jack take the prosthesis off, short moments of reprieve that he allows himself too rarely for your liking, only after particularly long shifts. He isn’t shy about his disability, but he doesn’t like bringing attention to it, you’ve noticed. Like living with it isn’t hard, like it’s not that big of a deal. You also know that he’s got no one to take care of him.

You take your time massaging the scarred tissue, mostly applying pressure with your thumbs as they move from the socket up, then back down. And you know that it’s working when you hear him exhale, his breath a little ragged. Relieved.

“I try to take breaks, but you know how it is. We’re always busy,” Jack counters, with that same boyish stubbornness you can’t possibly be angry at.

“Shen’s an attending now, which is supposed to make your job easier. Don’t act like the ER’s gonna blow up if you sit down for 10 minutes,” you turn your head to look at him.

Jack doesn’t meet you with defiance — he’s sitting with his shoulders slumped and gaze mellow, way too relaxed to hide it. The sight is so endearing, your heart lurches behind your ribs. You fight the urge to kiss him. Instead, your fingers glide down to the edges of the prosthesis’s socket. You do not push it; you let him decide if he wants to be this vulnerable with you. Jack just gives you a nod. A small, barely noticeable movement. Also an immeasurable sign of trust. You carefully remove the artificial limb, then take the sock off to let his skin breathe. Your touch lingers: you lightly trace the white uneven scars, faded reminders of something horrible he managed to survive.

He lets you.

Silence fills up the space between you two, and you don’t know what to do next. Technically, you only needed sex, and Jack didn’t say that it would happen more than once. This would be the perfect moment for you to thank him and head out.

So you remove your hands —

Jack puts his arm around you, firmly. His lack of hesitation helping yours to fade away. He scoops you back, until you’re pressed to him, your back met with his bare chest. His chin is placed on your shoulder, his words warm:

“You really like it in surgery, don’t you?”

“I do,” you answer honestly. “Way more than I thought I would. I was afraid it’d be too challenging, too much pressure, too many new things to learn... But it’s not that hard. And I love learning.”

He laughs, a soft low sound you love just as much. “Even with an attending who’s as emotionally evolved as a toothpick?”

“I think us working together is mutually beneficial, actually. Park’s teaching me how to mend bones, I’m giving him lessons on how to hold a conversation for longer than a minute.”

Jack’s smile is tickling your neck as he pulls you back into bed, so effortlessly, like he has done it many times. You readily curl up against him, resting your palm over his chest. He tugs the blanket up to cover you, his fingers gently moving from your shoulder to your collarbone.

But then your eyes meet his, and it is a discovery you never thought you’d make: he looks self-conscious. He is the one searching for words to put his feelings into.

“You said I made you feel like you couldn’t breathe,” Jack recalls.

“I didn’t mean literally... I guess I was a little bit dramatic,” you avert your gaze. Okay, maybe you should’ve found a better way to tell him how you felt. Preferably without it looking like a crash-out.

“No, it’s not that. It’s just—” his hand cradles the side of your face, gentle and reassuring. “From the first day you came to the ER, with your humor and your curiosity and your quick thinking... To me, you were like a breath of fresh air,” he skims his thumb over your lower lip, his touch light, his words heavy with the emotions he’s been holding back for months. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I was working up the courage.”

His heartbeat is hushed under your palm. Steady with certainty. It radiates from him like light, your insecurities melting away under his gaze like snow under the sun.

After a moment, you speak up: your voice is teasing. “Funny how you had just enough courage to record raunchy audios.”

“My therapist said I needed a hobby. Unfortunately, I suck at golf,” Jack leaves a kiss on your forehead. “But you were the one who gave me the idea.”

“Um, for all the great ideas I am famous for, that one definitely wasn’t mine.”

His chest vibrates with laughter. “You don’t remember it? Your third week in the ER, the nightcrawles on a night out. I walked you out to wait for your cab, and you said — and I quote — that I’ve got a very soothing voice. That I should narrate audiobooks or something.”

You cover your face with your palm, groaning. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I said that out loud. I had five shots of tequila. I hoped you would forget.”

“I didn’t,” Jack says and pulls your hand away. “Everything you do and say is very memorable to me,” he presses his lips to your wrist. Then puts your hand back on his chest and holds it there, his thumb brushing yours. And out of nowhere, very nonchalantly, he asks. “So, does it actually take you 40 minutes to get to work?”

“Yeah. Give or take,” you tell him vaguely.

He doesn’t buy it. “And if we’re being more specific?”

“Closer to an hour,” you admit reluctantly. “But the rent is pretty low, and most of my neighbours are nice, and I finally got my shower fixed last week so —”

“You can move in here.”

Your words die down in an instant as you stare at him, trying to discern a hint of humor, of pity, of anything to suggest he doesn’t mean it.

“You aren’t serious,” you mumble, but his unblinking gaze confirms that he is. “No, I really— I can’t.”

Jack props his head up on one hand. “Why not?”

“Because it’s your apartment. You’re living on your own, and I wouldn’t want to bother you or— or take up too much space.”

“Didn’t you say this place can fit a football team? So unless you’re gonna bring another 10 people with you...”

“No, it’s just me,” you say timidly and hesitate for a few seconds. But since you’re out of arguments, the only thing you’re left with is the truth. “I don’t want you to regret it later on.”

“I won’t regret it.”

“You barely know me.”

“I know you plenty. We worked together for half a year.”

“Yeah, but that was us in the hospital. Which isn’t exactly informative, because I can be a total mess in my everyday life. What if you come home to find my clothes lying around everywhere? What if I’ve got questionable coffee preferences or weird food habits?” you absentmindedly draw circles on his skin, stumbling over the excuses you are nervously coming up with. “And then we’ll start getting into fights because I was too tired to iron the bedsheets or I accidentally took your favorite t-shirt or ate your favorite ice cream because I got my period and acted bitchy or —”

Jack tilts your chin up, the small movement making you close your mouth. A smile pulls at his lips, soft just the rest of him — now, in this moment, with you: soft touch of his strong hands, soft grey curls, a little ruffled (totally your fault), soft gaze that is a vortex of green, amber and gold. His voice carries the same softness when he says:

“You usually take your coffee black with just a splash of soy milk. But when you’re tired, you go for these obnoxiously sugary drinks that barely have any caffeine in them,” his smile grows wider. “You do not throw things around, not when the inside of your locker is strategically organized by shelves. Your only weird food habit is thinking a protein bar can be considered a full meal. I don’t iron my bedsheets, you can wear any of my t-shirts, and I’ll make sure to stock up on ice cream. I’ve never seen you being bitchy, but you can get a little uncooperative when you’re upset or nervous. Which I can handle,” but there is no pressure behind his reasoning — instead, he adds with hope, his eyes not leaving yours, “I know enough, and I’d love to learn the rest. If you let me.”

The feeling rolls all over you, familiar and very long-awaited one: of calmness that his presence always brings you. Of just how comforting it is to be with him. Jack makes it sound too easy for you to harbour any doubts.

“Okay,” you manage quietly.

And when your hands cradle his face, he leans in first to close the distance.

You kiss him slowly, like you are trying to spell out your gratitude, your ever-growing fondness, your feelings you are still afraid to name. He holds you close like he can understand exactly what your lips are saying. You want to drag this moment out for longer; but then a yawn bubbles in your throat.

“You’re not leaving this bed until you get at least eight hours of sleep,” Jack notes, more caring than stern, his nose bumping into yours. And you can tell his eyelids are already drooping. “What time do you need to wake up?”

“M’not working tomorrow. Turned off my alarm already,” you mumble.

“Good,” he nods with his eyes closed, wrapping both arms around you — and then adds in a tender whisper, “Good girl.”

You smile into his chest, happily and drowsily, and you know you’re about to fall asleep. And just before you do, you think:

no, this definitely isn’t a one-time thing.

✧ dividers by @/strangergraphics, @/saradika-graphics, @/omi-resources, @/cafekitsune; ✧ I usually don’t like diving a fic into shorter “parts”, but it felt right in the moment, and I hope it didn’t ruin the pacing of the story? ngl I was super horny when I wrote the smut part(s), so maybe I went a liiittle overboard... also, yes, this fic was supposed to be shorter, but then I added a shit ton of softness at the end, I COULDN’T HELP MYSELF! ✧ English isn’t my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any mistakes. reblogs and comments are very appreciated!

[thedamnqueenofhellreads]

HOW TF DID I MISS THIS?!?! So fucking hot

[lauraneedstochill]

dyinggg over your reaction pics (can confirm that would’ve been my exact reaction too!)

thank you so much for reading and reblogging! 💕

[asystolle]

just a doc and his 24 oz watery dunkin' taking on the ed John Shen in THE PITT SEASON 2

[lacetulle]

Sabina Bilenko | Film Noir

[awriterfaraway]

In case it's not common, reading is a part of your job as a writer.

Not every reader is a writer, but every writer MUST be a reader. Reading inspires you, motivates you, and keeps your creativity flowing. Make sure to read more than you write.

[sammy-bryant]

BRETT RICHARDS & SHARON LEONE Fire Country | 4.01 x 4.20

[nguanblr]

Paris, 2014

[robinavitchslut]

.✦ ݁˖ 𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 .✦ ݁˖

some random gradients i made, credit not necessary but appreciated, i'd love to see how you use them <333 more below the cut, the post got too long!!

𑣲⋆ blue and orange

𑣲⋆ cotton candy

𑣲⋆ pink and blue

𑣲⋆ pink and green

𑣲⋆ pink and orange

𑣲⋆ pink and purple

𑣲⋆ pink and yellow

𑣲⋆ purple and yellow

𑣲⋆ pink and white

𑣲⋆ purple and blue

𑣲⋆ purple and green

𑣲⋆ pastel rainbow

[lauraneedstochill]

k now I'm curious about the header for "stained with you" 👀 what was the hardest part?

the damn couple’s photo for sure 😭

I found the picture that was perfect for illustrating the kissing scene from the fic, BUT the guy’s hair originally looked very different from Jack’s. even after cutting the picture and playing with the coloring, it felt wrong (TO ME))))). so yeah, I just spent a bunch of time on giving him curls lol

and yes, I’m aware 99% of readers wouldn’t care about the picture, but I’m still glad I did that, and I’m happy with the result!

[sentrysvoid]

Pride & Prejudice dir. Joe Wright | 2005

[mjpens]

Andrew Cody & Lena 🖤

[weltenwellen]

Marie Howe, from “Memorial”, What the Living Do

[mohabbot-enjoyer]