if i'm gonna look bad i'm not gonna look bad, know what i mean?
🍓Introduction: my name is Kory, I am currently using any pronouns (these may change and will always be in my bio for reference), I'm Italian and I'm 19. And that's my wife!!➡️➡️ @cactus-cuddler
🍓Requests: currently closed! My MASTERLIST is here!
🍓Characters I already wrote for:
Gareth Emerson (ST)
Shinsou Hitoshi (BNHA)
JJ Maybank (OBX)
Jason Todd (DC)
Duke Thomas (DC)
Eddie Munson (ST)
Bucky Barnes (just the one fic though, for my best friends' birthday!)
🍓Fandoms I'm in (or at least the ones I remember):
The Hobbit
Lord of the Rings
The Raven Cycle
Stranger Things
Good Omens
Boku No Hero Academia
Sailor Moon
Obey Me: Shall We Date
The Arcana
One Piece (Live Action) (I'll get around to watching the anime someday)
Criminal Minds
Outer Banks
Marvel
DC
AFK Journey
Marauders (fuck jkr!! if you buy ANY her merch unfollow me now)
Hunger Games
🍓DNI: as long as you're not a bigot you're free to roam. (I may be a fan of the marauders but I don't like any of you going-to-the-harry-potter-studios-in-a-marauders-way folks so piss off<3)
Summary: After you move into Jack's house, his worry for you increases along with his feelings (1.4k)
Warnings: a little continuation of 'And they were roommates', resident!reader, mentions of drinking, reader wears make up, mentions of a night out with girlfriends
There will be a longer part 2 of 'And they were roommates' besides this lil blurb :3
You went out with your girlfriends tonight. And it was finally Jack's day off so only thing he was doing with his free time was worrying.
He knows it's stupid but he can't help it. After everything he's seen in his life, worrying comes naturally to him.
And it's just been getting worse and worse ever since you started living together. Ever since he offered his guest room to you after the robbery in your old apartment.
He isn't your anything. Not your boyfriend. Not your fiancé. Not your husband. But he's a friend and he cares for you (more than he should). But as your temporary roommate he is allowed to worry, no?
His last words to you before you headed out were 'call me if you need anything, yeah sweetheart?' and he meant it. He's fully expecting a phone call from you. He's not getting any sleep anyway.
It's almost three in the morning when your caller id finally lights up his phone. And Jack is up on his feet, car keys in hand as he picks up.
"Jackkkkk, are you sleeping?" Your slurred, sweet words come from the line, and Jack would chuckle at that if he wasn't so worried.
"I'm not, angel. Do you need a ride? I'm coming to get you." He puts his phone on the speaker as he reverses out of the driveway.
"Yes, please." You say with a hiccup. " Can we drive my friends, too?"
Gosh, he can imagine your pouty lips so fucking easily. There's not a thing that he wouldn't do for you. You've got him wrapped around your finger.
"Of course, sweetheart. Just be safe, and I'll be there in five, okay?" He tells you, he knows exactly where to go since you're sharing your location with him.
"Okaaay, don't speed." You giggle drunkenly as you say it, and Jack just shakes his head at you in amusement as he hangs up. He's glad you had a fun night out with your friends, it definitely helped you take your mind off of the apartment hunting.
-
You and your three friends are waiting outside, and finally Jack feels like he can breath easily again.
You immediately stumble over to him as he rounds the car. He ignores your friends' heart eyes and catches you by the hips before you can smack down on your pretty face.
"Oh hey, angel. You had fun?"
"Hi, Jack." You giggle instead of answering, your hands end up squeezing his biceps and he hisses from how cold they are.
"Okay, everybody get inside the car, you must be freezing." He ushers you all in and he even goes as far as buckle the seat belt for you. If you weren't so drunk, you definitely would have blushed at that. He turns the heating on and starts driving.
And the car ride home is crazy to say the least. You immediately steal Jack's phone and start playing (more like blasting) music.
Jack can only laugh at your horrible singing and tap his fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the songs.
You look so happy and carefree, that Jack somehow feels lighter, too. But unfortunately for his feelings, his heart feels like it might burst from seeing you like this. His crush seems to overwhelm him and he never wants it to stop. Even if these feelings scare him, he hasn't felt like this in a while.
But soon enough, your friends are safely dropped off home and it's only you and him. Jack's sees your eyes strain to be open and turns the volume down.
"Worn out, huh?" He asks, giving you a quick once over as you settle comfortably in his seat.
"The good kind though. Not like after our shifts." Your words are more sleepy than drunk. You smile softly at Jack and close your eyes.
"Yeah, I understand that. But you know every once in a while even we get the good kind of exhaustion after a shift. Like when you somehow keep all of the patients alive? Or when you help someone and they completely change your day with their gratitude. Or when...."
Jack's stops talking mid-sentence when he sees you asleep. Jack smiles to himself and turns the volume off totally.
You are home anyways. He parks his truck in the garage and turns off the car. He really doesn't want to wake you up, not when you look so peaceful, but he doesn't think he'll be able to carry you inside.
Not when his leg is killing him and your room is on the second floor. So he reluctantly shakes you awake.
"What?" You mumble, annoyed at being woken up.
"We are home, sweetheart. Come on, let's get inside. "You sigh but you nod.
Your eyes are barely open as you stumble out of the car and inside the house and up the stairs.
Jack's hands hover around you, ready to catch you any second. But even though you clumsily walk, swaying every step, you don't fall.
"Will you take my makeup off?" You mumble out as you enter your room.
"Your makeup?"
"Yes, please. I'm just too tired. Maybe I can go sleep with it on, no?" He doesn't know if you're speaking more to yourself or to him.
"Of course, I'll help you take it off, sweetheart. C'mon, sit down here." He wanders down inside your bathroom.
"What do you use for it?" He calls out when he opens the drawer and sees a lot of things. He's clueless when it comes to this stuff.
"There are some reusable makeup removal pads. And there's this blue bottle, it has makeup removal title on it." Jack is surprised that you can ramble all of that pretty smoothly with the way you were stumbling up the stairs.
He finds the things and goes back to you. You are still sitting on the bed in the same exact spot with your back hunched and eyes droopy.
Jack chuckles as he sits next to you. You turn towards him and close your eyes. "Where should I start?"
"Anywhere you want." You say quietly, and Jack nods even though you can't see it.
His big, calloused hand come up to settle on the side of your neck and you shiver at his touch. And then you sigh as he starts gently removing the makeup.
You almost go completely putty in his hands, relishing in the feel of being taken care of. Looks like you could both get use to this.
"Did you have a good time tonight?"
"Yessss, we danced so much that my feet hurt." You frown as you remember your achy feet. "And they sell these yummy drinks there. I think I drank like a million of them."
"You gonna regret it in the morning, huh?" Jack chuckles as he starts on the second half of your face. His movements are slow, he selfishly wants to keep this bubble alive for a little longer.
"Maybe. I hope not." You frown again at the thought of the hangover.
"Don't worry, angel. I'll take care of you, make you breakfast and you'll be all good." He finishes with your make up. His thumb lingers on your cheekbone for a few more seconds before he pulls away and stands up.
He sets the things back aside in your bathroom and he finds you changing into your pjs as he goes back.
He instantly turns his back to you, cheeks heating up. "You can look now, Jack." You say cheerful, still more than content from your night out.
Jack turns back around and does a quick once over of you in your oversized pjs. God, you look so fucking cute.
"Ready to sleep?" He asks but you shake your head at him, flashing him your teeth.
"Need to brush my teeth." Jack is seriously surprised you are still functioning after a night out like that.
"Okay, sweetheart. You do that, and I'll go get you a glass of water." You let out a sheepish 'yeah', and then he dissappears out of your room.
By the time he comes back you are already under the covers with the lamp on your bedside table illuminating the features of your pretty face. Pretty but fast asleep face.
The glass clinks against the wooden table and Jack resist the urge to stay a second longer. He turns your light off instead, and tucks your duvet higher.
"Goodnight, angel." He says silently before he leaves your room and closes the door.
He stands in the middle of the hallway a little dumbfounded. He's in so much trouble with his feelings for you. He doesn't know how he's going to continue living in his big, empty house after you finally find your new apartment.
But one thing he knows for sure is that he's going to hate every second of not having you here with him.
summary: james can't help but panic when he sees that you're not wearing the necklace he got you because you've never taken it off until now. but when he asks you about it, he discovers you never actually took it off and causes a little bit of a chain reaction.
wc: 1k+
university au - let me know if you guys want to see more fics in this au!
In the entry doorway of your flat, James doesn’t seem as happy to see you as he normally is. What’s weirder even, is that he’s expecting the same from you. His arms are hesitant to wrap around your torso when you sling your arms over his shoulders, pulling him into a kiss. He’s happy to receive it, of course, though his shoulders are stiff and his body doesn’t melt into yours as it usually does.
“Hey,” You mutter quietly with that smile that charms James every time. “You okay?” James’s hands come down to grip your hips, and he uses his hold on you to push your body away from his slightly, just so he can get a proper look at your face. “Did I do something?” He asks, eyes clouded with worry. “Are you mad at me or something?” The confused expression that makes its way onto your face only makes your boyfriend more anxious. You tug James into the hallway and shut the door behind him before quizzically muttering “What are you talking about, James? Why would you say that?”
James’s eyes flicker down to your chest, where the low neckline of your shirt exposes your bare skin, where the necklace he got you usually resides. Since the day he gifted it to you, he’s never seen you without it, but lo and behold, here you are. James makes a gesture towards his own neck, voice shaking as he says “It’s just, you’re not wearing your necklace and so-” James trails off when he sees you immediately grasp at your neck, where the necklace usually sits, and an odd sense of relief fills his chest when your eyes go wide with panic, and you cry “Oh my god, James, my necklace!”
Both your hands come up to feel around your neck, making sure the locket is well and truly missing. A chain of curses leaves your lips, and James can only stand there as you stick your hands in your pockets, then desperately ruffle through the bag you have slung over your shoulder. One of its straps slips off your shoulder in your hurry, and a notebook clatters onto the floor. You leave it there. James grimaces to himself. He's only supposed to be picking you up to go to the library together, but you quickly turn on your heels, heading straight back to your room. He slides your notebook off the floor and instantly follows, but he stays standing with his back against the door to your bedroom once you’re inside because the small room offered by university accommodation only has enough space for one person to be panicking.
Admittedly, he feels completely useless just standing there, watching as you drag the mattress away from the wall, climbing up on the bed to check if your necklace fell between the cracks. He bites his lip as you shake your duvet out, sighing when only dust falls onto the floor. You whine, pressing the back of your palms to your eyes, heavily breathing in a poor attempt not to cry.
James pushes his back off the door, face softening as he tilts his head to the side, approaching you. His hands come up to your shoulders, tugging you closer to him so he can pull you into a loving hug, letting the thick duvet fall onto the floor between you. “Sweetheart, it’s okay, we’ll find it.” He tries to soothe you, but you’re already slipping your hands between you and pushing him away from you by the chest. “I can always get you a new one.” He adds, but to his sorrow, it only makes you more upset.
“But I don’t want a new one, I want my necklace!” You insist with a dramatic gesture, fat tears finally rolling down your cheeks. James is sure you can’t see anything through them, so he brings you into another hug, letting you sob in his arms for as long as you wish to. “Oh darling, I’ll find it for you, okay?” He mutters, pressing a kiss to your hair while he sways you back and forth in his arms. With a loud sniffle, you nod at your boyfriend’s words, letting him guide you to sit in your desk chair while he re-assembles your room into a state of order.
However, fortunately for both of you, neither of you need to spend much time looking. A knock comes at your door, and James glances at you before moving towards it. When he swings the heavy door open, he finds a tall man in front him. He has dark, curly hair, and his arms are littered with dark tattoos, but his eyes are a striking blue that has James feeling slightly threatened. He’s one of your flatmates, James recognises from the photos, and in his hand is a familiar heart shaped locket.
“Hey, I, er, found this in the kitchen,” Sirius says loudly enough for you to hear. “It was half hidden by one of the ovens - luckily I kicked my spoon underneath it and had to fetch it. Found this instead.” James sighs in relief, and he hears as you jump up from the desk chair, peeking around him to see what Sirius had to offer. You snatch the locket from Sirius’s hand with an ecstatic gasp, opening the little heart to gaze at the image inside.
“Thanks mate.” James says, extending his hand out for Sirius to shake. “James.” He introduces himself, letting go of Sirius’s hand when you grab his free wrist, turning his hand over and dropping the locket inside. Sirius echoes his own name to your boyfriend, watching in amusement as you turn around, pulling your hair out of the way so James can clasp the locket around your neck. In an automatic response, you lift a hand up to play with the necklace, tugging just lightly enough to make sure it's secured. You finally take a deep breath when you recognise that it’s safely there. “A bit too emotionally attached to that necklace, don’t you think?” Sirius asks jokingly with an eyebrow raised.
He shrugs his shoulders at the friendly glare you shoot him, and open your mouth to offer a sassy response only to be interrupted by James. “Yeah, it’ll probably change when there’s a ring on her finger.” Your eyes light up at the comment, and Sirius can only grin as you glance down at your left hand, flexing your fingers upwards.
“Well you better get to it now that you’ve brought up a ring.” Sirius jokes, and James moves out of your way as you walk back towards your bed. “That’ll be easy enough, we’ve already been together two years.”
The conversation between them blends into background noise, and you barely hear James tell you he’ll be back before the door swings shut behind him and Sirius.
summary: “I will pay for your coffee,” you add quickly, stepping forward and leaning into his space. He keeps shaking his head, so, in a moment of pure madness, and lacking better ideas, you just say: “I’ll go down on you.”
word count: 4k (smut and fluff mainly)
a/n: i know i'm supposed to work on the part two of my andrew story, but...yeah, episode 7 was really something for my brain
❤︎ Thank you so much for reading!
One of the few undeniable advantages of the apartment is its location.
A single block separates your front door from the ER, which means: no subway delays, no buses filled with people’s germs and no waisted minutes that could be spent studying.
The apartment itself, however, is less impressive. It’s small, a fifth-floor walk-up with a radiator that only works every other day in winter, but it saves you from many issues, especially after a twelve-hour shift. Like most attendings say: efficiency is survival in third year. And this place is efficient.
The other perk is Jack Abbot, who objectively is a good roommate.
He pays rent two days early, every month, without fail. He wipes down the counter after he cooks, because apparently, in Jack’s mind, you could be an M3 and have the time to cook (Oh, fuck off, is your main and consistent thought every time he sets a plate of actual food in front of you at breakfast and dinner). He rewinds the VHS before returning it, and he even agrees to 4am study sessions when you are doubting yourself with the tracheobronchial tree structure.
The only problem with Jack Abbot is…he does not bend. For anyone.
It’s a mistake people make about him at the hospital. They assume that because he listens more than he talks and doesn’t talk the loudest in the room, he must be easygoing. They’re all wrong because in ‘easygoing’, there’s the word easy. And Jack is many things – observant, funny, annoyingly competent - but easy is not one of them. Right now, for instance, he’s being impossible.
Sprawled at the dining table, legs stretched out, hair still damp from the shower and curling at the nape of his neck and a gray shirt clinging enough to make you look away, Jack is in the middle of Sabiston Textbook of Surgery, annotating it.
You pause in the doorway for a second, watching him read before clearing your throat.
“Jack.”
He doesn’t even look up. “No.”
“I haven’t said anything yet!”
“Don’t need to,” he replies, flipping a page. “If it’s prefaced with my name in that tone, the answer is no.”
You step closer and place your hand flat over the open page of Sabiston, earning a mildly annoyed look from him.
“I just need a small, tiny favor.”
“No.”
“Please at least listen to me!” you implore.
One corner of his mouth lifts, and there it is, that smirk that you want to either punch or kiss “You want to switch our trauma shifts tomorrow.”
You hesitate just long enough for him to catch him, his eyebrow lifting slowly. “Why do you need it?”
“I…” you exhale, a little embarrassed. “I haven’t completed my procedure log. I’m missing one intubation and I really need it to pass the rotation.”
“One intubation,” he repeats, a little judgy, closing the book with his pen marking the page. “Haven’t you been on three different procedures already?”
“I know,” you snap, heat creeping up your neck. “I know. But Meyers took the first one because he is an asshole who can’t stop himself from playing mister Know-it-all, the second one went to Patel because he hadn’t logged one either, and the third…”
“You froze.”
I hate you for remembering this, I hate that you noticed, I hate how right you are, you thought.
“It was just…one second.”
“In trauma,” he replies, leaning back in the chair and hands folding behind his head, “one second is the difference between life and death.”
You glare at him. “Jack…I am missing one intubation. Just one. If I don’t log it, Reyes will tank my evaluation, and I’m not repeating this rotation, I physically cannot handle doing another six weeks of this while pretending I don’t care when he calls me ‘sweetheart’ in front of the interns like I’m a pretty accessory instead of a med student. So yes. I want your trauma shift cause I need it. You can’t even fathom the depth of my despair right now.”
“Oh, I think I have a pretty vivid imagination,” he replies.
“I’ll do the dishes for a month.”
He snorts.
“I’m serious!”
“You can’t be trusted with my plates.”
“I will pay for your coffee for a month,” you add quickly, stepping forward and leaning into his space.
He keeps shaking his head, so, in a moment of pure madness, and lacking better ideas, you just say: “I’ll go down on you.”
That gets his attention. “You…You’re not going to go down on me.”
“I’m sorry, which part of ‘despair’ don’t you understand with your so-called vivid imagination?”
He frowns, with that tiny crease between his brows that you want to kiss as much as his smirk, his throat moving as he swallows. “You’d actually…do that?” he asks carefully.
You hadn’t expected that answer and for a moment, the weight of what you just offered settles in. The apartment suddenly feels too quiet, and you become acutely aware of the fact that you are standing very close to Jack, that his hair is still damp and you want to run your hands through those curls, and the way the lamplight catches in his hazel eyes and turns them warmer, almost golden.
The fact is…you like Jack. You’ve liked him for the past few months, and quite frankly, being his roommate has not helped with your massive crush problem.
You shrug, forcing your voice into something light and easy. “Yeah. I’m okay with it. If you are, I mean.”
His fingers flex against the edge of Sabiston, not looking away from you and saying quietly. “So, um…we do this and you get my shift?”
“A privilege for another,” you clarify, voice steady even if your pulse is sabotaging you. “You help me log the intubation and I… return the generosity.”
He nods once, and to your quiet, personal satisfaction, a faint blush creeps across his freckled cheeks, like a tell he can’t suppress. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay,” he says again, quieter.
You reach for the back of his chair, gently turning him toward you, your faces now inches to each other. “How about now Jack? Or are you too busy studying…let me guess: the saphenous vein?” you murmur, with a teasing smile.
“It was the VSD actually,” he breathes, his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before snapping back up. “But…yeah. Now is fine.”
You drop to your knees, his knees parting quickly, confirming your personal theory: it has been a long time for him. Probably as long as it’s been for you. Third year is not exactly fertile ground to start having relationships: no time, no personal life, no sleep and not to mention that you have never seen him bring anyone back here. Not once. He’s never acted on any nurses’ or classmates’ flirtations. The apartment has always been just the two of you.
You hook your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants, pulling it down as he lifts his hips. “I’m not entirely sure that I haven’t passed out on the table and this is all just a hallucination,” he continues, a groan escaping his mouth when you let your palm graze over his half hard cock, eyelids shutting completely the moment you wrap your hand properly around him.
“I don’t know…” you joke as you start moving, enjoying the view of Mr. Perfect Grades keeping his hands diligently on his legs and pressing his teeth on his lips. “You look very awake to me.”
You wet your lips lightly, running your tongue over them as his gaze finds yours. You’ve always loved that part: the control, deciding when and how it happens, to go slower or faster, feeling someone react under your hands and mouth, but still…you’re a little nervous. It’s been a while and you hope you haven’t lost it in…oh my god a year ago now? Yeah, it was definitely a year.
Either way, you don’t give yourself more time to think about it before dipping your head to take him in.
Multiple things come up to your mind: first, he’s not the kind of guy to put his hands on your hair to get you to move faster or deeper – which you appreciate - second, he’s vocal, muttering your name and profanities each time you manage to fit him entirely in your mouth - you still don’t know how you do that, the guy is huge - and third, you are officially on your knees, blowing your roommate, crush and student rival.
Once he’s done, you stand back up, knees numb and wiping the back of your hand over your lips, both struggling to catch your breaths.
“6am. For tomorrow. But get there at 5.30,” Jack says, closing his eyes briefly before putting his pants back on. “And you better do this intubation.”
──────────
Two weeks later, he’s the one standing in the living room.
“Hey.”
You don’t look up from your notes. “No.”
He exhales sharply through his nose, dropping onto the couch beside you. “Please.”
“No,” you repeat, turning a page calmly even though the corner of your mouth is threatening to betray you. There’s something so satisfying about denying Jack Abbot anything.
He drags a hand through his hair, mussed from the shift at the hospital, and puts his hand on yours (don’t freeze over that, it’s stupid anyway). “It’s just one procedure.”
You raise an eyebrow, finally looking at him. “Doctor Abbot missing something on his log?”
“No,” he starts before hesitating, his pride wrestling with the request, “it’s about the thoracostomy. Reyes is letting one M3 take lead tomorrow and I need someone to cover triage so I can stay in trauma long enough to be picked.”
You let your gaze drag slowly over him, pretending to think. “No.”
“You’re enjoying this,” he sighed, his hand still clasps around yours.
“Oh, immensely.”
“Please. I’ll make it up to you.”
You snort softly and close your notebook, setting it aside before turning fully toward him, your knees brushing his. “How, doc?”
“I’ll go down on you.”
“What?” you ask slowly.
He shrugs, trying for casual, one hand still loosely wrapped around yours, his thumb brushing absently over your knuckles. “One privilege for another. That’s…that’s our thing, right?”
“Um…yeah. You really want to do this thoracostomy?”
His lips pull into that maddening kissable half-smile that you love more than anything, the one he gets in the ER whenever he answers correctly to one of the residents’ questions. “I really want to do it and erase Meyers’ smile once and for all. So, what do you say?”
“Okay,” you reply, parting your legs (oh yes, Jack, you’re gonna have to kneel for this one, no way I’m passing on an occasion to let you do everything) “but be quick, I still have to read the biological markers of…”
The words don’t get out of your mouth when he kneels in front of you, pulling off your pajama short and underwear, the leather of the couch making you feel hotter than you were already.
“I’ll be very quick and thorough, I promise,” he replies, amused – probably because you were now completely silent – before working his tongue on you.
And wow, you have received plenty of good cunnilinguses in your life, even if it’s been some time, but this one…is miles from the rest. You can recognize it happily… Jack has some wicked knowledge of the human anatomy and how to get you there in a few minutes.
“You better be fucking great for this thoracostomy, Doctor Abbot,” you say as you’re try to catch your breath, Jack picking up your notes, ready for a new study session (you don’t comment over the fact that he doesn’t go rinse his mouth or put distance between you and just…drags his thumb across his lower lip and then licks it clean).
“You know me,” he replies with a smug smile that makes you roll your eyes.
And yes, you know. The next day proves it. You’re buried in triage when you hear from your resident, the Doctor Robinavitch – a young, tall man, barely a few years older than you who keeps trying his best to be half your friend, half your boss – that Jack had been an example of calm and solid, earning a fist bump from both Reyes and Robinavitch.
You nod slowly, pretending you don’t feel the faint flare of something warm under your ribs, travelling down your body. Pride. You are so proud of him, and you want to reply to the resident, of course he was solid, of course he didn’t choke, this man is great and kind and…actually is also a great giver, but you don’t need to know that.
You catch sight of him later in the hallway, walking toward you with a protein bar in hand, a little smile on his face. And that smile, Jesus, all warm and bright and unguarded…it’s definitely a second privilege he doesn’t need to know about.
──────────
Four days after, you get behind on your charting.
Because you’d rather slit your wrist than stay late in the ER with Reyes breathing into the back of your skull, you make another deal with Jack.
“If you stay up with me until it’s done,” you murmur to Jack in the CT-Scan room, “I’ll give you a very nice orgasm.”
He checks to his left and right. “Define ‘very nice’”.
“You’re insufferable.”
“Hey, I’m the guy who’s gonna stay to help you, so be a little more grateful.”
You salute him with your pen. “Aye aye doc.”
Late that night, steam fogs the bathroom mirror, the water running hot. He’s already under the spray when you step into the doorway, taking off your clothes (after all there’s almost nothing he hasn’t seen already). You step closer before putting your hand on him, his palms ending up on the tiled wall behind you and muttering a “Jesus fucking Christ.” at the combined feeling of the water cascading on his body and your movements who only grows faster, making him come in a few minutes, your name on his lips.
“You know…it’s stupid to waste the water,” he murmurs after a while.
“Oh, really.”
“I mean, we’re two broke med students, it’s cost-effective. And we’re already in here anyway.”
Surely you can’t disagree with this idea.
Efficiency, after all, is very important in medicine.
──────────
“Hey kid.”
You look up, the Doctor Robinavitch standing there with that expression – the one who wants to gossip but tries to refrain himself from it.
“Um,” you say cautiously, pen lingering over the chart. “What?”
He glances down the hall then back at you. You follow his gaze automatically.
Jack is at the nurses’ board, talking to one of them, arms crossed and sleeves rolled up. He laughs at something, shaking his head. You look away, glancing back at the resident, who’s already staring at you, leaning over the table just enough to meet your eye level.
“…What?” you repeat, sharper now.
“How long?”
You blink. “How long what?”
“Whatever that is,” he replies, gesturing vaguely between you and the air.
You scoff lightly, going back to writing your charting. “There is no ‘that’, Doctor Robinavitch.”
He sighs deeply, rubbing a hand down his face. “Listen kid, you realize the entire staff has a betting pool, right?”
Your pen freezes mid-word. “On what?”
He just stares at you until you break (my god how you hate when he does that, condolences to all the future doctors who’ll get him as an attending).
“We’re not together. It’s…it’s not like that,” you try to explain weakly instead of saying we’re just roommates who are the type to perform oral sex to get what we want, no big deal there. oh, and now we take showers together every night to save the planet, not to…give the other a freebie.
His smile widens. “Oh, so there is a ‘that’.”
You look back at the nurses’ station. Jack is still there, but now he’s looking directly at you, an eyebrow raised with a small, knowing smile – like he can feel that your mind is turned to this morning and the two orgasms he gave you before going to work.
You can’t help but smile back at him.
Robinavitch follows the silent exchange, then looks back at you with open disbelief. “That,” he says slowly, “right there, is definitely a thing.”
Before you can gather your words to get a more convincing denial, a monitor alarms from down the hall.
“Go, kid. And try not to share lovey-dovey looks over the patient.”
You shove his shoulder as you pass him, heat rising in your cheeks.
“I hate you, Robinavitch.”
“I know that’s not true!” he calls after you.
Annoyingly…he’s right. You don’t hate him.
And there is a thing.
──────────
It happens after the code blue.
You and Jack are walking home in silence, refusing to mention how, when you had stepped into the patient’s room, he had handed you the laryngoscope without hesitation – you, not himself – like there has been no other option in his mind.
Your hands brush every few steps, neither of you pulling away.
By the time you reach the apartment, your body feels heavy, exhausted, dumping your bag on the hallway floor and ripping of your jacket as you go straight to the bathroom.
The light is too bright. It exposes everything: the smudged mascara under your eyes, the dark circles who can’t be hidden well by the foundation, the way your eyes are reddened by your need to cry.
You grip the edge of the sink and stare at yourself, murmuring “You did well, don’t worry. The woman is alive. The baby is alive. You did well.”
The door opens quietly behind you.
“If you’re about to tell me I did great, don’t.” you mutter, voice flat, refusing to meet his eyes in the mirror. If you look at him, you might crack.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, you feel him step into your space, listening to him opening the cabinet and the rustle of cotton pads. He reaches around you, close enough that his arm brushes you before gently turning you by the shoulder so you’re facing him instead of your – miserable, pathetic – reflection.
“Hold still,” he murmurs.
His face is close to yours – barely four inches away. Close enough that you can see the freckles across his nose. Enough that you could close that distance with the smallest tilt forward and drown your thoughts in something easier than this ache sitting in your chest.
The cotton pad is cool against your skin. He wipes slowly beneath your eye, careful, his thumb steadying your jaw. “Can you do me a favor?” he asks quietly.
“I’m not in the mood tonight,” you reply automatically.
He rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat in it. “No, not like that. Not…” he exhales, dragging the pad gently across your cheek, “not everything is about having sex.”
“I wouldn’t call exactly what we’re doing ‘having sex’,” you say, sharper than you intend.
He stills and for a fraction of a second, something flickers across his face in between surprise and hurt. “Oh. Um…Okay.”
His throat bobs as he switches to a clean pad, focusing on your eyes.
Eyes closed, you try to explain yourself better, words coming out before you can filter them. “That’s not what I meant,” you murmur. “I just…I don’t want this tonight and I don’t want this to be another thing that happens because we almost lost someone. We…we can’t keep doing this.”
Fuck, you don’t even know what this is anymore.
You feel him getting even closer – so close that his breath brushes your lips when he exhales. He finishes wiping up your face. “Can you…” he starts, voice lower now, uncertain like you’ve never heard from him, “can you let me just be here? With you?”
You open your eyes slowly, now seeing everything: the faint traces of tears at the corner of his eyes, the way his curls have fallen messily over his forehead from running his hand through them too much. He looks younger like this.
“I’m sorry Jack. I didn’t mean to make it sound like…like what we do doesn’t matter. I just…” your voice breaks, “I don’t want it to be the only reason we touch.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “It’s not.”
You study him, skeptical.
“Fine,” he admits quietly. “It started that way because we’re two massive idiots who don’t know how to say what we want without turning it into…a mess. But it’s not why I continued doing that.”
He sets the cotton pad down in the sink and brings both hands to your face now, his palms feeling warm against your cheeks.
“I don’t want this to be about that. I…I want to be the person you come home with after something like tonight. Not just the guy you’re giving blowjobs to who turns out to be your roommate.”
“Great blowjobs, you mean. Wonderful. Fantastic,” you reply, trying to smile a little.
“Yes, sure. All of the above and more,” he nods, matching your grin with that crooked, infuriatingly gorgeous one before leaning in slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want to. He waits until you give the smallest eager nod before his mouth brushes yours.
Oh. Oh. Okay. You should have started here weeks ago.
The kiss is nothing like the moments you’ve shared before. It’s unhurried and soft, his lips moving against yours like he’s learning a part of you he doesn’t know.
And God, he’s a good kisser too – good doctor, good giver, does this man know how to be bad at something?
He tilts his head slightly, deepening it and learning to read every small reaction: when you sigh softly against his mouth, he runs his tongue against yours, when your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, he pulls you closer.
Out of breath, he rests his forehead against yours, noses brushing.
“I like you, okay? I like you when you study until four in the morning. I like you when you are right about a diagnosis and high five me. I like you when you’re scared. And stubborn. And exhausted,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’re my person. In the ER, here, everywhere.”
You swallow. “My god, how didn’t you get with, like…all the girls of the hospital?”
“Well, you see, I was a bit busy trying to get the attention of a certain woman,” he replies, chuckling.
“Oh, do I know her?”
“Hm. I’m not sure,” he murmurs, lips still close enough that your breath mingles. “She’s obstinate. Overworks herself and pretends she doesn’t need anyone. Terrible at dishes.”
You pinch his side. “Rude.”
“Oh, and she rolls her eyes when I’m right,” he continues. “Which is very often.”
“Unbelievable.”
“And,” he adds, softer, “she has this look she gives me every time there’s an alarm. Like she’s checking if I’m okay.”
You swallow. “Oh. Her.”
“Yeah.” His mouth curves, his nose brushing yours deliberately. “Her.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you love that.”
You hesitate before nodding. “Yeah,” you admit. “I do love that.” I love you, I love you, I love you.
“Yeah?” he asks, a smile spreading across his face as his hand slides to the small of your back. “Good.”
You don’t give him time to get smug about it before kissing him again, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt and pulling him closer until there’s no space left between you. His breath catches against your mouth, a surprised sound that makes you press him against the bathroom’s door.
Against his lips, still holding onto his shirt, you murmur, “Shower?”
“Shower.”
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Remus Lupin who's constantly reminded that people find him intimidating, his big stature and the dozen of scars littering his face and body, the deep, gravely voice.
Then you come along and stumble over your words, can't look him in the eye and seem to be avoiding him. Obviously, you must be scared of him. So, when he tries to remidy that, being extra nice to you, making sure to smile instead of keeping his stern resting face (allthough that always comes easy to him around you) and bringing you coffee and yet it somehow gets worse he's just stumped.
Once, he mentions how you must be scared of him offhandidly and you get so confused. Blinking up at him, with a questioning look. When he finally explains his thought process, you start blushing so hard!! "Oh! ehm... I actually- I kinda have a crush on you... That's why- Nevermind. Just- I'm not scared of you." And now he's looking at you like :O??? This cute girl, constantly blushing and getting nervous has a crush on him???
Next thing you know, you're making out and he's caging you against the door with his huge frame in the way you have been fantasizing about for months and it's even better than you imagined.
I need to kiss him all over until he realizes that he's worthy of love
"That’s what makes Zohran Mamdani’s election in New York so unsettling to the old order. New York City is not just another municipality; it’s a sovereign-scale entity. Its population surpasses 38 states. Its metropolitan GDP trails only Texas and California.
It is, by any metric, a small country masquerading as a city.
It governs more lives and more wealth than most nations. If democratic socialism — housing reform, public banking, equitable taxation — functions here, it obliterates the myth that such governance can’t work at scale. The fear isn’t ideological. It’s empirical. Because if Mamdani can keep the lights on, reduce homelessness, and maintain economic growth without catering to Wall Street, then the capitalist gospel collapses under its own dead weight.
What terrifies the establishment isn’t failure. It’s feasibility.
If it works in New York, there’s no reason it can’t work in Nebraska. If it works in Queens, it can work in Kansas City. And once proof exists, belief becomes irrelevant. The ship of democracy, fully refitted, will keep sailing — and no one can claim it isn’t American."
“Babe I’m going to be completely honest with you right now, it’s very obvious that you’re a werewolf if everyone at school wasn’t so dumb they would of figured it out immediately.”
“What?”
“Your name is literally wolf wolf, your parents were practically begging you to be a a wolf naming you that by the way. You get ‘sick’ every full moon. You’re covered in scars, you get all weird when people talk about the moon or werewolves in general and the most damaging piece of evidence, your friends call you moony. I also heard Sirius say that you were a werewolf not a swearwolf in third year, so.”
“You’ve known since third year?”
“I’ve known since first year it just got more obvious in third year.”
Hii! I love you so much. Can you please write a really smutty poly!mauraders with a fluffy ending? (Ignoring wormtail because I'm still mad at him.) If not it's okay, I just love your writing! 🫶
competition | poly!marauders
pairing: poly!marauders (james, remus, and sirius) x fem!reader
warnings: smut (MDNI 18+), anal, not proofread
a/n: everyone in my inbox always tells me how much they love when i make the boys bicker, especially in the bedroom, so i hope it's okay that i threw that in here a bunch :) i also don’t know if this is as smutty as you wanted, but i hope it’s okay!
────── ☾ ──────
Remus flicked the ashes of his cigarette out of the bedroom window, smoke leaving his lips along with a chuckle. "Yeah, right."
Sirius shrugged as he took a drag from his cigarette. "The results speak for themselves."
James, who didn't smoke because it would taint his athlete lungs (as he so humbly put it), propped one leg up as he backed up against the bed frame, adjusting his position on the floor. "You fucking wish."
"I could do that if I tried. You're not special, Pads. I just don't because I know it would be too much for a girl, especially around the full moon," Remus said.
"Oh here he goes again with his rough sex werewolf shit," James threw his hands up in the air, getting a laugh from Sirius.
"Never made a girl squirt though, have you? You stay jealous, Moons," Sirius challenged.
"Surely you know that we do not believe you," James said.
Sirius sighed, leaning back onto his mattress, propping himself up on his elbows. "Well, when her cum shot all over my face, it did feel pretty fuckin' unbelievable."
"Just because virgins think you're good in the sack doesn't mean you are," Remus chimed back in, "how are they supposed to know that there's so much better out there?"
"Oh, I'm sorry," Sirius said, leaning back up and tilting forward in Remus's direction, "I didn't realize you have a history of fuckin' making virgins squirt. I didn't realize this topic was so familiar to you, how dare I."
"It can't be that hard to make a virgin squirt, Sirius, I'm feelin' like that's pretty easy," James said.
"The real challenge is with experienced girls," Remus said, blowing more smoke out of the window, "You think you're all that? Get back to me when you make someone impossible to please come. Not even to squirt, just to come."
Sirius diverted his gaze from Remus to James, who looked to Remus, who looked back at James, who then turned to Sirius. "That a challenge?" Sirius asked.
"Maybe it is."
"Well if I'm gonna try, you're gonna try, you fucking asshole," Sirius told Remus.
"What, is James just off the hook? We all know he can't do it anyways."
James threw his hands up again. "I can do it."
"Okay, so pick a girl," Sirius said, raising his brows in challenge.
In a mocking voice, Remus joked, "but how will we ever find a girl that sex god Sirius Black can't please?"
"You think Y/N would do it?" James asked.
"You don't think that might ruin our friendship?" Remus questioned.
"Let's review," James said, standing up and beginning to count his points on his fingers, "one, we've all been friends with her for forever, so she trusts us. Two, we all know she's got experience, and we know there's a bunch of guys who haven't been able to make her come. Three, she doesn't strike me as someone who would get attached and ruin our friendships over sex. And four, perhaps the most important of all: she's hot and we all wanna fuck her."
"How the fuck do we even broach that subject?" Sirius asked, "are we supposed to ask her to let us fuck her as a competition? Do we just try to kiss her and see where it leads? This is Y/N for fucks sake."
"Correct," Remus responded, "it`'s just Y/N. I feel like it'll be way easier to ask her than some other random girl."
"Oh, Sirius has no problem asking random girls for sex," James joked, though he was serious.
"The only reason we're friends with Y/N is because she turned you down, do you remember that, Jamie?" Sirius shot back.
"She didn't turn me down, jackass, she was in a relationship. Otherwise, I would have for sure gotten to hit that."
"Big bad James and his big bad muscles on the big bad Quidditch team, ok then," Remus joked, "irresistible to all girls. Oh wait! Except for one."
"If you're jealous of my body, Moons, just say it. This," he gestured down his torso, "takes a lot of work."
"You're really talking yourself up when my skinny ass gets more girls than you do, and more boys too, for that matter. I'm sorry, which one of us has had sex with the majority of your Quidditch team? Oh, not you? Weird," Remus responded.
“You know that fraternization on the team would be frowned upon, why would you say that when you know-“
“Oh relax,” Remus cut James off.
“Doesn’t matter how many guys you get, Moons, you still can’t make Y/N come.”
“What are we, just going off the honors system here? I already don’t believe Sirius made someone squirt, you two want me to believe you if you just say you did it? Where’s the proof?” James questioned.
“Proof? What do you want us to do, suck her cum up in a syringe, you fucking weirdo?” Remus replied.
“No no, it’s a fair point,” Sirius chimed in, “I don’t believe half the shit you tell me anyway.”
“Ok, so what do you wanna do then? Fuck her at the same time?” Remus asked.
James and Sirius exchanged a long glance.
“You two aren’t serious.”
James and Sirius both shrugged.
“I’m not fucking her with you two idiots in the room ruining it,” Remus said.
“Oh, I beg to differ,” Sirius said, “I’d only make it better. For her especially.”
“Would not.”
“Would too.”
“You think you’re such a fucking sex god-“
“It’s not a little weird to fuck the same girl at the same time? What are we gonna do, take turns?” James asked.
“She’s got three holes,” Sirius said.
“Okay, but the entire point of fucking her is to see who can actually make her come, idiot,” Remus said, “so obviously that doesn’t matter. I’m not sticking my dick somewhere that I’ll be able to feel one of yours, guys.”
“Why not?” James asked genuinely.
“Because, because-“
“Because, because, come on, Rem, it’s only weird if you make it weird. I’ve seen your dick before.”
“Me changing in front of you is not the same as us fucking someone at the same time.”
“The thought of watching her get railed by one of us doesn’t do anything for you?” James asked.
Remus blinked, unable to cohesively think of a rebuttal. “I mean.”
“Mhm,” Sirius nodded.
“Okay, so it’s agreed, we’re all gonna fuck her with the rest of us there so we have proof we aren’t lying, and we’re gonna see who can make her come,” James said.
“What if we can all make her come?” Remus asked.
“Then whoever does it first?” James tried.
“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything, I mean what if she comes harder for one of us? Once she comes it’s gonna be too easy to make her come again. Like that’s not a good gage,” Sirius said.
“No no, we share space equitably. No one hogs any part of her. Whoever makes her come first, wins,” Remus said.
“Wins what, exactly?” Sirius said.
James shrugged. “Let’s let her decide.”
────── ☾ ──────
Your gaze diverted between the three boys in front of you, your book laying open in your lap as you adjusted your cross-legged position on the common room couch. “Are you joking?”
“Nope,” said Sirius.
You processed for a few moments. “Okay, and what exactly do you get if you make me come first?” you asked.
James dipped his head and smirked. “We were uh- we were actually gonna let you decide that one.”
You raised your brows. “You were, were you?”
“…Yeah.”
You nodded your head up and down, thinking and processing. “And you all just assumed I’d say yes?”
“Honestly I don’t think we ever got that far,” Remus admitted.
“Right, right,” you said, “right.”
“You can say no, you know,” Sirius said.
You turned toward him. “I know.”
“So are you saying no?” he asked.
“No,” you replied, quicker than you anticipated.
“Are you saying yes?” Sirius pressed.
You pondered Sirius’s question. “Can I have a day or two to think about it?”
“Of course, of course,” James said.
Luckily you had plans in Hogsmeade the next day, which gave you an opportunity to give the boys an answer.
When Dorcas and Mary left the Hog’s Head early to “work on some overdue assignments,” you were left alone with the boys.
“So I have an answer for you,” you said.
“Already?” Remus said.
“Yeah, already, jackass.”
“And?”
“I’m down.”
All three boys exchanged glances. “Yeah?”
“Don’t act so surprised. You said no strings, you guys are hot, and fuck if I don’t need a good orgasm. The boys around here don’t do it for me, as you well know.” You’d tipsily told them several times how none of the boys at school could make you come.
“And you think we can?”
“If you’re really gonna try this hard, I think at least one of you has a shot. With all the sex you have? Please. If one of you can’t make me come, no one can. It’s worth a shot, and three tries is better than one.”
“Oh, so you’re using us?” Sirius joked.
“Mm, only because you guys wanted to use me first,” you lightheartedly shot back.
“Fair enough,” Sirius surrendered.
The conversation quickly shifted when butterbeers and pumpkin juices arrived, and all attention turned toward drinking games and late-night escapades.
As you walked through the cool-breezed, darkened streets of Hogsmeade, you took note of the lack of people around. You were sure the boys didn't notice.
"Where are you going?" Remus asked, watching you drift toward an alleyway.
You made a come-hither motion at the boys as you stepped into the alleyway, scanning quickly for any sign of life and finding none.
"What are you-" you grabbed Remus's face, cutting him off with a kiss. Without a second thought, Remus's hands found your waist, pulling you closer to him on instinct.
Both you and Remus were experienced enough to turn the kiss into a heated exchange quickly. You bit his bottom lip, and in turn, he took the moment of disconnection to slip his tongue into your mouth.
He took steps forward, backing you up until your back collided with the outer brick siding of Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop. Remus pulled away, thinking he had slammed your body into the wall too hard, but you immediately pulled him back. His body had no choice but to respond immediately, his hand holding the side of your jaw in place as his lips traveled down to the side of your neck.
The gap of his face in front of yours allowed you time to open your eyes and see Sirius and James watching the exchange intently.
"Guess Remus is going first then?" you teased.
"No, no, that's not the arrangement," Sirius said, "we all said no hogging. We all get equal shots. Move the fuck over."
Sirius grabbed your throat and pulled you forward into a kiss, causing Remus to stumble to the side in defeat.
Remus gestured to James to do what was just done to him to Sirius, but James wasn't one to fight for attention. James was one to wait until he was wanted, and until you were begging from attention from him. He would wait his turn patiently.
"Heathens," he snickered, "let her breathe for 2 seconds, would ya?"
Sirius pulled away, but his hand remained on your throat. "I'm sorry, I don't see you winning right now, do I? Shut up and maybe you'll learn something."
He resumed kissing you, and his hand dropped from your throat, tracing down your body until it landed between your legs. He pulled away to look into your eyes. You gave him a "yes" nod to signal that you consented to his touches.
That was the moment Remus decided he was done standing there like an idiot.
He dropped to his knees directly beside Sirius, tracing his fingers tauntingly slowly up your thighs, aiming for under your house-colored skirt.
Sirius noticed his efforts, and their hands collided directly on your underwear.
Like petulant little boys, you felt Sirius smack Remus's hand away, then Remus's hand smack him back, and then Sirius pulled his hand out from under your shirt and smacked Remus on the side of the head.
"Ass," Remus said his body moving sideways, causing his hand to leave its place under your skirt, "what the fuck was that for?"
"No one said we have to play fair," Sirius replied, shoving his hand back under your skirt and cupping between your thighs.
You barely reacted apart from a small gasp.
"You really are a tough one, huh?" Sirius teased, his hand falling for a moment.
Smirking, you responded, "you wanna make me come? You're gonna have to put in the work. Unless you think you can't handle it? Too busy fucking girls and not women?"
"Working me up is only gonna make this more intense for you," Sirius taunted, "you're playing a dangerous game."
"Don't listen to him, he's a cocky fuck," James laughed from behind Sirius.
You shifted your hips and let out a small moan. Sirius thought his words were really working you up, until he looked down to see that Remus had not only snuck his way between your legs while you and Sirius were talking, but that his head disappeared under your skirt.
Sirius decided to let Remus do some of the hard work before he chimed back in to bring you to the edge, so he stepped back, crossing his arms and sighing as he stood next to James. "At least flip the skirt up for me, gorgeous."
You pulled your skirt up, bunching it up and tucking it into its own waistband, leaving Remus visible, and when he pulled away to breathe, your core as well.
Remus flicked his tongue over your clit, one hand on your hip hooking a thumb around the fabric of your underwear to keep it to the side. Your fingers intertwined into his soft curls, keeping him in place as he moved his tongue faster and faster.
"You're kinda good at this," you spoke breathily, earning a moan of acknowledgement, the vibrations adding to your pleasure.
James decided to step in, standing to your side and turning your face toward him to finally take his turn at a kiss. The kiss was slow and passionate, the intimacy of it making you even wetter for Remus between your legs. His glasses fogged up due to the heat radiating off of your body.
When James pulled away, he kept a hand under your chin to keep your eyes on him instead of Remus. Remus's unoccupied hand began to take over his tongue's spot, circling your clit as he moved his face further back, teasing your entrance.
You let out a moan, staring into James's eyes. James nodded when you made the noise. "Good girl, that feel good?"
"Mhm," you responded, moaning again.
Remus's tongue began to fuck into you, his hand still working your clit. You used your hand to press his face further into you, refusing to give up the pleasure. You so rarely were properly pleasured by men, since they were typically unfamiliar with how to actually work their way around a woman's body, but you had a feeling that at least one of these three had to know what they were doing. You hoped it would be all of them.
As far as who you wanted to win, well, you didn't really have a preference. Honestly, all of them were hot, and you would be happy coming for any of them. Of course, there was a little bit of stake in the game. They allowed you to pick the prize for whoever won. You hadn't told them yet, but the prize would be you. Consistent sex-capades with the one girl around who could truly do it for them? That's a prize in itself.
You knew they had a lot of sex. You knew they slept with a ton of people, but you also knew that they were usually the ones giving the pleasure, not receiving it. The prize? That would change.
"Fuck, Jamie," you moaned, still staring into his eyes as Remus ate you out.
Remus pulled away, his hand never stopping as he said, "that's not fucking fair, I'm the one doing the work down here. He didn't even earn his name."
"And you think you did?" James challenged.
"She's only moanin' cus of me," Remus shot back.
"Well, you clearly haven't made her come, and you've been down there long enough," James said, "my turn."
Remus had the same thought as Sirius, and opted to let James do some of the work as well.
He sighed and backed up, and James dropped to his knees.
Despite being on his knees, James gripped the back of your thighs, hoisting you up so that your thighs were resting on his shoulders. You squealed in surprise at his strength.
"You're strong," you said.
"You have no idea," he responded, gripping your ass and pushing you into his face, immediately beginning to move his tongue at a rapid pace, his head shaking back and forth from the speed.
"Oh fuck," you moaned, throwing your head back and knocking it against the brick, "fuck, just like that."
Sirius approached again, standing directly behind James an pushing his head further into you. He leaned over James and kissed you, swallowing to whimper that followed.
James refused to stop, eating you out like he was starving. Each time you made a noise that Sirius found hot, he pushed James's head harder into you. James didn't let out a single noise of protest.
You looked down and spotted Sirius's hand on James's head, forcing him to increase the pleasure his mouth was giving you, and it caused your core to flex.
"Fuck," you gasped, "oh my god, James, fuck."
"Earned his name, I see," Sirius teased, turning to Remus.
Remus pretended to act annoyed, but anyone could see his dick straining against his pants for dear life. Even if the name you moaned wasn't his, it was still hot nevertheless, and he knew it would be his name when he was the one making you come. He had no doubts. Why not let James and Sirius have a little fun first?
Part of the reason you were so hard to make come was that man didn't understand that just eating out or just penetration wasn't enough for you. These boys had no idea that as long as they remained kneeling between your legs, they were already way off.
It took ten minutes of James eating you out before he took a breath. "Fucking hell, are you close?"
You giggled. "I don't know, am I?"
Remus caught on. "You need to be fucked, huh?"
"Okay fuck you, she might actually be close," James said, but stood up anyways.
"Didn't you guys pick me because you knew it wouldn't be easy?" you asked.
James gripped your chin and pulled your face against his, trapping you in a heated kiss to remind you that he could, in fact, make you feel good.
“Up,” Remus said, snaking his arms around your thighs, prompting you to jump and wrap your legs around his hips.
You watched in the gap between your bodies as Remus pushed everything below the waist down, exposing his long, slender cock.
He gently pressed his forehead against yours, looking between your bodies as well as he lined himself up with your entrance. He waited a moment for you to revoke consent, but when you didn’t, he pushed himself into you.
You tilted your head back as he bottomed out, barely giving you any time to adjust before he started fucking you.
You locked your legs behind him, crossing your feet to keep you in place. He kept his hands under your thighs to hold you up as he fucked you, his lips trailing down to your jawline.
“Shit, Remus,” you moaned.
The use of his name only egged him on more, causing him to start fucking into you faster. “Good fucking girl, I can feel you squeezing me,” he whispered into your air.
You whined and whimpered as his cock pumped in out of you, and Remus was beginning to lose control.
You squirmed momentarily, and Remus grabbed your hand in his own, moving it over your head and pinning it against the brick wall. “Stay fucking still.”
You saw a window of opportunity, and arched your back. “Or what?” you breathily asked.
Remus nearly growled, immediately dropping your hand and wrapping his fingers around your throat. He snapped his hips harshly, not caring about the competition anymore, just caring about fucking you the hardest you’ve ever been fucked. His hand pressed your neck into the brick, rendering you unable to move your head. In tandem with deep thrusts, he repeated, “stay. Fucking. Still.”
You obeyed.
You opened your eyes and spotted James, who was covering half of his face with his hand, breathing deeply to maintain self control. The eye contact only added to your arousal, because James’s eyes were trained on you so intensely that you almost couldn’t handle it.
Your hands explored Remus’s body, feeling muscles on his arms that you couldn’t see in the light of day on his relatively skinny frame. You pawed at his hips, involuntarily trying to push each thrust even further into you.
Sirius approached you two, his cock in hand as he gently stroked himself. “Let her off the wall.”
Remus, sweaty and losing breath, removed his lips from sucking your jawline to look at Sirius. “I’m fucking occupied.”
“Let her off the wall,” Sirius repeated, “I didn’t say you had to stop fucking her.”
Remus dipped his head into the crook of your neck. “I fucking hate you,” he said, directed as Sirius, but he remembered the terms he agreed to, and knew he was hogging you. So he moved his hands to your thighs again, and stepped backward from the building, his cock still in you.
The shifting of his hips as he moved was causing stimulation without Remus even trying.
Remus turned so that your back was to Sirius, and he resumed fucking you, slower this time. His arms moved you slightly up and down to aid in his thrusts, his hips moving the best he could without you pressed against the wall.
Sirius pressed your back against his chest, his head dipping into the crook of your neck as he began to kiss your shoulder, your neck, and your jawline, until he turned your head sideways and kissed you.
You allowed your body to fall into him, Remus’s thrusts causing you to jerk upward every few seconds. Sirius fought to hold your head against his, but honestly you moving due to getting fucked only made him harder.
“You ever done this back here before?” Sirius whispered to you.
“Mhm,” you responded, barely able to speak from how hard Remus was thrusting into you.
Sirius spit into his hand and rubbed it up and down his cock, preparing himself.
“Stop for a second,” Sirius told Remus.
“Fuck no,” Remus said, lost in pleasure.
“Stop for a second or this could hurt her, dumbass,” Sirius clarified.
Remus stopped thrusting and pressed his forehead to your collarbone, catching his breath for a second and trying to stay still until he could resume movement.
Sirius lined himself up, wrapping one hand around your stomach, and using the other hand to hold your ass up as he slowly pushed himself into your ass.
You leaned your head back onto his shoulder, allowing him to take his time stretching you.
“Would you fucking hurry up?” Remus snapped, clearly annoyed.
“You can wait 10 more seconds,” Sirius replied, trying to focus on restraint.
“Shouldn’t have to, selfish fuck.”
“I’m selfish? Who just stood here fucking her without me or James getting-“
“Just fucking get to it,” Remus was losing control by the second.
“That’s what I’m doing, thank you very much.”
“It’s just like you to be cocky while you’re literally sticking your dick in-“
“Well maybe if you stopped fucking distracting me then I-“
“Would you two please shut up and fuck me?” you chimed in.
Sirius was finally bottomed out, and he tested the waters by thrusting only an inch or two at a time. Once he started a normal pace, Remus began his own relentless pace again, barely even acknowledging that Sirius was there.
When Remus thrusted in, jerking you backward, Sirius would take the opportunity to thrust forward as well, the two boys not having to move a ton because you were being tossed between their cocks, the movements giving you makeshift thrusts.
“James,” you said.
He perked up, somewhat shocked that you said his name while sandwiched between his two best friends.
“Yeah?”
“I need you to touch me,” you said.
Remus and Sirius both looked up to acknowledge what was happening, but ended up looking up directly at each other.
They stayed watching each other for a moment, their breaths staggered and their faces glistening from sweat.
Sirius reached past you and grabbed the back of Remus’s head, pulling him in.
Sirius and Remus’s lips collided directly next to you, and the sight of them kissing as they both fucked you almost did you in.
Almost. James approached your other side, not daring to interrupt the hotness of the kiss, and he placed his own soft kiss on your temple.
“You want me to touch you?” he teased.
“Please, Jamie,” you were not above pleading to get what you want.
James ran his hand down your body, which was still bouncing up and down, slowly dragging between your breast area and down your stomach. He stilled just under your skirt’s waistband.
“Ask me for it again,” James said.
“Please touch me, James, I need it so bad.”
His hand moved lower.
“How bad? You need me to make you come?”
“I need it, I wanna come, please Jamie, please.”
“Atta girl,” he said.
He kissed you as he began circling your clit with his finger. You moaned into the kiss, garnering the attention of Sirius and Remus, who breathily pulled away from one another to watch your body react to now being touched.
You leaned back against Sirius, your moans escalating in both frequency and volume.
“Oh m- fuck, I’m gonna come,” you moaned.
Sirius and Remus both began to fuck you harder, but you stopped them quickly.
“No, no, do what you were doing,” you said, “don’t escalate. Fuck me like you were.”
The boys both resumed their previous pace, and you felt the knot begin to form in your stomach.
James applied a slight bit more pressure to your clit, and you knew you were in for it.
“I’m coming, I-“
You came hard, your wetness completely coating Remus’s cock as your orgasm washed over you. It was so intense, likely from your body not being used to men making you come like this, that your legs started to shake. You would have fallen if it weren’t for two boys holding you between them.
James gradually slowed his hand down, kissing you through the orgasm to help calm you down.
Remus couldn’t help himself but join you. He hit your cervix with three brutal thrusts as he allowed himself to come, his head resting on your shoulder as he took a breath.
After you and Remus had calmed down, Sirius pulled out of you, allowing Remus to place you down. You stayed clinging onto Remus, not convinced that your legs would work after being hoisted up for so long.
Sirius had already taken a step back to finish himself off, roaring lowly as he came and painted a brick on the wall white.
That left James, who looked completely pleased and content.
“You didn’t-“
“Oh, I did,” James said, looking down.
You spotted the wet patch between his legs, and realized that James came without any stimulation of his own, but just from watching all of you and doing to you what he did.
Remus finally pulled out of you, stepping back from you and running his fingers through his hair. “Fuck.”
After a few minutes of everyone resetting and catching their breath, it was Sirius who finally asked, “so? Who won?”
“Clearly me,” James said, “she asked me to touch her, and that’s what did her in.”
“I’m sorry, whose cock was hitting her g-spot?” Remus smiled.
“It was the DP that did it, obviously, idiots,” Sirius defended himself.
They all turned to you.
“Tie.”
“No no no, it’s not a fucking tie,” Sirius said, walking back over to you, “which one of us did it for you? You have to pick one.”
“No I don’t,” you shrugged.
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I don’t, Sirius,” you said, “I’m allowed to decide it’s a tie. I’m not in your little competition, I don’t have to follow any rules. It’s a tie.”
“But-“
“You were all fucking me at the same time, what did you expect?”
“So- so who gets whatever the winner gets, then?” James asked.
“All of you, I guess.”
“Yeah? And what do we all get?” Remus asked.
“Well, you all just came, so I guess you gotta wait,” you responded.
James raised his brows. “The prize is a blowjob? From you?”
“Yeah,” you said, “as many as you want, whatever you want with me, whenever you want, yeah.”
Remus smirked. Sirius chuckled and smiled wide, and James was still in disbelief.
hi! i adore your smau so so much! i have a request bc i found this hilarious in a way, smau how about reader asking the batboys to hold it while they pee? but if you feel uncomfortable by this request please just skip this. thank you!
Can I hold it?
featuring: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Duke Thomas, Bruce Wayne
warning: MDNI!, suggestive!
A/N: Hiii I’m really glad you enjoy the smaus & I love your Idea! <33 Hope you like this one🫶🏻
summary: your boyfriend doesn't like seeing you work so late and tries to get you into bed at all costs.
masterlist
Spencer knew that with you, five more minutes never meant anything exact.
There were mornings when you asked to stay in bed for five more minutes and, when the alarm went off again, you convinced him to remain by your side with insistent kisses and arms wrapped around his waist. There were afternoons when you read together on the couch and begged him to continue the story for just five more minutes, even though you both knew you would end up reading an entire chapter.
But there were also those occasions when you had somewhere to be and assured him you would be ready in five minutes. Then you would surprise him by appearing at the door barely two minutes later, completely prepared.
However, there was one version of those five minutes that Spencer hated.
The one that happened when you were working.
He didn’t know what woke him that night. Maybe some distant noise outside. Maybe the need to use the bathroom. Or maybe that hollow, unpleasant feeling of the empty space beside him.
When he opened his eyes, the room was submerged in darkness. He turned his head toward the bedside clock and discovered it was already quite late.
He let out a tired sigh before sitting up. He rubbed his face with one hand and searched for his slippers by touch. The thin line of light slipping beneath the door told him exactly where you were.
He found you in the same position he had left you in hours earlier; sitting in front of the computer, surrounded by papers, your attention fixed on a task that apparently still wasn’t finished.
When he had gone to bed, you had promised him you would finish soon and come back.
“Five more minutes,” you had said.
Clearly, those five minutes had already expired.
“Why are you still here?”
His voice, rough with sleep, made you jump slightly.
You looked up, and a guilty expression crossed your face.
“Sorry, sweetheart, it’s just... I haven’t been able to finish this. Five more minutes, okay?”
Spencer closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath before nodding. He was still struggling to stay awake, but he crossed the room anyway.
Without saying anything, he headed to the bathroom and took care of his business.
You assumed that after hearing the toilet flush, the next thing would be his footsteps returning to the bedroom. That was why it surprised you to see him appear in the dining room again. And even more when he sat down across from you.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’ll wait here. Five minutes.”
An incredulous smile appeared on your face. At first, you thought he was joking.
But then you met his gaze. Serious, determined, and just a little sleepy.
You frowned slightly.
“Love, go to sleep. I’ll be there in a moment.”
“I’ll wait,” he insisted.
He rested one arm on the table and let his cheek fall into the palm of his hand.
“Besides, I can’t sleep when you’re not there.”
You watched him for several seconds over the top of your screen. At that point, it was impossible to focus completely on your work when Spencer was sitting across from you, making such an obvious effort to stay awake.
He blinked more slowly than usual and, every so often, his eyes seemed to lose focus for a moment before settling back on you. His hair was messy from the pillow, and the marks of sleep were still visible on his face. He looked exhausted. Completely exhausted.
Guilt slowly began to settle in your chest.
“Spencer...”
“Hm?”
His response came a few seconds later, distracted and sleepy.
A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips.
“You know I don’t want to be here.”
He lifted his eyes to meet yours.
“I know.”
“I’d rather be sleeping with you.”
“I know that too.”
You sighed and looked back at the screen. The document was still there, unfinished and urgent, waiting for you with the same indifference it had shown all night.
“But I need to finish this.”
“I know.”
The ease with which he answered drew a brief, tired laugh from you.
Because, of course, Spencer understood.
He understood deadlines. Responsibilities. The anxiety that came from leaving something unfinished, knowing it would continue taking up space in your head until it was done. He himself had spent countless nights awake, chasing a lead, reviewing reports, or analyzing the details of a case long after any reasonable person would have gone to bed.
“I’m not staying because I think you should leave it unfinished,” he said after a moment, with that characteristic calm that always managed to disarm you. “I just want to keep you company.”
You felt something tighten inside your chest. And looking up again was a mistake, because only seconds later you saw his head droop.
It was subtle. Such a brief movement that someone else might not have noticed it at all. His head dipped forward slightly, and his eyelids closed for a second before he quickly opened them again, as if hoping no one had seen.
“Spencer...”
“I’m awake.”
The denial would have been much more convincing if it hadn’t been accompanied by a yawn.
“Sweetheart, it’s past two in the morning.”
“And you’re still working.”
“Exactly. That’s my problem, not yours.”
“Your problems will always be my problems.”
The response was immediate, almost as if he had been waiting to say it.
“Please go to bed,” you murmured.
“In five minutes.”
You stared at him, unable to believe he was using your own tactics against you. He gave you a small, sleepy, faintly triumphant smile in return.
You tried to return to work after that conversation. For several minutes, you forced yourself to focus on the screen, reviewing documents and correcting details that, at that hour of the night, were beginning to seem increasingly confusing. Yet your attention inevitably drifted back to Spencer.
Not even a quarter of an hour had passed before, with a sigh, you pushed your chair back and stood up.
Spencer lifted his head when he heard you approaching, and a small smile appeared on his tired face.
“Finished?”
“Not yet.”
Before he could answer, you stepped between his legs. His hands found your waist almost immediately, as though the gesture was so natural he didn’t need to think about it. You rested your hands on his shoulders and closely observed the unmistakable signs of exhaustion on his face: the messy hair, the heavy eyelids, and that sleepy expression you rarely saw during the day. He was still wearing a gray pajama shirt and flannel pants.
“Hi,” he murmured.
“Hi.”
You leaned down to kiss him. It was a brief kiss at first, barely a loving brush of lips, but when you pulled away only slightly to look at him, Spencer leaned in again. Smiling, you gave him another kiss, slower this time. You felt his arms wrap around you with something close to relief.
They remained like that for several moments, enjoying the silent closeness both of you needed more than either was willing to admit.
“You know...?”
An amused smile appeared on your face before you had even finished forming the thought.
“If I didn’t know you so well, I’d say you’re a pretty manipulative boyfriend.”
Spencer let out a short laugh and shook his head.
“It’s not manipulation.”
“Yes, it is. You sit here, half asleep, refusing to go to bed so I’ll feel guilty.”
“I’m not staying so you’ll feel guilty.”
His tone was gentle, but sincere. The amusement slowly faded from his features as he looked up at you.
“I know you need to finish your work. I understand perfectly. If I were working a case and someone tried to make me leave it unfinished, I’d probably do exactly the same thing you’re doing.”
That drew a small smile from you because you knew it was true.
“Then why are you here?”
Spencer shrugged slightly.
“Because I want you to go to sleep.”
“Honey...”
“I mean it.”
His thumbs absentmindedly stroked your sides as he spoke.
“Tomorrow you’ll be exhausted, your head will hurt, and you’ll spend the entire day complaining that you should have gone to bed earlier.”
Your smile turned slightly sheepish.
“That’s happened once or twice.”
“It’s happened a lot more than twice.”
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t argue with him.
“I know you want to finish this tonight, but I also know you’ll feel a lot worse tomorrow if you’re still here three hours from now.”
For a moment, you simply watched him in silence. There was something deeply endearing about the way he said those things. They didn’t sound like criticism or impatience. Just concern.
When you saw him struggle against another yawn, whatever resistance remained in you finally crumbled.
“You win.”
Spencer blinked.
You leaned down to leave one last kiss on his lips before pulling away.
“I’ll shut down the computer and put all this away.”
“Good.”
“And then I’ll go to sleep with you.”
Spencer shook his head as he stood up and took your hand in both of his.
“Let’s go now. I’ll help you organize everything tomorrow.”
You knew that when your boyfriend got something into his head, there wasn’t a force on earth capable of changing his mind. So you simply closed your laptop and let him drag you toward the bedroom.
The room was dark, illuminated only by the faint light filtering through the curtains from the street outside. The moment he stepped through the door, Spencer kicked off his slippers and collapsed onto the mattress with a tired sigh. He seemed to have finally reached the limit of his energy. He settled beneath the sheets, rested his head on the pillow, and closed his eyes for a few seconds, as though the simple contact with the bed was enough to convince his body to surrender.
You, meanwhile, walked over to the closet to find something more comfortable to sleep in. As you changed, you couldn’t help glancing back at him from time to time. He was still awake, but barely.
One arm rested across his stomach, and his eyes were half-closed, fighting to stay conscious just to make sure you were actually going to bed.
The sight brought an involuntary smile to your face.
“You can fall asleep, you know.”
Spencer made an indistinct sound that could have been a response or simply a manifestation of pure exhaustion.
When you finished changing, you switched off the last light and walked over to the bed. The mattress dipped slightly as you settled beside him. You had barely rested your head on the pillow when Spencer moved toward you out of pure habit, still caught somewhere between wakefulness and sleep.
His arm found your waist and gently pulled you against him.
It was an automatic gesture. Familiar.
You let out a sigh as you settled beneath the sheets and rested your head against his chest. The warmth of his body, the steady sound of his breathing, and the calm rhythm of his heartbeat were infinitely more comforting than any unfinished work.
Spencer’s hand moved absentmindedly across your back in a slow caress before coming to a complete stop.
“See?” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. “Much better.”
Summary: After leaving your boyfriend some little notes of love in his lunchbox, you became very famous throughout the night shift. But you didn't know this until you had to step into the ER trying to give Jack his forgotten lunchbox.
Disclaimer: English is not my first language, so I apologize if there are any spelling or grammatical errors.
Thanks to the anon who requested a part 2 for Little Notes of Love and illuminated my brain because this little fic wasn't meant to have a part 2.
Hope you guys love it just as much as the first part.
(Sorry that this took me more time than I planned to 🙃)
The ER wasn't a place you liked. Really, you didn't enjoy being at a hospital. Ironic, since your boyfriend is an ER doctor. There is nothing specific for you to dislike about the place, it's just a hospital, and no one really likes being there. But this time, you drove voluntarily to the place all because Jack forgot his lunchbox, and your concern about the rare times your boyfriend gets to eat at his job is more important than your dislike for the hospital.
You don't really know where to get in. You're not a patient, and you're afraid that the lady at the desk would not let you in, so even if you're a little embarrassed, you get in through the ambulance bay. Your plan is not to stay too long and to bother people as little as possible. It's a very busy place, and you don't want to get in anyone's way.
You stand near the place where a desk is (the nurse station), trying to find Jack through all the people moving from one side to another so quickly that you could get dizzy.
Someone taps your shoulder, making you turn around.
“Ma’am, is everything okay? You should go through the desk at the front door.”
She said calmly with tired eyes, but she still gave you a small smile. By Jack's description, you think it's Dr. Ellis.
You smile at her, letting out a relieved sigh.
“I’m not a patient, I'm fine,” you assure her. You lift the gray lunchbox in your hand, and by the expression she makes, you think she recognizes it. “I’m looking for my boyfriend, he's an attending here,” you explain to her.
“So you are the mysterious Lady Notes, huh?” she said, smiling widely, her eyes suddenly bright with interest.
Your cheeks burn because you never thought that Jack would show them the notes, or that they would see them.
“Guess I am,” you said, telling her your actual name, but something tells you that you're stuck with Lady Notes.
“I’m Dr. Parker Ellis,” she introduced herself by shaking your hand. “Follow me.”
You do. She guides you through the nurse station toward a nurse who looks like she is in charge, and by the look she gives you above her reading glasses and Jack's description, you think she's Lena. By her side, there is a tall man who looks completely relaxed and not even bothered by the rush of the ED.
“Look who finally visited us,” Parker said, too excited.
You stay a few steps behind, a little embarrassed by the attention the three of them give you, and again, they seem to recognize you the moment they see the gray lunchbox in your hands.
Lena gives you a full smile, looking really excited, while Shen just says:
“You are Mysterious Lady Notes?” he asked, taking a sip from his Dunkin' coffee, looking as surprised as he could.
Lena gave him a look that made him shrug.
“You are beautiful, hon,” she said, walking toward you. “I’m Lena, the charge nurse from the night shift.” She smiles at you, and you give her your best smile as you introduce yourself to her.
“I don't want to disturb you or anyone. Jack forgot his lunchbox, so I thought I'd stop by and give it to him,” you explain.
“You don't disturb anyone. We all have been waiting to meet the woman who has softened Abbott.”
And you can clearly see that because of how excited the three of them seem at your presence, and their reactions attract more people.
“I thought Jack was having hallucinations when he said he would take five minutes to eat the lunch his girlfriend made for him,” Shen told you from where he was standing a few steps back from Lena. He had been talking about something with Parker before. “I’m Dr. Shen.”
You tell your name again, giggling at his comment.
You told yourself it was going to be a quick visit: give Jack his lunchbox, a kiss, and then head back to your apartment to sleep. But twenty minutes later, you have said your name more times than in your entire life, introducing yourself to anyone who tells you, “You're the mysterious Lady Notes.” You get to know Nurse Mateo, Dr. Henderson, the student Nazly, Nurse Vivi, and you think that by that point, you have met everyone who works there.
“What is happening here?” a well-known voice cut through the crowd surrounding the nurse station.
Jack stood there waiting for an explanation when his eyes met yours, and realization quickly hit him.
“Okay, you guys, stop overwhelming my missus.” He walked toward you, placing himself by your side and resting one of his hands on your lower back as usual.
“I don't think you get to call her missus if you haven't married her yet,” Mateo said playfully, pointing to your bare ring finger.
Jack looks at the nurse, narrowing his eyes, and points at him.
“Careful, or you'll spend the rest of the night with the bad cases,” he warns while the rest of the people laugh.
“He’s right, Abbott. I have no idea how you haven't put a ring on that finger already,” Parker says, raising both eyebrows.
If your cheeks were warm before, now your face was burning hot. All the eyes were on the two of you, and everyone was supporting Ellis and Mateo's thoughts.
“Okay, okay, all of you, leave them alone. Go back to your jobs. There are sick people who need you all,” Lena commands with a tone of voice that actually scares you, and it is a warning for everyone because they all say goodbye to you and go back to work as soon as they can.
Jack guides you to an empty room. Your face is hot, but the wide smile is something nobody could get rid of no matter what they said.
“So I'm the mysterious Lady Notes,” you said, giggling.
He looks at you in that intense way that only he is able to do, that hazel gaze that makes your legs tremble like jelly and your heart race so hard that you can hear it in your ears.
He huffed, rolling his eyes at your words.
“They insisted on calling you that until they knew you,” he mumbled, trying to look irritated but failing because of the smile growing on his face.
His hands go instinctively to your waist, and your arms settle around his neck. There is not an inch separating the two of you. You brush your nose against his, which finally makes him give you that crooked smile you love so much.
Jack didn't wait. He kissed you, not caring that anyone could walk in and catch you.
“You forgot your lunchbox,” you said through the kiss.
He breaks the kiss but rests his forehead against yours.
“And you brought it to me instead of going to sleep when you have to work early,” he whispered in disbelief.
“Your shift is long. You need to eat, and I don't trust the vending machine,” you said as if it wasn't a point of comparison, and just imagining him eating something from the vending machine felt like a betrayal.
He shakes his head and lets out a little laugh.
“I love you.” He leaves a kiss on your temple and another on your cheek.
“I love you too,” you respond, leaving a short kiss on his lips.
You wanted to stay a little longer, but you saw that the ER was full and that you had already attracted too much attention and distracted several people. You didn't want to take up too much of the chief attending's time.
“I’ll see you in the morning.” You leave the lunchbox in his hands and another kiss on his lips. “Eat something,” you said, pointing at him with your index finger like a threat.
He just smiles at you.
“I will. See you in the morning.” He watches you disappear through the door.
He's quick to open the lunchbox, finding just what he wanted: a little Post-it note. It was white, and written on it was:
“Lovely grumpy doctor, if you ever forget your lunchbox again, you will be temporarily banned from these masterpieces that I put my heart into.
(I’m being very serious, please don't forget to eat like you forgot your lunchbox.)
Should I be worried about memory problems? They are very common at your age.
Your beautiful girlfriend ;)”
He lets out a laugh, shaking his head.
That one was going to his locker.
Jack keeps the Post-it in his scrub pocket after reading it a few more times before Parker finds him and tells him that they have an incoming trauma. She also tries to see what the note says, but he makes sure to hide it from her view.
It was just for him.
After the trauma and doing some rounds, he finally has time to sit and do some charts. But peace was something that never happened in the ER, and definitely after your visit, he would know no peace for a while.
“What?” he asked Lena, who was looking at him above her reading glasses.
She gives him a look that Jack completely ignores.
“What are you waiting for?” she said as if it were obvious. “She deserves that damn rock on her finger.” It was more of an order than a suggestion.
Jack goes back to his chart, but the last thing he was thinking about was the patient. He would be lying if he said he hadn't thought about it, but it had only been a year and a half since the two of you started officially dating. He didn't want to scare you. Even though you didn't seem bothered by the comments his co-workers made, maybe you thought they were just kidding and trying to bother him.
There was nothing that he would like more than to call you his wife, Mrs. Abbott, seeing you stop signing your notes with “girlfriend” and replacing it with “your wife,” the title you deserve because there was nothing in that life that would make Jack let you go.
You were stuck with him for the rest of your life. What better way than to make it official?
Since your visit to the ER, your discomfort with the hospital has faded, and you have visited more often, dropping Jack off and picking him up, always making a little entrance to say hello and gossip a little with Lena, Ellis, and Shen.
Now you make sure to pack Jack more food than before and tell him specifically which bowls are for each nightcrawler: the dark blue one for Mateo, the red one for Parker, the green one for Shen, and so on with the rest of the crew.
He complains, telling you that you are spoiling them. But deep inside, he loves how you worry about all of them, so he gives them all the bowls, threatening that if they don't return them empty at the end of their shift, they will be stuck at triage for an entire week.
But something that keeps staying on his mind, and that everyone keeps telling him, even Dana and Robby, is about the ring that is missing from your finger.
It doesn't sound like a rushed step if everyone keeps telling him that he's been taking a long time.
I have to admit I was smiling like an idiot while writing this 😽
I hate that I have to be that person on release day, but if I see you all passing around the Shawn Hatosy “Yes, Chef” audio like a Google Drive heirloom, I am going to personally call Shawn Hatosy to snitch on you…
Quinn is a small, woman-owned platform built to pay writers and voice actors. Quinn is a team of 11 people! This is not like Netflix where pirating it is sticking it to a corporation. It is directly cutting the people who made it out of getting paid. It also violates their terms and can get content taken down, which ruins it for everyone.
Also, these audios are intimate. Voice actors are performing vulnerability and desire for an audience that is choosing to be there. They’re mature, interested, and engaged. Leaking that outside of that space is invasive. Do not leak it. Do not be a creep.
If it is good enough to be foaming at the mouth over within hours, it is good enough to pay a few dollars for. Do not be strange about art you claim to love.
You experience a sub drop after hooking up with a date. Dr Abbot takes care of you.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader
Word count: 9.5k+
Tags: Requited unrequited love; Dom/sub dynamics; Sub drop; Subspace; Soft Dom Jack Abbot; Assumed sexual assault (it never happened); Reader has tattoos; Reader is multilingual; Negative self talk; implied Bad BDSM etiquette (from previous partner); AFAB reader; NSFW content (Oral sex, Fingering, P in V sex).
Credits: PSD colouring by gloomglimmer. Template inspired by louestat. Textures by cavalierfou.
Notes: Title is from Hadestown’s All I’ve Ever Known. Consider it the 1 song playlist to this fic/series.
Probably inaccurate sub drop/subspace experience but fuck it, we ball. Abbot also thinks that you were SA’d but it didn’t happen so tread carefully if that’s a trigger for you.
Cross posted to AO3.
Part 1 | Blurb 1 | Part 2 | Blurb 2 | Series tag.
You hand him the wrong sized needle.
“14 gauge,” Jack snaps.
You blink, hard. Frowning. How the Hell did you mess that up? You swap out the needles, uttering a quick sorry.
Head in the fucking game, you tell yourself. Eyes on the target—you cannot fuck up in the middle of a procedure. Just because some guy can’t be bothered calling you back? People are literally dying in the walls of the hospital. You cannot afford to be so vapid that you’re more worried about unread text messages and zero call backs.
You refuse to fail anywhere else, hovering, anticipating the doctors’ needs before they verbalise it. This is what makes you valuable to the team. They’ve said it again and again—they need more nurses like you.
And especially in front of Jack. You admire him—respect him a lot. You never wanted to be a doctor, but you love working as a nurse. With him. Being useful to him and the night shift.
“Swap out with Tim in Trauma 1,” Jack says, eyes darting to you.
“You got it, boss.” You don’t even try to argue with what you think is his judgement call of getting you out of his way. Making you someone else’s problem.
The thing was, he noticed. Of course he fucking noticed. Nothing happened in the ED, to his staff, without his knowledge. It was his job as an attending to ensure he was on top of it.
He noticed it in your docile greeting, normally a little more upbeat. He noticed it in the questioning look that Parker shot him when you were quieter than usual, citing the fact that you were tired. When Shen picked up on your dour mood, offering some coffee that you flatly dismissed, telling him you weren’t in the mood. For coffee, or for him; you left it up to interpretation.
It was downright rude. Rude and you didn’t go together. It was why they liked having you on night shift.
It worries him. The not knowing. The questioning. The way everyone looks to him for answers and he can’t provide them. You’re usually the kind one, the one that’s happy to help. But today, there’s a cloud hanging over you. Something bogging you down.
“What’s going on?” Shen whispers, nodding his chin towards you. You’re at the desk in central, blankly staring at the screen more so than typing the notes you should be inputting.
“Don’t know,” Jack confesses, and he hates that he doesn’t know. So much for being the one that protects the hive. As much as he makes himself the reliable one that everyone, especially his night shift team, can depend on, someone always falls through the cracks. “Been weird all day.”
“There you are,” Lena says, walking up to lean against the desk. Hovering over you. “We need you in central 8. Patient barely speaks English. Wanna see if you know what language she knows?”
You shoot her a clearly unimpressed look. “Right, because I must speak every language under the sun,” you bite out.
Lena pauses, eyes narrowed at you. “Are you—?”
“Hey.” Jack steps in, frowning. Not that he thinks it’ll escalate into a fight, but he’d rather not entertain that possibility. Night shift was meant to be chill; have less personality clashes compared to day shifts. Less staff, as well, which was why it was essential everyone worked well within the team. “Lena asked for a favour.”
You look away from him, cowed. Chastised—again. “Central 8, yes sir.”
You scurry off to the patient in central 8—Indonesian, which happened to be a language that you taught yourself for the fun of it, years ago. This isn’t even the first time they’ve asked you to try and communicate with a patient in another language. Ridiculously, it’s the first time you’ve taken offence to it.
You and Princess have a bet on who could learn the most additional languages. It’s been a long 18 months since she and Perlah initiated the bet. You refuse to lose, and Princess is competitive. Between the two of you, you’ve got a conversational handle on a minimum of 15 languages right now. It’s circulated around the hospital like common knowledge at this point.
“Hey.” Lena follows you when you’re exiting the room. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to imply anything—”
“It’s okay,” you say, quick. You feel embarrassed by your earlier reaction. “Really. I’m sorry. I’m feeling really crabby today, and I took it out on you. I’m really sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.” You’re absently massaging the back of your neck in a self-soothing fashion, and it’s the only reason she sees.
“Whoa,” Lena gasps. “Hey, did someone hurt you?” Ever the medical professional, she steps close, reaching.
Really, it’s on you. The bodily flinch before she makes contact with your shoulder. You both know she’s done it before—calming, gentle touches. Reassuring. Maternal. Her and Dana, mother henning the hospital when they step into the role of the respective shift’s charge nurse. You’ve always accepted those.
Except this time, your skin feels like it’s burning and itching at the same time.
She stares at you.
You feel frozen, heart thudding too fast in your chest. A dramatic reaction to a familiar touch. A mountain out of a mole hill.
“Hey—” Lena starts, softer. Like you’re a wounded animal in need of comfort.
“South 16’s opened.” Jack’s voice, clear and sharp.
You wince, pivoting to the side, where his eyes are on you. “I don’t need—”
“Get in there.” And his tone brooks no room for argument. “Now.”
With a sigh, you march yourself into south 16. Jack follows after a few minutes, no doubt gathering whatever supplies he thinks he needs. Door closed, curtain drawn.
You’re both silent, waiting for the other to cave. You’re perched on the edge of the bed. He’s standing by the door.
He breaks first. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”
“Nothing’s going on.”
His jaw clenches. Takes a seat on the stool. Wheels it to the foot of the bed. “I need to see how bad it is,” he says, carefully. Like he’s actively choosing every word.
“Nothing’s bad. Nothing hurts.”
Which, apparently, is the wrong thing to say, based on the breath released between his teeth. Maybe the right thing would have been to deny any source of pain.
He says your name, eyes analytical as he studies you. Something in his face softens. Pushing the stool back. “Would you be more comfortable if I got Dr Ellis or Lena to do the examination?”
You frown. “What examination?” You look—really look, this time—at the supplies he brought in. One of them is a white cardboard box, Sexual Assault Evidence Kit printed in bold letters among other black ink. You’ve catalogued enough of them to know you’re not mistaking it for any other kit. Have done a few on patients as well.
“I’m not—this, this wasn’t—” You take in a breath. Eyes boring into Jack’s, trying to impart the determination of your next words. “It was consensual.”
It’s silent in the room, with the door closed. With neither of you speaking. Jack doesn’t move; you barely breathe.
“Are you sure?” he asks, finally.
“Yes.”
“Okay.” And just like that, the weighted worry drops. He’s still concerned, of course. As soon as Lena had asked if someone had hurt you, everything in his mind jumped to a horrifying conclusion. He’s glad their shared assumptions aren’t correct. In his relief, he’s forgotten about your other symptoms—the moody countenance. “Can I still check you over? For my peace of mind?”
“Sure,” you sigh out. Shuffling further on the bed, back turned towards him, shucking your scrub top, then turtleneck beneath it. You know where the worst of it is.
“Jesus, kid,” he hisses. With you turned away, you don’t see the way his jaw ticks, compelling his fingers to unfurl from taut fists. He forces his attention to remain on the bruises and red wounds, and not the black lines of intricate artwork sprawling further down your back. Accentuating the lines of your body.
You hear the snap of the disposable blue gloves.
“It looks worse than it is,” you say.
“Bruising looks like it’s at least a day old.” His voice is clipped. Tight. Overcorrecting professionalism into cold and distant.
They must be purpling by now, you assume. “It’s been—uh, since Saturday night.”
You feel the cool swab of antiseptic on the bruises; the bite marks, the scratches.
“You know,” Jack says, and you feel his warm breath fan across your bare skin. That, alone, makes you shiver. “Even if you changed your mind part way through, it’s still sexual assault.”
You shoot a look over your shoulder at him.
He attempts a poker face. Do not react.
“I didn’t change my mind,” you say, firm. You turn back to face the wall. Stare down at the bed beneath you. “It’s—” And maybe it’s easier to admit when you don’t have to look at him. “I wanted it to hurt. For him to be rough.”
Jack breathes in. Do not react. He’s a doctor. He’s also tended to previous partners like this before. His own wife, even. Clinical hands; he’s seen this before. He cannot treat this like a new thing, just because it’s you.
“Where’d you even find the guy?” He doesn’t know why he’s asking. To twist the knife lodged between the fourth and fifth ribs, maybe.
“On an app.”
“What? Just a random dating one?”
“No. It’s—you know, specifically for hook ups of the non-vanilla kind.”
“The what kind?”
Oh my God, he’s going to make you say it outloud. Gaze resolutely stuck on the creases of the white, sterile bedsheets. “The kinky kind.”
A pause. “They have those, now?”
You can almost hear the beginnings of a ‘back in my day’ spiel. And isn’t that a thought? Dr Jack Abbot searching for his own BDSM partners—in his youth, maybe. You don’t want to think about his exploits in his current era. You’re already topless in front of him. You cannot bare yourself to him any more than this.
“Yeah,” you chuckle, a little breathlessly. Get it together. You can’t get all giggly in front of your boss. “They do, grandpa.”
“Hey. Careful now,” he remarks, amused. Something loosens in his chest, allowing him to breathe easier. It’s probably the first time he’s heard you express something akin to a laugh during this shift. He doesn’t realise how much he missed that today; how much he needs it to carry him through.
The ED can be a harrowing place, but it’s a lot less dark with you by his side.
You hum, letting the silence relax you. It must be past 3 AM, you think. There’s always that patchy, tranquil moment after the sporadic rush between midnight and 3 AM.
“So what?” he asks. Cotton swab dabbing ointment onto the wounds. “Your date just fell asleep and forgot to take care of you?”
You let out a huff, humourless. Head dipped. Embarrassed, again. It flushes down your neck. “He left as soon as he was done.”
Jack goes deathly still. The swab hovers, pinched tightly between his fingers. “What?”
“He, uh—left,” you sniff. Do not fucking cry over this. “And I’m pretty sure I got ghosted too, because I’ve been trying to—um, call him. Or text him. Which sucks, because, I…” You suck in a breath. “We took our time. Went on three separate dates before Saturday. Dinner. Movie. Museum. Four fucking months of talking and he dipped as soon as he got his dick wet.”
Jack is uncharacteristically silent over your shoulder.
You shuffle around, facing him.
He’s frowning. Lips downturned. Eyes stormy. Lines of his body wound tight. An older man outraged by the woes of modern dating, you assume.
“It’s fine,” you say, because you feel the sudden need to mollify that anger. To appease him. You try to covertly rub your eyes to wipe the tears that have collected. “Honestly, I’ve always been a bit bad about handling rejection, but I’m working on it.” It explains your shitty mood since Saturday. The dull awareness after he left.
Jack blinks, jaw unlatching at your words. Stares at you. “Is that what you think this is?” he asks, hollowly. “You feel hurt because of a little rejection?”
You make an obviously face. “I’ll feel better by next shift.”
“How much research did you do?”
“I read a few articles; people’s blog posts. There aren’t any peer reviewed journals on this.”
“I know,” he huffs out. He remembers his own reading journey, all those years back. “Did you read anything about dropping? Sub drops?”
Your forehead creases in thought. It sounds vaguely familiar. “Maybe?”
Jack doesn’t say anything, waiting.
You stare. The confusion eventually smooths out. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh,” he echoes. “You’re in a sub drop.”
You have been, since Saturday. That’s—mortifying, you think. Your kinky extracurricular affairs brought forefront and centre to your attending because you weren’t a good judge of character.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. Something humiliating thickens your throat; wells tears into your eyes. They avert from him, dropping somewhere low. “Fuck, I’m—I’m sorry.”
“Hey, it’s—hey. Look at me,” Jack says.
You’re not listening.
“Fuck. Hey. Hey, quit spiralling. Listen to me.” Jack yanks the gloves off his hands.
This is disgusting. You’re disgusting. This was something that was supposed to remain within your bedroom walls, far, far away from the hospital. Instead, you brought it right to the night shift’s front porch.
A rough palm slotted against your cheek.
The effects are near instantaneous—a shuddering inhale, a trembling whine. Glassy eyes shedding tears as they slide close. Cheek nuzzled against callused flesh.
His hand tipping your face upwards. “Open your eyes.”
And you do.
Shiny, blinking. Unfocused, then landing on him. Something registers, clicks in your mind. “Please,” you whisper. You don’t know what you’re asking for.
But he does. Something bittersweet in this throat. “I know,” he rasps. He wants this. Fulfilment delivered on a silver platter. But not like this. Not from someone else’s abymal attempts.
He’d seen the way you brightened when he passed by with a compliment. A well timed ‘great work in there’, and your shy smile followed him. Like a sunflower chasing the sun. Maybe it’s his ego stinging, now. Maybe it’s something else; something tender, something primal.
“I’m sorry,” you sniffle.
Jack hushes you. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” If he could get his hands on the man that called himself your date, he wishes for once, he could take back the sworn oath to do no harm.
“I’m sorry,” you say again.
He manoeuvres himself onto the bed. Pulls you into his lap, chests aligned. His arms encircle your waist, avoiding the bruises decorating your upper back. Settling on top of the tattoos. “Breathe with me,” he instructs.
So you do.
In and out. In and out. Inhale, exhale. Again and again.
Just until the dizziness fades a little. Until you feel like you have a few fingers back on the ledge.
“I’m sending you home,” Jack says.
“I don’t want—”
“Do not,” he demands, tense, “argue with me.”
Your mouth clicks shut. Face buried into the crook of his neck and shoulder. “Sorry,” you whisper.
“You go home,” he says, “you get yourself cleaned up. Eat. Rest. I’ll come by and take care of you when I’m done here.”
You suck in a breath. “No—”
“What did I just say about—”
A noise of complaint in the back of your throat, hand wrapped around his bicep, squeezing. “Red,” you utter.
It jolts him. Admittedly, it’s been a while, but the colours are ingrained in him as much as the safewords that he used. This isn’t a scene, but you’re so far down that you can’t tell.
“What?” he asks, around the thudding in his chest. He overstepped, somewhere. He doesn’t know you like this, can’t anticipate your needs like he would in the ED.
“I can’t,” you tell him, quiet. Small. “You can’t.”
“I can’t what?”
“Take care of me.”
Jack inhales gravel. Pissed off. “Did he tell you that? Is that why he left you alone?”
“No,” you say.
“Then what is it?” One of his hands lift from your waist, guiding your face away from where you’re hiding. Thumb brushes across tear stained cheek. “Talk to me,” he murmurs.
You peer down at him, positioned higher only because you’re straddling his thighs. You swallow against this heavy thing in your chest.
How do you even admit that the sole reason you started researching BDSM in the first place, is due to the man in front of you? Due to the way he doled out praises in the ED, unlocking something within you? You imagined it was him, pinning you down, hands around your neck, teeth sinking into skin, telling you to be good for him.
“I can’t have you mean nothing,” you whisper, eventually.
Jack swallows past the lump suddenly in his throat. “What does that mean?” A burgeoning of hope. “Sweetheart, what does that mean?” And maybe that’s the cruelty in him, a manipulative side that fools him into thinking that if he calls you as such, you can remain tucked inside his heart. Can convince you to stay there.
“You’re everything,” is all you say. Maybe it’s enough.
“Everything,” he repeats.
“Yes.”
Jack’s hand is a gentle thing against your cheek. No pressure, no guidance. Just slight pressure tracking your movements as you nose against his jaw. Scrape your skin against stubble.
His hand slides to the back of your scalp. “And that means I can’t take care of you?”
“Yes,” you say.
“Why?”
“I…” You’re not selecting words. Just trying to find them through the fog. “Because it’s only for today. Until I feel better.”
“And you don’t want that.”
“No.”
“What do you want?”
“Everything,” you say again. And your lips land on his pulse point, You feel it thrum. “With you.”
He doesn’t know how much of this is the drop. How much of this is you. All he knows is that you wouldn’t admit any of this if you were in the right mind.
Fingers flex at the roots of your hair. He tugs you up to look at him.
Your hips buck on their own accord. You keen, thighs tightening around him. Teary eyed.
His other hand against your waist digs in. Stopping your movements. “Fuck,” he swears, hoarse. “Sorry.”
“Feels good,” you murmur, reassuring.
He can’t do this. Here. While you’re like this. He needs you up and out of sub drop before he can have this conversation with you. But you don’t want his help unless he can promise you everything. He can only hope he knows what that means.
“Please,” you utter.
“I know,” Jack soothes. His hand braced against your cheek again.
You lean forward, weight against him. Lips almost on his.
His fingers lead you away. “No,” he murmurs, sandpaper in his throat.
You let out a cracked whine. He doesn’t want to kiss you.
“No,” he says, sharp, like he can see what conclusion you’re reaching. “Not yet.” His lips against your forehead. “Not here.”
Jack doesn’t know how long it takes. He can’t spend the whole shift in there with you, as much as he wants to.
The contact helps. His touches, the soft susurration aimed into the soft flesh of your neck. At some point, you’re coherent enough to be functional. Turtleneck and scrub top on.
Jack tells you to go home. You do.
Lena meets Jack’s gaze. Worried. Questioning.
He shakes his head. It wasn’t what she initially thought, but he’s still concerned. Not completely out of the woods yet.
The final two hours of his shift stretch. All he can think of is you. By the time he sees Robby, he feels dead on his feet.
“You good, brother?” Robby claps him on the shoulder, frowning.
“Long story,” Jack says, scrubbing at his face.
“Yeah? You don’t got time?”
“I gotta head out. John can hand off.”
“Seriously?” Robby blinks, surprised.
Jack’s never passed on a hand off before. But he feels like Shen was probably more present, anyway. Less distracted.
“Robby, my guy,” Shen says.
Robby fixes the other attending with a deeply unimpressed look. “John.”
“See you,” Jack says.
“I better get the short version some time,” Robby says.
“Me too!” John adds.
“You don’t even know what we were talking about…”
Their voices trail away as Jack walks. No rooftop. No drinks in the park. Just over to your apartment, the address memorised from your staff profile. Probably a privacy concern, but Lena turned the other way when he said he wanted to check on you.
You’re asleep on the couch when he comes. You were cogent enough to text him your apartment number and a picture of your welcome mat, letting him know your key was under there.
Not the most secure hiding place, but by the time he arrived, it was still there.
The back of his hand pressed against your forehead, taking your temperature. Fingers brush through your hair.
You stir. “Dr Abbot?” Spoken softly, eyelids heavy.
“Hey, kiddo.” He shifts, handing you your water bottle you’ve left on the coffee table.
You sip from it, blinking yourself awake. Scrubbing at bleary eyes. “Are you wearing shoes?” you ask around a yawn.
Jack blinks, not having expected your question. He looks down at the shoes he’s wearing—one on his foot, the other on his prosthesis. “Yeah.”
“Shoes off,” you say. “There are guest slippers in the bottom cubby hole.”
“Bottom cubby hole,” he repeats. More so to remember, than mock you.
“Please,” you add.
He rumbles a laugh before he follows your instructions. He takes out the ointment from his backpack before depositing it near the coat rack at the door. He shuffles back towards you, now clad in the slippers. “Did you eat yet?”
You hum your confirmation. “I have leftovers in the fridge. And I showered. You can use the shower too. Towels are in the cupboard in my room.”
“Alright. When I’m done, I’m going to check your back again.”
“Okay.”
He lingers. “How are you feeling?”
“Better.”
“Feeling like yourself?”
You think. “I don’t know.”
“Okay. That’s okay.”
When he’s done, you’ve relocated to your bedroom. It’s a strange situation for him to be in, invited into your apartment and encouraged to explore the place himself. Complete trust in someone else’s life.
He finds you curled under the soft blanket you have spread over your king single bed. Sprawled out, sleeping in a prone position. He pops his prothesis off.
Ointment in hand, he gently tugs the blanket down. Sees you in sleep shorts, no shirt on. The consideration of making your back easily accessible isn’t lost on him. He touches up the ointment while you remain asleep. Fingers applying pressure, massaging tense muscles even though you’re not awake for it. He feels you relax under his touch.
“What am I going to do with you?” he wonders aloud.
And he stays there, next to you, until he too, falls asleep.
When you wake up, you kind of forget what happened. It feels like a blur—something you could write off as a dream if you didn’t have any reminders. And in this moment, you don’t. Tiredly stumbling to the bathroom, then to your bedroom, wrapped in a towel.
You’re, somehow, too out of it to hear the noises in the kitchen. Once you’re in comfortable loungewear, you take your reusable water bottle with you. The intention is to fill it, grab some snacks, then head back into your room. Maybe pop on a show. Let your brain turn off.
“Hey.”
You startle, almost dropping the bottle. Pivoting to see Dr Jack Abbot in front of your stove. Cooking—something. Eggs, you think. It’s one of the things you always stock up in the fridge.
Yesterday in the hospital was not a dream. It was real. Very real. And he came to check in on you in your apartment. And stayed over.
“Hey. I…” you start. Trail off.
“Forgot?” Amusement lifting the corner of his lips. Trying to hide it for your sake.
“No,” you say, quick. You both know it’s a lie. Lips pressed into a line, heading to the water dispenser attached to the fridge to fill up your bottle.
Jack grins when you’re no longer looking at him. “Eat first.” The toaster pops with two slices. He’s made himself at home, studying your kitchen. Pantry, fridge, cupboard, drawers. He’s memorising the layout. Two plates, eggs, toast, slices of ham. You, apparently, didn’t have bacon. He searched.
Sitting at the tiny thing you call a dining table, Jack waits for you to tuck into your food. Despite the fact that you’re more lucid, he can tell you’re still off. As he eats, you’re not. Pushing food around. Tearing off pieces of your toast to nibble at.
Since Saturday, he remembers. Wonders if you treated all your meals like this before coming into the Pitt. You must have been running on fumes. Wonders how many times you’ve done this; if this is your first time, or just the first time it’s gone wrong.
Jack clears both the plates away. His empty; yours mostly full. Half your toast gone. He decides to glad-wrap yours, putting it in the fridge. Cleans his own plate in the sink, washing his hands after.
“You didn’t have to… be here,” you say. To stay. To make you food.
“I said I’d take care of you,” he responds, evenly. Leaning against the sink. Eyes on you.
And you both remember what happened after. What you said. Not unless you could have everything.
You feel—embarrassed. You meant it, of course you meant it. A stupid torch you’ve carried for two years. The humiliating realisation that it wasn’t going away. You tried to put those feelings onto someone else, tried to go out, go on dates. You were young. And yet.
The sinking knowledge that this wasn’t just some kind of silly crush born of proximity and praises.
“It’s not your responsibility,” you state. “You’re not my—” Mouth snapping shut, self-editing.
Even if you don’t finish it, the tilt of his head, the challenging tick of his eyebrow says he heard it. Arms crossing over his chest.
You can’t help the way your eyes fixate on the stretch of the short sleeves of his t-shirt around tensed biceps.
“I’m not your what?” Jack asks.
You clear your throat, moving to stand up. To get away, even if for a second. Even if he’s trying to do you a favour by being here.
“Stay down.”
You almost do. The chair scrapes backwards, instead. “Fuck off, Abbot,” you snarl, standing fully.
Hostility rearing its head again. Like with Lena, except this time, you’re not restraining yourself at an attempt at professional conduct. You’re biting. Pushing.
Jack knows there’s probably a few ways he can take this. Can respond. “Don’t do this.”
Gone is the sweet thing he held in his lap yesterday. Instead, you’re aching, scared of rejection and lashing out because of it.
“Quit patronising me. You’re not my—anything. And I’m not yours.”
His teeth scrape together, jaw squeezing. Jack knows this game. Can read you like a book. He can’t fall for the bait; if his temper wins, he proves you right.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, voice soft despite the urge to snap. He knows this is born of insecurity. One that was fed by some prick that abandoned you on Saturday. “I’m not like him—”
“Don’t,” you hiss out.
“—I’m not going to leave.”
It makes something ripple inside you. An age-old wound that tells you you’re unlovable. Something complicated passes over your face. You can’t decide if you want to believe him or squash it down. False hope.
Jack moves towards you. Three steps to close the distance between the sink and table.
Your eyes are wet, bright with tears. “Dr Abbot—”
“Jack,” he corrects. Chest twisting.
“Jack,” you say.
He nods, eyes darting between yours. Eye contact connoisseur. “Can you sit down?” He changes his approach. “Please?”
You do. Slipping into the dining chair. The backrest to your side. Legs facing him and not tucked under the table.
And Jack.
He sinks.
One of his knees makes contact with the floor. His other leg bent, foot on the ground. His hand resting on the flesh above your knee, balancing.
A tremulous breath releases from you. Shock. “What are you—?”
“You wanted everything,” Jack says. “Let me give you everything. Please.”
And hasn’t he been carrying a torch for you, too? Your first day with the night shift wasn’t anything special. It’s not that he was struck by you immediately—the consequences of being an attending physician, having a million things on his mind, and a hundred other things clamouring for his attention.
You were always quick. Responsive. Observant. At his elbow, two seconds before he asked, handing him everything he needed like you were a mind reader. It was fascinating, in a way.
He hadn’t even registered when the change happened. There was no adjustment period. One day you were that damn good nurse on his team, and the next day, he realised he couldn’t take his eyes off of you.
Watching, always watching, when you pushed the gurney from the ambulance bay into the trauma room; when you playfully saluted Parker after she asked for an IV on her patient; when you adopted that childish voice to say Nurse Lena, Nurse Bridget is being mean to me again, just to make them laugh after a tough patient; when Shen tried to get you to learn Mandarin but that was already in Princess’ arsenal, and the only rule established was no repeats.
As time went on, he noticed the way your tightly wound shoulders would relax at his words. The way your gaze lingered, like you wanted to ask for more. You never did, and he never pushed.
How could he? He was an attending. Much, much older than you. Had skeletons in his closet that he would rather shove down than let anyone sign up for.
Somewhere, he fell. Softly, then all at once.
You reach out, fingers drifting across his cheek. “Jack,” you whisper, an incredulous sound.
“Right here, sweetheart.” He cups your hand, angling his head to kiss your palm. Eyes never straying from yours.
Tears knocked loose. “I’m sorry,” you say, wet. Once again, ashamed of your behaviour.
“You did nothing wrong.” If he could spend the rest of his life reassuring you, he would. Maybe he can. Everything, after all.
“But I… yelled.”
Jack grins, wry. “I get yelled at all the time.” By patients. By admin. It’s no skin off his back.
“I said…” You inhale, wobbly. “I said I wasn’t yours.”
And there, that darkening of his eyes. Studious. Trained on nothing but you. “Are you?”
“I want to be.”
“So you are. Mine.”
You wet your lips. His eyes track the movement, unabashed. “And…” you say.
He waits, patient. Lets you find your words.
“You’re mine?”
“Yes. Yours,” he rasps. Kneeling before you, whatever else could he be?
“Get up. Please.” A murmured plea.
He does. It’s not a swift movement, but you’re past paying attention. You stand, slot your body against his. He’s meeting you halfway. Your palm splayed against his chest; his hand cupping your cheek.
A soft capture of your lips. Jack’s thumb sweeping, tugging lightly at the corner of your mouth. Fingers digging into the sharp of your jawbone tucked beneath your ear.
You let out a stuttering breath at the pressure, something fuzzy clouding your eyes. He slips his tongue inside your mouth. A welcomed weight against your tongue, a spit slicked slide.
A drawn out noise, broken into pants.
His hands gathered at your waist. Walking you backwards into the table. It grates against the linoleum floor, thudding into the wall. Neither of you pay it any heed. You’re perched on the table. He steps between your legs, hitching one thigh against his side.
“Please,” you gasp into the infinitesimal space between you, “I’ll be good.”
“I know,” Jack whispers. Something gentle and soft and so, so sweet tucked against him. Honeyed and viscous, coating his throat. Choking, unbidden tears in his eyes. “I’ll give you everything,” he promises.
Your arms hooked around his shoulders, lifting your core, angling up. Pressing the heat between your legs against his growing bulge.
“Fuck,” Jack groans. A palm laid against the surface of table, the other keeps a bruising grip on the flesh of your side. Stabilising himself. His face tucked to your neck, kissing a line against your throat. Buying himself time. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he says.
“Jack.” A breathy moan, as his lips trail down. Hips rolling up against him. You reach, fingers scrabbling against the waistband of his pants.
“Uh uh.” Digits wrapping around your wrist, pressing your hands against the cold wood beneath you. “Hands on the table.”
“I want—” Despite your protesting words, your palms remain flat on the smooth surface. “I want to make you feel good.” To get on your knees for him, to feel the heavy weight of his cock in your mouth, the stinging strain in the corners of your lips as you struggle to fit him, an aching in your jaw. You know he’d be big enough for that.
“I know, sweetheart.” His lips on yours again, a reassuring kiss. The problem isn’t you—it never is. It’s the fact that he’d finish within minutes if you got your mouth around him. He’s strung tight, and he knows his refractory period isn’t as short as it used to be. The reality is he’s old.
“Please,” you whine.
“Hands on the table,” he reminds, despite the fact that you hadn’t moved. He lowers himself to the ground, eyes on you. Watching you watch him. Roughened fingers tugging your pants down. Lips pressed to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Kissing up further and further.
Air catches in your throat.
Jack leans forward, closes his mouth around your clothed core. Tongue finding the split between flesh.
You moan, breath hitching at his touch. Fingers twitch against the table. You want to bury them in his grey curls, but he told you to keep them where they are.
“Good,” he whispers, hot breath fanning across your skin. “You’ll be good, won’t you?”
“Yes,” you gasp.
Jack pulls down your underwear. Rests his cheek against the side of your thigh. Stubble scratching against overheated skin. “Look at you,” he says, reverent. “You’re so wet, baby.”
You whimper. Your hands inch further behind you. Angling your body. “Jack.”
“Yeah, sweetheart?” Fingers around your calf, hiking it over his shoulder. Every touch, searing.
“Please.”
“So sweet,” he purrs. And then his tongue, finally, finally glides into the drenched heat. He hums through the wrecked sound you make, licking up. A brief kiss to your clit before his lips seal around it. Tongue lands, tip of the muscle working up and down repeatedly, then around.
You—shatter. No other way to describe it. Your hands are still somewhere behind you, maybe numb at this point. Your leg still hooked over Jack’s shoulder, heel digging into the stretch of his back. Hips rolling upwards, into his face. “Jack,” you cry, heavy with relief and something fractured, all at once.
His eyes are dark, captivated by you, preoccupied with taking in every reaction, every movement. His tongue never ceases. Fingers collect the slick from your opening, using his thumb to rub it along his middle and fourth finger.
Whining aloud. Fingertips digging into unrelenting wood. You want to touch him. You try to enclose your legs around him.
Jack pushes his free hand against your thigh, the one that’s not on his shoulder. Keeping you open. Then he sucks, tongue flicking against your clit at the same time.
Your hips grind upwards. “Jack—”
He presses his middle finger into you. He doesn’t take his time. Pumps it once, twice.
“Jack, please, please—”
He draws his finger out. Pushes his ring finger inside at the same time. You feel the stretch with two fingers, wider than yours. Longer than yours.
Jack doesn’t mean to rush, but he feels so lightheaded with want. Knows his knees will probably complain tomorrow morning. He needs you to come, wants to hear you fall apart. Crooking his fingers towards your belly, feeling around the wet insides. Pads of his fingers massaging.
You feel it building in your core. Breaths escaping. “I’m—oh, fuck, I’m—please—”
You can feel him responding, fingers moving faster. Working you from inside. And he keeps the suction on your clit.
“Jack, please, I need—” Almost there but not quite. You feel right at the precipice, but you can’t tip over. Chasing it, though, the way you grind into his face. Onto his fingers. Hands splayed on the table, head tipped towards the ceiling. Every sound punched out of you.
He hums, a deep thing that sends vibrations through you.
“Talk to me, please, Jack, please I want to hear you.”
Jack shifts, mouth opening, tongue pressed flat against your clit. The hand pushing your thigh moves, fingers rubbing against the sensitive nerve. Still fucking you with the fingers inside.
“Yeah?” he asks, and his voice is frayed. “Need me to talk you through it?” There’s spit and you on his chin, glossing his lips. Tongue swipes across petals, swallowing like it’s nectar. Cheek resting against your upper thigh. Stubble scraping against skin.
You shudder. “Yes, yes please, Jack, please.”
“Yeah. Need me to tell you’ve been good, honey?” A kiss pressed to your leg. Your sensitive skin burning, itching every time he moves. The scratch of his shadow. His eyes are lava on you, even if you can’t see him.
“Just like at work, is that it? I tell you you’ve done a good job and you walk around the hospital all wet and pent up? Tell me, baby, do you come home and think of me when you get yourself off? Hear me in your head?”
The nail knocked on the head. The hole-in-one.
You can’t be surprised, and yet, somehow, you are, that he figured it out. You’re clenching around his fingers, tight. Gasping. You don’t even need to verbalise that you’re coming. He can feel it. Your hips bucking up, his elbows digging into the meat of your thighs to keep your legs apart.
Wordless litanies of moans. High pitched and wrecked. Jack pushes his fingers in further, letting you ride yourself through it. And he doesn’t stop his ministrations over your clit. “Jack,” you sob.
“There you go, baby. This is what you wanted, right?” Jaw clenching, hips stuttering against air. He’s so painfully hard. It could almost be concerning, how ready he is. “Fuck me, you’re beautiful.”
He stands, knees cracking, back sore. Yet, he keeps his fingers moving. Inside and outside. Your thigh slides off his shoulder. He positions himself between them, your legs drawing up at his sides. He leans down towards you, hissing something ragged when his cock makes contact with your thigh. “Come here,” he says.
You weep with relief, arms moving from behind you, wrapping around his shoulders. You meet his lips. The fingers inside stop moving, but press insistently on that spot. He keeps rubbing your clit, just to hear you moan, to feel the tremors of your body, to feel the way you contract around his fingers. Imagining that it’s his cock.
“Jack,” you heave. “Too—ah, too much—”
“No, baby,” he says, “I say when it’s too much.”
“Jack,” you whine. “Please. Please, I need you.”
Oh, the unfair games you’re playing, begging like that. He huffs impatience through his nose, jawline ticking. “I’m right here, sweetheart. Not going anywhere.”
And you feel it—the way you’re falling into the second orgasm. One of your hands gripping his bicep. Harder than necessary, maybe. Complaining. Retaliating. “Fuck, mmm, Jack, I’m—oh, I’m coming—”
Your back arches upwards into him. Hips grinding down between his fingers again. Fingers crooked inside you, rubbing against the soft spot. Fingers rubbing your clit. Sensitive.
He grunts, head falling onto your shoulder. Hears the pathetic little sounds that you don’t even realise you’re making.
Your head’s fuzzy, your ears dulled like you’re underwater. And yet, so aware of where he’s touching you. Every point of contact ignited, like he’s leaving a brand on this mortal vessel that was created to contain nothing but love for him.
“I know, baby, I know,” he hushes. And finally, his fingers still. Small mercies as he removes the hand from your clit. Not yet sliding his fingers out.
Jack kisses you. Your chest heaving, craving air. Trembling, clenching around the fingers still inside you. “Fuck,” he breathes out. “There you are.” Observing those glassy eyes. The lazy limbs that cling to him. Lips pressed to your temple.
You cup his erection through the fabric of his pants.
He hisses, jerking into your touch. “Fuck,” he swears.
You stroke him, feeling the length.
“You—shit—you gotta stop, sweetheart,” he says.
You make a questioning noise. You want to make him feel good.
“You really want our first time to be in the kitchen?”
You’re slow to gather your words. “Anywhere,” you slur out. Too much effort to talk. “Whatever… you want.”
Jack huffs out a chuckle. “Yeah,” he whispers, tender at your deference. He kisses you again, sliding his fingers out of you. He parts momentarily, eyes locked on yours as he brings his fingers into his mouth. Licking, fingers splitting, tongue moving down the space between slick digits.
Your hips twitch, a lazy movement that brings you flush against his body. Smearing your come and his spit against the fabric of his pants. He’s still fully clothed, you realise.
“Bed,” you croak, even though you told him it was his choice, just moments before.
Jack laughs, a gentle thing. Nose bumping against yours. Hands lifting you. Legs wrapped around his waist. “Get your bottle,” he says.
You blindly grab for it before he walks you towards your bedroom. Door closing behind him, even though there’s no one else here. He deposits you on the bed. Tells you to take a sip of water before placing it onto the nightstand.
You don’t move. You’re exactly where he left you on the bed when he turns back to you.
He sits on the edge of the mattress. “C’mere,” Jack says.
You shuffle towards him. He’s expecting you to crawl into his lap, maybe. What he doesn’t expect, is the way you slide off the bed to kneel by his feet.
His breath hitches in his throat. Fingers twitching, as your cheek rests against his thigh. Digits threading into your hair. You angle your face to look up at him, blinking. Slow.
“Hey,” he says, fraught with something delicate. Raw and soft.
You nuzzle against him. Head feeling stuffy. Floating. Sinking. Contradictory, yet somehow. True.
“What do you need?”
Nothing. Everything. Wordlessly, you feel at his leg, calf down. Almost like you’re palpating it. Onto the next leg. You unbuckle the prosthesis, hearing him hiss at the twist, at the unlatching. Pained or relief, you can’t tell. Pressing a kiss to the bend of his knee when you remove it, prosthesis intentionally placed aside. You want him comfortable.
You’re slotted back against his thigh, like you didn’t just change his world, like you didn’t just show him the kind of tenderness he never thought he’d deserve after losing the leg.
Jack breathes, unsteady and ragged, but you blink up at him like you’ve never been surer of anything in your life. Complete trust.
You inch forward, nosing closer towards his crotch. Mouthing a long, lingering kiss to his dick. Slow and muted through layers of clothes. Sucking, wetting fabric. An unspoken request.
Jack groans, hips jerking. Fingers reach out, cradling. Callused pads against your jaw, thumb sliding across your lips.
You part them.
His thumb slips in, access easily granted, applying pressure against your tongue. Gliding down. Molten eyes on yours. Your brain is hazy with static. Blissful. Half-lidded eyes. Moaning as you swallow around his digit.
Jack laughs. You feel the reverberations of it, rather than hear the sound. His thumb lets up, still inside your mouth, but no longer pressing down. You blink your eyes opened, questioning, protesting.
“I asked what you prefer, baby,” he rumbles, corners of his lips lifting. Revelling in the way you’re so lost, so dazed. “Do you want me in here?” Thumb circles your tongue. “Or in here?” His good foot shifts, tucked under where you’re kneeling. Front of his ankle catching just right on your bare clit.
A hitched whine, hips grinding down. Sticky heat on his skin.
“I can only do one, sweetheart. You’re killing me, here.” He’s so gone on you, it’s almost devastating. Man made soldier, thickened skin to take on the sins of the world. And his Achilles heel is a precious thing by his knee.
You lap at his thumb, tongue flexing along the grooves of his fingerprint. For a second, he thinks this is how you want him, but you move. An obscene, wet pop as you back away from his hand. You treat it as if it were his dick, licking, tongue against nail and skin, like it’s the leaking seam of his cock.
“Jesus,” Jack groans. You’re going to be the death of him. Completely and absolutely. No differential diagnoses required.
You rise into his lap, nothing shy or uncertain in the way you straddle him and grind yourself against his clothed erection. Lips against his, kissing like you need it to breathe. Need him to breathe. Maybe you do. A low and quiet buzz in your head.
Fingers bracing against your jaw, then lips travel down your neck. You’re still rolling your hips against him. It feels heavenly, the graze of fabric against your already sensitive clit.
Jack lets out a pained noise, shifting. One moment to the next, you went from being in his lap, to facing the ceiling, back against the soft blanket. You rise to your elbows, blinking, eyes moving to the foot of the bed.
He doesn’t make a show of taking off his clothes. It’s quick, the way he removes his shirt, pants, and briefs. He’s pretty sure that if you continued moving on top of him like that, he was just going to come in his pants like he’s in college again.
“You’re killing me,” he says again. He crawls towards you. Body on yours. Divests you quickly of your top.
The slide of his palm to one of your breasts. Cupping. Squeezing. “Been thinking about this since your first scrub change.” Fingernails pinching the tip of your nipple.
You cry out.
Lips over your other tip, a mimicry of the attention he paid to your clit. Licking. Tongue slathering. Then, teeth, biting.
You rut up against him, one leg hooking over his back. Feel the length of him against you. “Please,” you whine.
His hips stutter. “Fuck me,” he groans. Inhales, then lets it out heavily.
“Trying to.”
He laughs, then, a sound that’s disbelieving, even though he should have expected nothing less from you. You’ve been hanging around the night shift too much. A hand in your hair, tugging, born of your insolence. Stealing the sound you make with a kiss. Fucks his tongue into your mouth again.
You feel like you’re losing your mind with the need to feel him. The slide of him, the delicious drag of him against your walls. To clench around and feel his dick inside you. Instead, you’re still empty.
Gasping when you part for air. “Jack,” you plead. “Please, I want to feel you.”
Jack smacks a kiss to your cheek. “Where are your condoms?” He has some in his bag—was part of his prepared care kit alongside the ointment he brought. But he’s left that by the doorway, and he doesn’t want to leave this bed with you in it, wrapped around him.
A hand smoothing over his chest, up his shoulder, clasping around his nape. “No, we don’t need—”
“Uh uh, no,” he says. “Not today.”
“But I’m—”
“No.” Stern. Lifting up, leaning back. “If you don’t listen to me about this, we’re not doing this today.”
“Sorry,” you hiccup, the easiest acquiescence. “Sorry. Nightstand. Bottom drawer. Sorry.” Tears in your eyes. Gripping at his arm, then letting go, undeserving. “Don’t go. I’m sorry.”
Jack lets out an agonised noise. You both know that if you were more cognisant, you would agree with him, would want this too. But it doesn’t make it any less hard to say no when you’re like this. “I’m not mad,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss you again. Soft. Apologetic. The last thing he wants to do is to let you believe that he could up and leave you so easily. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Bottom drawer,” you say again.
Jack gets up, moving towards the nightstand to grab what he needs. The distance is close enough that one leg remains on the bed for balance. Tucked under rumpled towels, a box of condoms. And if he happens to see some toys, cuffs, other accessories you’ve clearly purchased for yourself, haphazardly hidden—oh, that’s something that he can use next time.
Packet torn, condom slipped on. Muffled groan at the relief of being touched, even if it’s just himself. Returning to the bed, to you. You’ve been watching him the whole time, eyes dragging over his skin, his body.
He doesn’t feel shy under your gaze. Exposed, though, is a different feeling.
“Can I go on top?” you ask.
He falters. He usually doesn’t. Usually surefooted. But this—you. You have a tendency to cleave apart his every defense. Every sure thing he knows about life. “You want to?”
“Yes,” you say. “Feels better.”
Tucked and saved somewhere safe. To keep and know about you. “Okay,” he says, and settles at the head of your bed, back against the wall. You draw close, slipping your pillow under his calf. Then you climb into his lap, a soft sigh releasing, like homecoming. Kissing him again, a silent addiction. His arms are warm and weighted around your middle. And he lets you take your time.
Once again, the slow rolling of your hips down to his. Your entrance flushed against the length of his dick. The torturous drag, up and down.
Jack grips your waist, lips against your collarbone. Harsh breaths of air. “Fucking Hell.”
And when you seem content to let it draw on like this, he bites at the flesh under your collarbone. Warning.
You downright mewl at the threat his teeth breaking through your skin. “Ah—mhm.”
“You gonna let me fuck you anytime soon?”
It takes a little to register that not only has he asked you a question, but you should probably respond as well. “If you want to,” is what you end up saying.
“If I want to.” Mocking, a dangerous scoff. He feels like he’s on fire. Lifting you, one hand around his cock, lining it up against your entrance. Tip catching between your folds.
And finally, you’re sinking down on him.
The hitched sounds coming from you, trapped in your throat. Arms hooked around his shoulders, keening into the side of his throat. The stretch of your walls making way for him. The soft insides, swallowing, welcoming. And it keeps going.
Your fingers digging into the corded muscles of his arm, his hands petting the sides of your stomach. Soothing. “You’re—you feel—oh—” Sinking further around his girth. Until you’re sure he’s completely inside you.
Jack lets out a low groan. “Fuck.” Breathes in deeply. Holds it. Then out.
You try to rise.
His arms immediately snap a tight brace around you, holding you in place. “Fuck. Give—give me a minute.”
“Jack—”
“You,” he grinds out, “have no idea how tight you feel. Just give me a minute, sweetheart.”
And of course, that involuntary spasm of your walls around his cock.
Jack swears. Forehead thuds against the space above your sternum. “Quit that.”
“Wasn’t on purpose.”
He notices the lack of apology. “Brat,” he says fondly, and kisses you again.
You don’t know how long you stay like that for. Lips and air. Arms refusing to budge around you. His cock inside you. You swear you feel him in your diaphragm. Your skin feels like fire. “Can I move?” you beg. “Jack, please, can I move? Please, I need—can we—I want to feel you—”
“Shhh, baby, it’s okay. I got you, honey. You’re okay.” A hand reaches up to wipe a thumb across your cheeks.
It comes away wet. You hadn’t realised you started crying.
“Please,” you sob.
His hips snap upwards.
Your next breath comes trapped between a moan and a cry.
Both arms wrapped around you again. An iron band. Then he fucks up into you.
“Oh,” you whimper. “Oh, fuck, ah, ah—thank you, thank you thank you—”
The noise Jack releases is inhuman. He keeps an unrelenting pace, punching out moans from you. He’s flooded by the need to feel you come around him. “Yeah, that’s it. You’re doing so well, honey. Taking what I give you.”
You’re meeting him halfway. Grinding down against him, desperately keening. You feel his hand slip between you, thumb against your clit. You white out. Pressure, more so than stimulating you. Fucking yourself onto his cock, then up against his thumb, making you chase what you need. “Please, more, more, please.”
“Yeah? You want more? You want to come again? You want to come with my dick inside you?”
“Yes, please, I need it. I need you, please.”
“Yeah, you do.” Unmoored, slightly. His thumb rubs circles on your clit. “Come on, baby, I wanna hear you.”
Your chin hooked over his shoulder, angling your lips towards his ear. Discarding every notion of shyness. Every sound, every cry, every thought about him; needing him, wanting him, released. The burgeoning that starts in your belly. The fiery licks of something wonderful.
Jack hears it in your gasping breath, feels it in the velvet walls convulsing around him. “There you go, sweetheart. Give me another one. Fuck, you’re so fucking perfect.” Tenderness in the way his lips press against your shoulder.
You whine. Close.
“Poor baby needs to hear my voice to come, is that it? So fucking obsessed with me. Be good and come for me, baby, let me hear you—fuck—there you go.”
Holding you in place, your hips riding through the orgasm that crashes into you. His thumb rubbing incessantly on your clit. He stops fucking his cock into you, but his hips still move. Rolling, grinding.
You’re outright crying, heaving in gasps of air. Overstimulated. His thumb never stops. Your walls spasming around him, again and again.
“I know, baby, I know. I’m almost there. Can we keep going until I’m done? Is that okay, baby?”
“Yes,” you sob. You’re so so gone. Floating. “Please. Use me.”
You’re flattened on the bed.
From one blink to the next, Jack had shifted up, pressing you onto the mattress. Legs around him. The pillow at his calf tucked under your hips. The angle slides him in deeper. “Fuck,” he grinds out, hoarse. “Fuck. You’re perfect. So fucking perfect, baby. So fucking good for me.”
“Yes, yes yes yes yes yesyes.” Litanies of yesses, completely overloaded with pleasure. With the feeling of him inside. Everywhere. The fingers digging into your thigh. Forehead shoved against your chest, somewhere above your heart.
Then, the broken groan. Low, ragged. “Fuck. Coming, baby, I’m coming.” His thumb back on your clit, circling once more. Fucking into you while your walls flutter around him.
He stops, eventually. Dragging his hand over your belly, stroking. Up your chest. Petting overheated skin. Then cups your face to kiss him.
You feel so faraway. Numb. On fire. Both.
He flips you both, somehow. Arms straining. You’re folded into his chest, his dick still inside you.
And he stays.
You’re too out of it to realise he’s reached over to the nightstand until the straw to your bottle is pressed against your lips.
“Drink,” he says.
You do. Eyes fluttering shut. Cheek against his chest.
“You did so good for me, baby,” Jack murmurs. “You were so perfect. You are perfect.”
His fingers trace the tattoo that sprawls along your back. You shiver, accidentally grinding against him again. You both hiss.
Tilting your head up, lips finding yours again. Kissing. Gentle. Soft.
“Love you,” you whisper.
Jack lets out a tremulous breath. Kisses you again. He’ll talk about this—say it back tomorrow after you’re coherent enough to remember. But for now, it’s just this sweet thing in his lap.
