Girl I loved your pete fic. Is there any way that I could request a harkness x reader? It can be literally anything plot I just want some fluff with him 😁 ty in advance
"If you're gonna keep speaking my love language, you can talk your shit all night." — Love Language, Ariana Grande, Positions
Pairing: Richard Harkness x reader
Warnings: none! just pure fluff
"So, basically, he's like, running towards her, ya know?" Harkness said, motioning with his hands toward the filled pages of his notebook, "and he grabs her and turns her back to face him and then, SMOOCH!"
He turned to you excitedly, dark eyes bright with a need for approval. You smiled fondly at him, nodding and pointing to a specific line,
"I like this description a lot. How'd you think of it?" You prompted, smile growing as he nearly shot up straight with excitement, the pillows on your bed jostling and nearly falling off with the motion.
His sheer sleep shirt became transparent as he leaned into the low-light of the lamp on your bedside table, his lithe figure revealed ina tantalizing tease.
You resisted the urge to jump his bones right there. You wanted to hear him talk more. With each new plot development or twist he came up with in that beautiful mind of his, he would rush over to your place to lay his head in your lap and explain each moment and his thought process behind it, his glasses askew after you'd breathlessly kissed him in a sudden rush of affection.
Instead, you leaned over, placing your head on his shoulder so you could read his neat handwriting over it, your fingers tracing down his sides before settling across his abdomen, the lean muscle twitching under your touch. His breath stuttered as he continued to explain his character's motivations.
You simply grinned, humming in affirmation when he would say something you hadn't heard before, feeling it reverberate through his body, occasionally placing tender kisses on his shoulder and neck.
His skin was flushed and warm, making you press yourself even closer to him, seeking contact with him like a dehydrated man searching for water in a desert.
Richard lowered his notebook, turning his face to look at you, his gaze soft and half-lidded, no doubt matching your very own expression.
"Are you listening?"
"Always." You murmured, leaning in to capture him in a kiss, the taste of his lips making joy thrum under your skin,
he's sweet when he holds your hand, sweet when he gives you soft kisses as a parting gift...
he was even sweeter, somehow, when you had your lips wrapped around his cock.
you sat snugly between his thighs, tongue dragging up the vein on the underside of him, feeling him twitch and shake occasionally as you slowly drew him closer and closer to the edge. he smiled down at you, eyes nothing but tender and adoring.
"that's it..." he whispered, a huff of pleasure leaving him. his big hands find themselves on your head, one gently sweeping away the hair sticking to your forehead, the other subtly holding you in place as his hips started to buck up into your open mouth.
you loosened your jaw, letting him use you as he pleased. his dark eyes scrunched closed, mouth open, stuttering groans leaving his mouth as his resolve grew weaker.
"f-fuck!"
you gagged slightly as he hit the back of your throat, the feeling of your mouth spasming doing him in, sending him hurtling over the edge.
thick ropes shot into your mouth, the salty taste very familiar to you, now. mcvries let go of you, settling back onto the bed, boneless.
you grinned, placing a kiss onto the head of his softening cock before leaning up and placing another onto his lips.
Please Note: I am only using the movie as a reference for these characters! I have read the book, but they are children in the book... They are adults in the movie, so that's what we're working with!
summary: even after swapping from nights to days, you just can’t seem to escape the inconveniently attractive night shift attending. then a ptmc night out, a sparkly dress, and a not-so-innocent game of never have i ever leads to dr. jack abbot making sure you can never utter the words “never have i ever finished during sex” ever again.
notes: i really hope you guys enjoiy this! it was so much fun to write and i just feel like jack is a little easier to put into silly situations than robby, so here i am torturing the poor man! i'm sorry in advance if the smut is kind of mid, i was fighting tumblr's block limit rule with this fic so i feel like i didn't get indulge as much as i would have liked, but still! i hope you guys love it, and please, please let me know what you think! (p.s. i think i mentioned the title was originally 'unaffected' but i like this one better)
warnings: swearing, alcohol, blushing, italics, jealousy, implied age gap, jack is a yearner, reader wears a "revealing" dress (but description is very vague and there's zero detail about body-type), mildly uncomfortable male encounters, friend!santos, pittlings chaos, garsantos mention, jack gets a little possessive, reader has long enough hair to sweep off her neck, and SMUT (making out, fingering, "panties", a tiny bit of dirty talk, unprotected piv, "good girl", and jack says sweetheart a lot) 18+ only please, mdni.
word count: 18889
Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man.
Possessive, maybe. Protective, definitely. But jealous? Never.
He had never really had anything to be jealous of.
Until now.
Now there are far too many things.
Like the pen between your lips—and the way you bite down just hard enough to leave a little dent in the plastic while you read through Dana’s notes.
Or Dana herself, and the way you’re looking at her—soft, sleepy, warm in a way that twists something tight in Jack’s chest. The same way you used to look at him in the quiet hours at the end of a night shift.
Or your scrubs—God, your scrubs—and the way they fit just a little too well tonight. Too tight in all the right places. Distracting in ways that are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
Jack has never needed to be jealous of anything before, but now he finds himself jealous of inanimate objects, coworkers you barely glance at, and your goddamn clothes.
So, yeah. Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man—until you came along.
“Dr. Abbot,” Dana calls, peering over the top of her glasses. “You’re early.”
Beside her, you glance up from your tablet, meeting his eyes across the ER with that same soft smile.
“Dr. Abbot,” you say, like you can’t quite help yourself.
Jack squares his shoulders and starts toward the nurses’ station, determined not to let Dana and her all-knowing, all-seeing bullshit clock exactly why he’s at work almost two hours earlier than he needs to be.
“Yeah, I’ve got some stuff I didn’t get to wrap up this morning,” he lies.
Princess pops up from behind the desk. “I thought you said you stayed back this morning to make sure everything was sorted?”
Jack’s gaze cuts to her. “Yes. But I forgot something.”
Dana narrows her eyes. “Mhm. What’d you forget?”
“A few notes from the three a.m. GSW,” he replies quickly—too quickly.
It’s weak and he knows it, but there’s nothing else he could think of with Dana watching him like thatand your warm, sleepy gaze still lingering from across the desk.
Dana nods slowly, adjusting the chart in her hands. “Right. Two hours early for a few notes.”
Jack just shrugs, avoiding her gaze as he walks past—and he doesn’t look back until he’s safely around the corner, standing in front of his locker. Only then does he risk a glance, just briefly over his shoulder, quick enough to catch a glimpse of you disappearing down the North hall.
God. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s a grown man.
More than that—he's an old man.
Yet here he is staying late at work and coming in early just to see more of you. Because ever since you swapped from nights to days, Jack doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Sure, he could barely concentrate when you were on shift together, but who knew not having you around would be even worse?
He spends the first half of his shift hating himself for being so hung up on someone so young and so impossibly out of reach—then spends the second half anxiously awaiting your arrival for the day shift.
And it’s only been two weeks.
But the absolute worst part?
He doesn’t even know why you swapped shifts. You never even spoke to him about it. You just told him at four a.m. two Saturdays ago that you were switching to day shift. No reason. No explanation. That was it.
At first he wondered if it was his fault—if maybe you’d simply decided you didn’t like working with him.
But you still greet him every morning and every evening with that same warm smile. You still look to him first whenever someone asks for an attending and he’s still around. You still text him whenever the ER cat shows up outside the ambulance bay—which apparently happens much more often during the day shift.
And Jack still buys a packet of freeze-dried liver treats every Sunday to keep in the cupboard above the break room fridge—because he knows how much you love feeding that cat.
“What’re you doing here?”
Jack’s head whips around at the sound of his friend’s voice.
“I—uh—came in early to fix up a few notes,” he says, turning back to shove his bag into his locker.
Robby’s brows lift. “Two hours for notes?”
Jack sighs, slinging his stethoscope around his neck and shutting his locker before turning to face his fellow attending. “Are you of all people really going to lecture me about not having a life outside of this ER?”
Robby chuckles quietly, lifting both hands out of his pockets in surrender. “I wasn’t judging.”
“Good,” Jack mutters, already starting back toward central. “Anything I need to know?”
Robby falls into step beside him. “North Three’s waiting on a CT for possible appendicitis. Kid in Five came in with chest pain but his labs look clean so far. Dana’s still fighting with bed control about moving the pneumonia admit upstairs.”
They both stop at the nurses’ station, glancing up at the board.
“Otherwise it’s been unusually calm,” Robby adds. “Which probably means you’re about to get slammed.”
Jack gives him a flat look. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.” Robby claps him on the shoulder. “Oh—and that R2 you gave me?”
“What about her?”
Robby shrugs. “She’s great.”
“I know,” Jack says, keeping his voice carefully even.
Robby studies him for a second, eyes narrowing just a fraction, the corner of his mouth threatening to lift. The man might be a disaster when it comes to his own feelings, but he has an uncanny talent for spotting everyone else’s.
“We’re alright out here if you want to catch up on your notes,” he says after a moment, already turning away. “Or go make the rounds. Get some very thorough handovers from the residents.”
Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the board. “I hate you.”
Robby huffs out a quiet laugh. “Then why are you here two hours early?”
Jack exhales sharply and steps forward, pulling one of the tablets from the rack.
“Notes,” he says, a little louder than necessary.
Robby just shakes his head, still smiling faintly as he disappears down the North corridor.
For a moment, Jack doesn’t move. He lingers at the nurses’ station, tablet in hand, pretending to analyse the board while ignoring the incredibly unsubtle looks from Perlah and Princess—both of them watching him with the kind of interest that usually means someone’s about to become the subject of a very entertaining conversation.
Then, with a polite nod to each of them, he clears his throat and steps away, turning toward the break room—trying very hard not to hope he runs into you on the way.
And trying not to be disappointed when he doesn’t.
The break room is empty when he steps inside, the noise of the ER dulling as the door falls shut behind him. He sets his tablet on the table—next to someone’s half-eaten lunch and a discarded Lean Cuisine container—and grabs a clean mug from the cupboard, pouring the last of the coffee pot into it.
Then he drops into the seat furthest from the door, his back to the bulletin board, and taps the tablet awake, pulling up the notes for the three a.m. GSW. The same notes he already finished in detail while staying back this morning—before Robby told him to get the hell out of his ER and get some sleep.
He barely makes it through two lines of the chart before the door swings open again.
“Shit, sorry,” you say quickly, stepping toward the table.
Jack’s pulse does the same stupid thing it always does whenever he sees you, making his chest feel hot and his head a little fuzzy.
“What are you sorry for?” he asks, as if it isn’t obvious.
You’ve already stacked the Lean Cuisine container on top of the half-eaten bowl of something grey and mushy-looking and are halfway to the sink with them.
“I only got, like, a five-minute break today and had to run out for a trauma, then completely forgot about my lunch,” you explain, cheeks flushed as you glance down at the bowl. “This is gross. I’m so sorry.”
Jack shifts in his chair. “I’ve seen worse in here, I promise.”
You glance over your shoulder as you turn on the tap, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “Really?”
He nods. “Really.”
He could almost swear your smile lifts a little higher before you turn back to the sink, scrubbing hurriedly at the bowl of slop that probably shouldn’t be going down the drain anyway.
Jack clears his throat. “But—uh—Lean Cuisine? Really?”
You look back at him again, brows drawn. “What’s wrong with Lean Cuisine?”
“Nothing,” he says lightly. “If you’re trying to survive a very stressful twelve-hour shift on only four hundred calories.”
You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the sink. “I actually managed to eat lunch today. That’s already a win.”
“It’s mostly sodium and sadness,” he adds, almost absently. “Not much protein.”
You finally turn the tap off and spin around, leaning a hip against the counter. “Alright, Dr. Abbot. When I find the spare time to start meal prepping between my very stressful twelve-hour shifts, I’ll let you know.”
Jack opens his mouth—then closes it again. Because what he wants to say is ridiculous.
But it comes out anyway.
“…I cook.”
You blink.
“You cook?”
Jack clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his coffee mug.
“Yeah. Well.” He shrugs. “I’ve been told I’m reasonably good at it.”
You stare at him for a second, brows knitting slightly as you clearly try to figure out where the hell that came from.
“Well,” you say with a quick smile, “I guess your dinner guests are pretty lucky.”
Before he can respond, you grab the Lean Cuisine packet, toss it in the bin, and step toward the door.
“Sorry again for the mess.”
Then you’re gone—leaving Jack alone with his coffee, his notes, and the growing suspicion that there might actually be something seriously wrong with him.
-
“Is that Dr. Abbot in the break room?” Santos asks, falling into step beside you.
You keep your eyes fixed on your tablet.
“Yep.”
She leans closer, steering you out of the way of a gurney.
“But night shift doesn’t start for like two more hours.”
“I’m aware.”
“So, why is he here?”
You exhale sharply and finally look up from your tablet. “I don’t know, Trin. Maybe because the universe hates me.”
She snorts. “Or maybe because he likes you.”
You roll your eyes, turning toward the South corridor. “Please don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” she insists. “I seriously think that old man has a thing for you.”
“Don’t call him that,” you mutter.
“Okay, fine. I seriously think that hot, older man has a thing for you,” she says, stopping beside you at the South desks. “And we all know how you feel about him, so—”
“No,” you snap. “We don’t all know how I feel about Ja—Dr. Abbot.”
She presses her lips together to keep from laughing.
“Besides,” you go on, dropping into a chair. “I swapped to day shift so I could stop being distracted by my attending and actually focus on being a good doctor—so could you please stop distracting me?”
She leans a hip against the desk, completely ignoring you. “And don’t you think that’s a little strange? I mean, you swapped to day shift—what, two weeks ago?”
You glance at her from the corner of your eye. “And?”
“And,” she says dramatically, “for the past two weeks Dr. Abbot has been staying back every morning and coming in early every afternoon.”
Your gaze slides back to the computer. “So?”
She sighs, exasperated. “It’s not a coincidence.”
“Actually, I think it is,” you argue.
She stares at you for a second, eyes narrowing. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re annoying.”
She rolls her eyes and pushes off the desk. “Whatever. You’re still coming out tomorrow night, right?”
Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard. “Uh—I’m not sure yet.”
“Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift that’ll be there,” she says.
You let out a quiet sigh of defeat.
“Fine,” you mutter. “I’ll come.”
“Good.” She grins, already turning away. “Come to my place around six. We can get ready and pregame.”
“Why can’t I get ready at home?” you ask.
“Because,” she calls over her shoulder, “I get to pick what you wear.”
And before you can argue, she slips into a patient room, effectively ending the conversation.
“Great,” you mumble, turning back to the computer. “Can’t wait.”
It’s not like you’re not looking forward to finally joining in on a night out now that you’re no longer on the night shift.
You are. You’re just... nervous.
Nervous, perpetually stressed out, and still adjusting to life as a day-walker. And Santos knows that. She probably knows you better than anyone else at PTMC—even though you’ve spent the better part of ten months working opposite shifts.
Which is exactly why she’s pushing you to join this night out. Because she knows you need it. She knows you need to relax, forget about work, and do something other than obsess over the night shift attending who’s had you completely undone since the day you first met.
God.
Jack Abbot. The single most dangerous man in Pittsburgh.
Not only is he stupidly hot, but he’s also annoyingly competent, irritatingly attentive, and has the starring role in every single one of your most inappropriate fantasies.
He’s also the very reason you’re terrified of having to redo your second year of residency, because that man affects your focus so much you literally can’t function. Like three weeks ago, when you walked straight into the glass door of Trauma One because you were too busy watching him take his jacket off.
His damn jacket.
That was the moment you finally decided you needed to swap shifts—because Dr. Shen couldn’t look at you for the rest of the night without bursting into laughter.
Jack Abbot is a liability to your health and wellbeing—which means he is a liability to your career. And even though asking Dr. Robby to swap to day shift was one of the most ridiculously difficult things you’ve done since starting at PTMC, you stand by the fact that it was the right decision.
The smart decision. The professional decision. Even if… it might not be working yet.
Because now you can’t just glance across central anymore and see Jack leaning against the desk, talking through a case with Lena. You can’t have him step up beside you when you’re unsure about something and quietly walk you through it. He’s not the one across from you in the trauma bays. And there isn’t a coffee cup that magically appears in front of you during the three o’clock lull.
Now you just… think about him instead.
But it’s only temporary. You’re sure of it. You just need to get used to the day shift and figure out how to get Jack Abbot out of your head.
Which… you have a sneaking suspicion is what Santos plans on helping you with this weekend.
You’re pretty sure you overheard her the other day telling Whitaker that the only way to get over someone is by getting under someone else. And maybe that’s exactly what you need to do—get under someone else so you can stop thinking about the maddeningly hot man who’s nearly twice your age and most definitely does not have a thing for you. Regardless of what Santos seems to think.
You spend the rest of your shift catching up on charting and trying very hard not to think about Dr. Abbot.
When someone asks for an attending, you call Dr. Robby. When you hear his voice just around the corner, you change paths as quickly and inconspicuously as you can. And when your notes are up to date and night shift starts rolling in, you find Dr. Ellis and give her—and only her—the rundown on your patients.
By the time you shut your locker and sling your bag over your shoulder, the sky outside is dark and there are only a few day shifters left lingering around the nurses’ station.
“Did you drive today?” Whitaker asks, shutting his locker only a moment after you.
“Yeah,” you reply. “Need a ride?”
He nods sheepishly. “That’d be great. Santos left already, said I was taking too long.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, I bet it had nothing to do with whatever she and Garcia were whispering about in the stairwell.”
Whitaker winces. “I just hope they’re at Garcia’s tonight.”
You huff a small laugh and hitch your bag higher. “You ready?”
He nods.
You both turn and start back toward central—but just as you reach the nurses’ station, his steps slow.
“Do you need to…?”
He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.
You frown. “Need to what?”
He hesitates. “Don’t you normally say goodbye to Dr. Abbot?”
Your eyes widen slowly. “Uh—no. Why would you say that?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought you two were close.”
“We’re not close,” you say, a little too quick.
“Sorry,” he mutters, raising both hands in surrender. “I just—I don’t know. I thought because you were his resident you two were… close.”
“I’m not his resident,” you snap. “I’m just… a resident. I don’t belong to him.”
“Okay,” he says slowly, brows drawing together. “I’m sorry, I just thought—”
“You thought wrong,” you mutter, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one is listening.
Thankfully, the two nosiest nurses in the ER have already gone home for the day.
“Let’s just go.”
You grab his wrist and walk quickly toward the ambulance bay doors, giving Ellis and Shen a small nod as you pass—completely missing the middle-aged attending who just overheard most of your conversation.
The car ride to Santos and Whitaker’s isn’t long. Whitaker fills most of it anyway—rambling about the shift, about the kid in Five and whether night shift is going to get slammed, about how Dana looked like she was two seconds away from strangling bed control by the end of the day. And every few minutes he circles back around to apologising for making you drive him home.
You wave him off each time.
“It’s fine, Whitaker.”
“Seriously though,” he says as you pull up outside their building. “I really appreciate it.”
He slings his bag over his shoulder and climbs out of the car, pausing on the sidewalk to give you one last wave before heading toward the front door.
The moment the passenger door falls shut, the quiet settles in. You let out a long breath, tipping your head back against the headrest and letting your eyes fall shut for a moment. And immediately—inevitably—your brain drifts straight back to the same place it always does.
Jack Abbot. Of course.
You scrub a hand over your face before shifting the car back into gear and pulling away.
The rest of the night passes the way most nights do—with a quick shower, something vaguely edible scavenged from the fridge, and half-heartedly scrolling through your phone until exhaustion finally drags you to bed.
When your head finally hits the pillow, you tell yourself you’re too tired to think about him. It’s been a long day—long week—and all you need right now is sleep, not fantasies.
But that doesn’t stop your brain from doing it anyway. Because sometime in the early hours of the morning, Jack Abbot shows up in your dreams. Not in the ER. Not standing beside you at the nurses’ station or leaning over a chart.
He’s in a kitchen. Cooking.
Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, moving around the stove with the same quiet confidence he carries through the hospital—like he knows exactly what he’s doing and expects the rest of the world just to trust him.
And in the dream, you do.
You lean against the counter and watch him the way you sometimes watch him in the trauma bays, telling yourself you’re just observing. Just curious. Just learning.
He glances over his shoulder eventually, catching you staring—and says something you can’t quite hear over the soft clatter of the pan. But he’s smiling.
Then the dream shifts the way dreams tend to—logic slipping sideways until suddenly you’re standing much closer than you should be. Close enough to smell whatever he’s cooking. Close enough that when he turns toward you the space between you disappears entirely.
His hand settles at your waist like it belongs there.
Your back meets the edge of the counter.
And when his mouth brushes your neck—
You wake with a sharp inhale, staring up at the ceiling, heart racing.
“Fuck,” you mutter, dragging a hand over your face.
So much for getting him out of your head.
For a while, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, watching the first pale line of sunlight creep across until it touches the wall opposite your window.
At some point you realise you’re still replaying the dream in your head.
The kitchen. The way his hand had felt at your waist. The warmth of his mouth against your neck.
You groan quietly and drag the blanket over your face.
“Get a fucking grip.”
Then you throw the covers back and force yourself out of bed, heading straight into the kitchen in search of coffee.
Your small apartment is always quiet—but this morning it feels too quiet. Too still as you silently sip your coffee, one hip leaned against the kitchen counter. Which, unfortunately, leaves far too much room for your brain to wander right back to its favourite topic.
Jack Abbot.
After coffee, you take yourself for a long walk around the block, hoping the cool morning air might help clear the remnants of the dream from your head.
It doesn’t.
But by the time you make it back to your apartment, your legs feel loose and your mind feels a little quieter, and for the briefest moment you almost manage to convince yourself that you’re excited about tonight. That you’re going to be able to do what Santos is clearly angling for and go home with an attractive stranger so you can stop draining your vibrator battery with inappropriate thoughts of your attending.
The rest of the day drifts past in a slow blur of small, forgettable things. Laundry. Answering a couple of messages in the group chat. Half-heartedly reviewing a few notes from earlier in the week before deciding you absolutely refuse to think about work on your day off.
Eventually the afternoon light begins to soften and stretch across the floor, which means it’s probably time to start getting ready if you’re actually going to make it to Santos’ place before she decides you’re bailing and comes knocking to drag you there herself.
So you shower, change, pack a bag, and throw it over your shoulder on the way out the door—trying very hard not to feel disappointed that Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift who’s going to be at the bar tonight.
It really is for the best.
You, alcohol, and Jack Abbot in the same room is a terrible idea.
“Alright, I’m ready,” Santos announces, finally stepping out of the bathroom.
You, Javadi, and Whitaker—who have spent the last twenty minutes on the couch chatting and sipping beer—look up.
“Aw, I wish I could do winged eyeliner like that,” Javadi says. “It just doesn’t suit my eye shape.”
“Don’t look too close,” Santos mutters. “It’s super uneven, but I don’t have time. I still have to fix this one before we go.”
She tips her chin toward where you and Whitaker are sitting on the opposite end of the lounge.
Whitaker’s eyes go wide. “Me?”
Santos scoffs. “Not you, Huckleberry. God, I don’t have enough time in the world to fix whatever’s going on there.”
Whitaker frowns, glancing down at his navy-blue button-up shirt. “What’s wrong with this?”
“Everything,” Santos says, already turning away.
Whitaker lifts his head, glancing between you and Javadi. “Is it really that bad?”
Javadi leans forward, lowering her voice. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Whitaker. You look great.”
You pat his shoulder. “It’s fine, really. She’s just—”
The words die on your tongue as Santos reappears, holding what can only be described as a sparkly scrap of fabric on a hanger.
Javadi tilts her head. “What’s that?”
Santos grins. “A dress.”
Whitaker chokes on his beer. “That’s… not a dress. That’s a glittery napkin.”
“Oh my God.” Javadi snorts. “My mom would kill me just for buying that.”
“I didn’t buy it,” Santos says lightly. “A friend in college gave it to me, but it’s never fit quite right.”
She steps forward, extending the hanger toward you.
“But I know you’ll be able to pull it off,” she adds, her grin sharpening.
You stare at it—glinting in the low evening sun spilling through the windows.
“Santos… this is a work thing,” you mutter.
She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a work thing. It’s just an outing with people from work.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?” Whitaker asks.
Santos sighs. “No, it’s not. And are you forgetting our main objective?”
You blink at her.
“To get you laid.”
Javadi giggles nervously, trying to hide it behind a swig of beer.
“Come on,” Santos says. “Just put it on and if it doesn’t work, we try something else.”
You hesitate, staring at the glittery thing like it might catch fire at any moment. Which, given enough sunlight, it probably could.
“Fine,” you say at last, pushing off the couch. “I’ll try it on, but that does not mean I’m wearing it.”
Santos’ eyes sparkle with excitement. Or maybe it’s just the dress.
“That’s my girl.”
You take the hanger from her and trudge into her room, nudging the door shut behind you. It takes a minute for you to figure out how the glittery napkin is supposed to go on—but once you do, you shed your comfortable clothes and shimmy into the most sparkly piece of fabric you’ve ever worn.
And somehow, the shimmering scrap of nothing turns out to be an actual dress—short, sparkling, and just structured enough to stay where it’s supposed to while still feeling mildly illegal.
With a deep breath, you turn away from the mirror and open the door, stepping back out into the lounge room.
“So?”
For a moment, no one says anything.
Whitaker’s mouth falls open.
Javadi’s eyebrows lift. “Oh.”
Santos, meanwhile, tilts her head appreciatively, one hand on her hip, eyes gleaming as she looks you over from head to toe.
“I knew it,” she says smugly.
Whitaker blinks. “That is not a dress.”
Javadi elbows him. “Stop talking.”
You tug awkwardly at the hem—which doesn’t actually move much because there isn’t very much hem to tug.
“Santos,” you say carefully, “I’m not sure—”
“Relax,” she says. “You look incredible.”
She circles you slowly, like a stylist inspecting her work.
“And you’re definitely going to get laid.”
“I feel like I shouldn’t be here,” Whitaker mutters, his face bright red.
Santos rolls her eyes. “You’re only here because you live here, Huckleberry. Now go grab that bottle of tequila from on top of the fridge—we’re going to need some liquid courage before we head out.”
After two shots of tequila and Santos’ finishing touches to your makeup, you all head out the door. Whitaker calls an Uber, the four of you pile in, and you carefully keep Santos’ leather jacket wrapped around yourself for some semblance of modesty.
You don’t really plan on taking it off for the rest of the night—even if it isn’t that cold.
The ride to the bar isn’t nearly long enough. Javadi spends most of it excitedly talking about how she can finally go out drinking now that she’s twenty-one, which Santos encourages with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly intends to make the most of that milestone.
You mostly just stare out the window. Trying not to think about the dress you shouldn’t have agreed to wear and the night shift attending you definitely shouldn’t be missing right now. Because if someone asked you where you’d rather be tonight—the bar or the ER with Dr. Abbot—your honest answer would be incredibly depressing.
Who would rather be at work than out with their friends on a Saturday night?
“We’re here,” Santos announces, nudging your side a little too hard.
You all thank the driver before climbing out, gathering yourselves on the sidewalk in front of the familiar establishment Santos loves dragging everyone to.
“Relax,” she says, dropping a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t need this.”
She tugs at the leather jacket, pulling it off your shoulders until it’s bunched at your elbows.
“I feel naked,” you mutter. “Like this is some nightmare where I show up to work in my underwear.”
Whitaker snorts. “Not far from it.”
Santos rolls her eyes. “Well, you’re not at work. You’re at a bar. And this is supposed to be fun.”
Right. Fun.
That is the entire point of tonight. Go out. Have a drink. Meet someone who isn’t Jack Abbot. Ideally forget Jack Abbot exists for at least a few hours.
Completely achievable.
Right?
“Fine.”
You draw a deep breath and drop your arms, letting the jacket slide off completely. Santos grins as you sling it over one elbow, trying not to instinctively hold it in front of your body like armour.
“See?” she says. “Much better.”
“Let’s just go inside before I change my mind,” you mutter, already starting toward the door.
Javadi loops her arm through yours. “You look amazing. Seriously.”
You give her a small smile, trying not to feel quite so awkward as Santos leads the way toward the main entrance.
It’s just a bar. Just a normal Saturday night. You’ll be fine after a few more shots of liquid courage.
You glance through the front window as you approach—more out of habit than anything else, your eyes drifting lazily over the crowded room inside.
People. Low lights. Patrons lingering around the bar.
And—
Your brain stalls.
Because there’s a man leaning against the bar with one elbow braced on the countertop, his shoulders broad under a tight black shirt, head tipped slightly as he talks to someone beside him.
A familiar someone.
Dr. Ellis.
And the man—
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Your stomach plummets.
Jack fucking Abbot.
Your feet stop moving, your whole body suddenly forgetting how to function.
Your pulse kicks violently against the inside of your throat as a wave of heat rushes up the back of your neck, sudden and dizzying and sharp enough to make the edges of your vision blur for half a second.
Because he looks—
He looks so good.
Relaxed in a way you’ve never seen at work. One hand curled loosely around a glass as he frowns slightly at something Ellis is saying, that small crease between his brows you know far too well.
And suddenly you are extremely, violently aware that you are standing outside a bar wearing approximately three square inches of glitter.
“Hey,” Javadi says beside you. “What’s—”
“Santos.”
She doesn’t stop.
“Santos,” you say again, your voice almost breaking.
She glances over her shoulder. “Hm?”
“You knew.”
She stops, her hand hovering near the door.
Whitaker glances between the two of you. “What’s happening?”
“Technically,” Santos says slowly, “I didn’t know. I just... suspected.”
“You said Ellis was the only one from night shift who’d be here.”
She winces. “I did, but what I meant is… Ellis is the only one who actually told me she’d be here.”
You stare at her. “So you did know?”
“I knew it was his night off.”
“Santos, I—” You glance back at him through the bar window. “I can’t go in there like this.”
“Like what?” she asks. “Smoking hot?”
“Half naked.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, you can.”
“I will actually die.”
“No, you won’t,” she says firmly. “You’re an adult. You can wear whatever you want, talk to whoever you want, and just because your incredibly inconvenient attending crush happens to be inside does not suddenly revoke your civil liberties.”
She pulls the door open.
“Now stop panicking and get in the bar.”
-
“He swore the chest pain had nothing to do with the seven energy drinks he’d had that night,” Ellis says, still rambling about a patient who pissed her off two nights ago, “which was a bold position to take with a heart rate of one-forty.”
Jack snorts softly. “And did you believe him?”
Ellis’ eyes go wide, and she takes a long drink before continuing her rant about night shift patients and the strange confidence people have when explaining why their terrible decisions definitely have nothing to do with the symptoms they’re currently experiencing.
Jack nods along, offering the occasional comment or question where needed, meeting her gaze now and then—but mostly keeping his attention on the door. Waiting. Because he’s not stupid enough to ask anyone if you’re going to be here tonight, but he is naïve enough to hope you will be.
He wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight—his first night off in two weeks.
He was supposed to be at home, cooking something decent for dinner, enjoying the rare luxury of not wearing scrubs, and inevitably indulging in his favourite guilty pleasure—involving nothing but his hand and some very inappropriate thoughts of you.
But he’s not.
He’s here. In a crowded bar, sipping cheap scotch, listening to Ellis complain about the night shift patients and their weird confidence, just… waiting.
For you.
He’d wanted to ask you yesterday if you were coming to the bar tonight—before he agreed to join—but he’d barely seen you before the end of your shift. And you didn’t even say goodbye. Which isn’t unusual, given how chaotic the ER can be, but then he’d overheard your conversation with Whitaker—and something about it made his chest feel too tight.
It wasn’t anger. Not exactly. Not jealousy, either. It was just... wrong. Not because what you said was wrong, but because he hates that it was right. That you don’t belong to him. Even if Robby calls you ‘his R2’ and Whitaker thinks you’re close because you’re his resident—none of it changes the fact that he has no real claim over you.
Which is ridiculous. He knows it.
He shouldn’t feel territorial. He shouldn’t want this. Want you. And yet, his chest still feels too tight—a slow, hot coil of frustration and longing curling up into his throat, and he hates it. Hates hearing it out loud, hates how much it matters, hates that he can’t make it not matter.
“Oh.” Ellis glances over her shoulder. “Looks like Santos and the others are here.”
Jack’s gaze flicks back to the door.
He tries not to react, not to straighten, not to square his shoulders as if he’s bracing for something—but he can already feel his composure slipping.
Santos steps in first, her head turned slightly as she talks to Whitaker, who walks in behind her. Then it’s Javadi, an unusually wide smile on her face as she looks at—
You.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Jack stops breathing.
His chest burns. His stomach flips. His hand tightens dangerously around his scotch glass.
It’s you. Of course it’s you. You’re perfect.
But then—
That dress.
God.
That dress—short, sparkling, clinging just enough to make every nerve in his body snap awake. It shimmers under the low lights as you move, and he hates himself for noticing every subtle curve, every shift of fabric, as if time itself has slowed just to torture him.
It’s all too much.
He can feel his pulse in his throat, heat burning beneath his skin, blood rushing in the one direction it really, really shouldn’t be right now. In public. In front of his coworkers.
He blinks, finally tearing his gaze away from you.
And that’s when he notices the rest of the bar. All staring. All stunned.
He hates them all.
He hates that they can even look at you. Hates that the universe allows it. Hates that they might see even a fraction of what he sees—and feel a fraction of what he feels.
And he hates, more than anything right now, that you’re not his.
“Dr. Abbot,” Robby says, appearing beside him and slinging an arm across his shoulders. “What’s your poison tonight?”
Jack lifts his drink, knuckles still white around the glass. “Scotch.”
Robby claps his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “You might not want to have too many of those.”
Then he slips past both Jack and Ellis and raises a hand to flag down the bartender.
“Alright,” Ellis says, pushing off the bar. “I’m going to go grab a seat before the table gets too crowded.”
Jack nods, but he doesn’t follow. He stays beside the bar, rigid now, eyes fixed on the group of men at a high table just a few feet from the front door. They’re muttering to each other, leaning in, voices low—but nothing about it is subtle. Their gazes are glued to you as you weave through patrons and tables to greet the rest of the PTMC crew gathered in a booth near the back.
One of them—the dumbest looking one, Jack’s already decided—slowly slides off his stool, nodding along while his friends murmur their advice.
Jack glances back at you, now standing beside McKay, sliding your arms into the leather jacket you’d been carrying. Santos grabs your wrist, tilting her head toward the bar as she starts dragging you with her.
And, like a fourteen-year-old boy with a crush, Jack’s pulse starts racing.
“Dr. Abbot,” Santos says, grinning as you both approach the bar. “Fancy seeing you somewhere other than the ER on a Saturday night.”
“I do have a life outside of work, you know,” he says dryly, lifting his drink and looking anywhere but at you.
“Like playing bingo at the senior centre?” Santos asks, resting both forearms on the bar.
You step up on her other side, squinting at the shelves of liquor on the back wall like they’re the most interesting thing in the room.
“Bingo’s on Wednesdays,” he says mildly. “Try to keep up.”
Santos snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for the small leather-bound bar menu. But out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees your head dip—just slightly—and you try to hide a small laugh against your shoulder.
Jack feels it like a punch to the ribs.
Because you’re listening.
And apparently… you think he’s funny.
“Alright,” Santos says, lifting a hand. “I think we need some tequila over here.”
The bartender steps away from where he’d been serving farther down the bar, but his attention quickly drifts past Santos and lands on you. He leans in, resting one palm flat against the bar while he wipes down the counter with a rag that doesn’t really need wiping.
“So,” he says to you, not Santos. “What are you drinking tonight?”
Santos blinks.
“I just told you,” she says flatly. “Tequila.”
The bartender barely glances at her.
Jack’s jaw tightens.
You look briefly confused, glancing between Santos and the bartender.
“Uh—whatever she orders is fine.”
“Yeah. Tequila,” Santos repeats, slower this time.
The bartender laughs like she’s joking—and Jack sets his scotch down slowly. Carefully.
His eyes stay locked on the man now lining up four small glasses in front of you, still completely ignoring Santos. The way he’s watching you is too much. Too close. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth makes Jack want to punch the smirk right off his face.
And by the way you shift a little closer to Santos—pulling your jacket tighter around yourself—he knows you’re uncomfortable.
His hand clenches at his side.
Robby pauses as he walks past, a beer in each hand.
“Easy, tiger,” he mutters. “She can handle herself.”
“I know,” Jack says, voice low. “Doesn’t mean she has to.”
Robby gives him a look—a brief, knowing glance, somewhere between amusement and warning. “Careful.”
Jack doesn’t respond. He just turns back to you and Santos, watching as you each knock back two shots of tequila, your nose scrunching as the burn hits. And he can’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth, because the face you make as you set the second glass down is ridiculously cute for someone wearing a dress like that.
“Okay,” Santos says. “I need a vodka soda before I start making bad decisions.”
The bartender nods, already reaching for another glass—and before he can even ask if you’d like another drink, someone else steals your attention.
“Hey,” the guy says, stepping up beside you. “Can I get you another one?”
He leans in, just enough to be heard over the noise—but it’s still too close.
You shift slightly, angling toward him. “Oh. Uh—sure.”
Santos presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile as she turns back to the bar, suddenly very invested in whatever the bartender is doing. The second he sets the vodka soda in front of her, she scoops it up and drops a few bills on the counter.
She lifts the drink to her lips as she turns away, pausing just long enough to glance at Jack over the rim of the glass.
Her brows lift. “You really gonna let that happen?”
Jack frowns. “What—”
But Santos is already gone, drink in hand, halfway back to the booth where everyone else is.
Where Jack should be headed too—because there’s no reason for him to stay here. No reason for him to linger, to hover, to make sure you’re okay, to stand there glaring at the guy buying you a drink like that’s going to change anything.
It’s not like he can blame him. If Jack thought he had a shot with you, he’d take it too. The difference is, Jack wouldn’t need the dress. Or the drinks. Or the crowd. He’d take that shot with you even when you’re tired and stressed out and covered in blood at the end of a bad shift in the ER. He’d take it any time. Any place.
But Jack doesn’t get that shot.
Because you’re young. You don’t have baggage. And you’re a resident—maybe not his resident, but still a resident.
It’s just too inappropriate.
Jack sets his glass back on the bar a little harder than necessary—and the bartender glances over, brows raised as if silently asking if he’d like another, but Jack just shakes his head.
His eyes flick back to you. To the way you’re smiling now—soft, not uneasy. To the way you seem to have forgotten about keeping your jacket closed, and now the idiot talking to you is looking anywhere but your face.
Then you laugh—light, easy—and something in Jack’s chest tightens again.
He looks away. He can’t keep standing here. He’s not going to stand here and watch you flirt with some idiot at the bar like he has any right to care.
With a deep breath, he forces himself to turn away and start walking back to the table.
Where he should have been five minutes ago. Where he plans on staying for the rest of the night.
Half an hour later, most of PTMC’s day shift staff are gathered in the booth, half still wearing their scrubs after coming straight from the hospital. The volume of conversation builds with the growing collection of empty glasses in the middle of the table, voices overlapping, getting louder with every round—but Jack doesn’t order another scotch. At some point, Ellis sets a beer in front of him, which he nurses until it’s too warm to enjoy.
Every now and then, he makes a point of nodding or laughing or glancing at someone across the table—pretending to follow the conversation, pretending he’s paying attention—when really, all he can focus on is you. You and your smile. And your laugh. And the way your hand settles lightly on a man’s bicep when he says something that makes you blush.
Not the same man as before, either. No—this one is new. This one swooped in when the first one excused himself to take a phone call, and now that one is back at the table with his friends, sulking.
Kind of how Jack is right now, sitting at the table with his friends. Sulking. Glaring. Plotting.
He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s none of his business. But he can’t stop himself from trying to come up with an excuse to interrupt you. To get you away from those men and their lingering stares.
Not that he’s any better.
“Abbot.” Robby nudges his side. “Hungry?”
Jack blinks, finally dragging his gaze away from you to where Ellis is standing, looking expectant.
“Hm?”
“Are you hungry?” Ellis asks. “I’m going to order some wings.”
Jack frowns. “Uh—no. I’m good. Thanks.”
Ellis nods once and turns away, heading straight for the bar.
Robby huffs a quiet laugh beside him. “You might want to turn your hearing aids up, old man.”
Jack doesn’t even look at him. “Funny.”
“I’m serious,” Robby says mildly. “You’ve missed, what, three questions in the last five minutes?”
“I heard her,” Jack mutters. “I was just... thinking.”
Robby hums like he doesn’t believe that for a second.
Jack shifts, pushing his chair back as he sets his warm beer on the table. “I’m gonna hit the head.”
Robby’s brows lift, slow and knowing, his gaze flicking briefly toward the bar.
“Mm,” he says. “Sure you are.”
Jack does, in fact, turn toward the bathrooms first—mostly because he needs a second away from all the music and chatter to try and clear his head. To try and stop himself from doing what he really left the booth to do.
He locks himself in the accessible bathroom—not that he needs it, but it’s more private than the men’s—and stands in front of the vanity. He presses his palms into the porcelain sink, shifting his weight forward with a deep, steadying breath.
This is ridiculous, and he knows it.
He’s a grown man. He shouldn’t be acting like this.
This is trivial shit, for God’s sake. Jack is a vet. A seasoned ER doctor.
So why is a goddamn crush undoing him like this?
Why are you undoing him like this?
He lifts his head and stares at his reflection—jaw tight, shoulders rigid—trying to get a grip. Trying to remember that he is a grown ass man, not some idiot who can’t keep his shit together.
His gaze drifts across his face—the day-old stubble, peppered hair—then to the reflection of the bathroom behind him. The graffitied walls, covered in stickers and spray paint, a chaotic collection of late nights and inebriated thoughts. He wonders, briefly, how many people came in here intending to leave something behind.
Then he spots something scrawled in the corner of the mirror in thick black marker.
HESITATE AND SOMEONE ELSE WON’T.
Jack tilts his head.
That’s not exactly... subtle.
But that’s the thing, isn’t it?
He doesn’t hesitate.
Not in the trauma bay. Not out in the field. Not when it matters. Not when someone’s life is on the line and everyone else is waiting for someone to make the call.
So what the hell is this?
This… standing back. Watching. Letting it happen.
Like he doesn’t know what he wants. Like he hasn’t already made up his mind.
He drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head once—sharp, annoyed.
“Jesus Christ.”
It’s not caution. It’s avoidance.
With another deep breath, Jack reaches for the tap and braces his hands beneath the stream. He scrubs them together—quick and thorough—then turns off the water, grabs a paper towel, and dries his hands with more focus than necessary. He tosses the towel in the bin on his way out the door, his gaze sharpening as he scans the bar—finding you immediately.
You’re still standing where you were, maybe a few steps closer to the back of the room. There’s a new guy in front of you now, closing you in, crowding your space just enough to make Jack’s eyes narrow.
The man’s hand settles at your waist, a little lower than what could be considered innocent. And anyone else watching might think you’re okay with it—but Jack knows you. He sees the small flicker of discomfort that crosses your face, the subtle drop of your shoulder as you try to angle yourself away without seeming rude.
Good thing Jack doesn’t mind being rude.
He’s already moving before he’s fully decided to. Just a few long strides and he’s there—close enough to cut through the space between you and the guy without touching either of you, his presence alone enough to interrupt whatever the hell this is supposed to be.
He looks at you. Just you.
“Hey.”
Your head turns immediately—and the shift in your expression is instant. Relief.
“Oh—hey,” you say, a little breathless.
And then you step into him. Not too close. Not in a way that draws attention or suggests anything—but enough to make Jack’s pulse jump. Enough for him to feel your warmth and the way it settles under his skin.
“Hey, man,” the guy says, holding out a hand. “I’m Trent.”
Jack ignores him.
“You alright?” he asks you.
You nod slowly. “I am now.”
Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt, just for a second—like you didn’t even think about it. Like you just needed something solid to hold onto.
Jack goes still.
Trent clears his throat. “Sorry—uh—who are you?”
You glance at him with a tight smile. “This is my attending.”
Jack likes being called your attending.
Trent frowns. “What?”
“Remember how I said I was a doctor?”
Trent just stares at you.
“Well, Dr. Abbot is my attending,” you go on anyway. “He’s like my supervisor. I’m his resident.”
His resident.
“Right,” Trent mutters, eyeing Jack. “Cool. So—you’re a doctor?”
Jack doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay fixed on you.
“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Ellis is ordering wings—we can grab a menu.”
“Starving,” you reply, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly as you look up at him.
“Great.” His hand settles at your shoulder, firm but casual. “Let’s get back to the others.”
“Wait,” Trent says. “Are you—”
“It was nice meeting you,” you cut in, flashing him one last tight-lipped smile before Jack steers you away.
He keeps his arm around your shoulders until you’re halfway back to the booth of PTMC doctors and nurses. Only then does he pull back, clasping his hands behind his back like he needs the physical restraint.
“Thanks for that,” you murmur. “He just wouldn’t take a hint.”
Jack nods. “I noticed.”
He doesn’t look at you as he turns back toward the other end of the table, toward his seat beside Robby—because if he did, he might not be able to leave your side. From the corner of his eye, he sees Santos reach for you, already asking what happened as she pulls you into the seat between her and McKay.
And for twenty blissful minutes, Jack feels okay. The most okay he’s felt all night.
Because you’re here, at the table, talking to Santos and McKay—and not some idiot who thinks he deserves a chance with the prettiest girl in the room. In the world, according to Jack.
But only for twenty minutes—because once you finish your drink, Santos drags you back to the bar.
Another shot. Another drink. Another guy.
Jack shifts in his chair, trying to listen to whatever it is Ellis and Mateo are arguing about, but he can’t focus—not when your hand settles lightly on this new guy’s shoulder. And especially not when it slides down his bicep, flirty in a way that makes Jack want to get out of his chair.
He tells himself he’s not going to. That he shouldn’t.
But the second the lights dim and the music gets louder, he pushes out of his seat.
He finds you at the edge of the dancefloor, catching your wrist before you can disappear into the crowd.
“Hey,” he says, voice raised over the music.
Your head whips around, your brows lifting slightly in that soft, expectant way—like you’re waiting for him to say whatever it is that’s so important he had to stop you right here.
Jack clears his throat. “Have you been drinking water?”
You frown. “Um. Not really.”
“You should really drink some water,” he says, tipping his head toward the bar.
You hesitate, glancing back over your shoulder at the man waiting for you to follow him into the crowd.
Then you look back at Jack.
“Uh, yeah. Okay. Water.”
He knows he shouldn’t have done it. He knows it was stupid and petty and jealousy-driven—but he can’t help the flicker of satisfaction when you follow him to the end of the bar with the self-serve water tower.
The music is too loud for conversation—and even if it wasn’t, he’s not sure what he’d say. Not when you’re looking at him like this. A little drunk. A little curious. Your brows drawn, your skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, your lips wet from the water.
God. This has the be the finest form of torture.
Because here you are—so young and so sweet, so trusting in Jack that he’s just trying to look after you, when all he can think about is the fact that you’re not his. That they think you’re fair game. That every man in this room thinks he has a chance.
And the fact that he’s not going to let them anywhere near you.
-
The third time Jack Abbot appears at your side, he catches your elbow just as you’re about to step out the door with a man named Leo. Not to leave the bar—just for some air—but then Jack says something about Mateo buying a round of shots and guides you back inside.
You don’t mind. Not really. Especially not when a free drink is involved.
So you line up beside your coworkers and sink another shot of tequila with a grimace before Santos drags you back to the dancefloor.
The fourth time Jack Abbot intercepts you, you’re just about to start dancing with a handsome stranger Santos accidentally made you bump into—but before you can even take the man’s hand, Jack pulls you away, insisting you take a seat for a minute and drink more water.
Which, fine. Whatever.
But by the fifth interruption, you’re starting to notice a pattern.
And you’re getting a little annoyed.
“Oh my God,” Santos says, her eyes going wide as the opening notes to ABBA’s Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! start blaring through the speakers. “We have to dance. Come on!”
You barely have time to scoop your drink up off the bar before she’s dragging you onto the dancefloor—into the throng of warm bodies all moving to the beat beneath the single, sparkling disco ball.
The music pulses through the floor beneath your feet, the bass thrumming in your chest as Santos drags you deeper into the crowd. Somewhere between Mateo’s round of shots and your tenth song on the dancefloor, your jacket disappeared—and now your dress catches the light with every movement, glittering under the shifting colours as bodies press in from all sides.
The bar is still pretty full, even if the PTMC booth has already lost a few soldiers. There are still plenty of prospects—plenty of strangers who might offer to take you home and make you forget all about Jack Abbot. Which is still very much the plan.
If only the man himself would stop interrupting every interaction like he’s doing you a favour.
At some point during the second—or maybe third—chorus, Santos subtly steps away and a guy ends up in front of you. You’re not even entirely sure how. One second you’re dancing and screaming the lyrics, the next he’s there—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his hands hovering like he’s trying to decide where to put them.
You let it happen. Because this is what you want, right?
This is the plan.
He leans in and says something you don’t quite catch over the music, but you laugh anyway—more out of obligation than anything else.
Then his attention shifts.
His eyes flick past you. And just like that—he falters.
It’s subtle, but you feel it. The hesitation. The way his body pulls back a fraction, like something just snapped him out of it.
“Uh—actually,” he mutters, already stepping away. “I—yeah. Sorry.”
Then he’s gone.
You blink, frowning slightly as you glance over your shoulder and—
Of course.
Jack Abbot, standing just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes locked on you with a look that makes your stomach drop.
Not angry. Not exactly.
But intense. Sharp. Focused in a way that feels… deliberate.
You stare at him for a second—frustration flickering across your face—then turn back to Santos, who is still dancing with her vodka soda lifted in the air.
You lean in, raising your voice just enough to be heard over the music. “Your plan isn’t working!”
She turns to face you, frowning. “What do you mean it’s not working?”
You stare at her. “The plan to get me laid? It’s not working.”
“Why not?”
You huff out a laugh, incredulous.
“Because of him,” you say, nodding toward Jack. “Because I let him save me from one bad interaction and now he’s just—hovering. Interrupting. Scaring people off.”
Santos’ mouth twitches.
“I think he thinks he’s being helpful,” you add, shaking your head. “Like he’s doing me a favour or something, but—God, I’m never going to get a stranger to take me home with a hundred-and-ninety-pound war vet glaring over my shoulder every five minutes.”
Santos just looks at you for a second—then smiles. Slow. Knowing.
“And what part of my plan isn’t working?”
You frown. “Are you even listening to me?”
“I said I was going to get you laid,” she says, lifting her drink to her lips. “I never said anything about going home with a stranger.”
It doesn’t land straight away.
You blink at her, still frowning as you try to follow the logic—because that doesn’t make sense, that’s not the plan. If you’re not going home with a stranger, then who—
And then it clicks.
Your stomach drops.
“Wait—Santos,” you start, eyes widening. “You don’t mean—”
Santos just looks at you over the rim of her glass. Calm. Patient. Smiling faintly, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.
You glance toward the side of the dancefloor again—to the man still focused on you in a way that feels far too intentional now. Arms folded, jaw set. He doesn’t even pretend to look away when you meet his stare.
“Actually,” Santos says, her hand closing around your wrist. “I think my plan is working perfectly. Now, come on—” she nods toward the booth where everyone else is, “let’s play a game.”
A game?
Before you can argue or even question it, Santos is dragging you off the dancefloor toward the booth at the back of the bar. The thrum of the music dulls the further you get from the crowd, and by the time you both slide into empty seats at the table, you no longer feel like you need to yell just to be heard.
The PTMC crew has thinned since you were last sitting here. Robby, Dana, and Donnie are gone, and McKay is holding her purse in her lap like she’d been trying to leave when Mateo cornered her with another rant about how no patient actually seems to understand the pain scale.
“Alright,” Santos announces, picking up someone’s abandoned drink and taking a sip like she owns it, “we’re playing a game.”
Whitaker leans forward. “A game?”
“Yes, Huckleberry. A game.” Santos glances around the table with a lazy half-smile. “It’s called Never Have I Ever.”
Mateo snorts. “That’s a middle school sleepover game.”
“Great,” Santos replies. “Then it should be easy for you.”
There’s a ripple of laughter around the table, but no one else seems to object.
“Can I start?” Mohan pipes up beside Santos. “I’ve got a good one.”
Santos nods. “Be my guest.”
You’re not entirely sure when Jack rejoined the table, since he’d been at the edge of the dancefloor just a few minutes ago, but now you’re suddenly very aware of his presence across from you. Like the few people that called it a night have unintentionally left a smaller, more intimate group behind—and now Jack Abbot is almost directly across from you while you play one of the most notorious, tension-raising middle school games of all time.
“Okay,” Mohan says, sitting up a little straighter. “Never have I ever… called in sick when I wasn’t actually sick.”
McKay laughs. Mateo groans. Almost everyone at the table lifts their drinks.
“Really?” Santos says. “That was your good one?”
Mohan shrugs. “I thought—”
“Never mind,” Santos cuts her off. “My turn.”
Her gaze moves slowly around the table before landing on you, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.
“Never have I ever,” she starts slowly, “fantasised about someone else sitting at this table.”
Your pulse jumps.
McKay snorts.
Mateo leans forward. “Like, intentionally. Or…?”
Whitaker frowns. “You’ve accidentally fantasised about someone here?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes the wrong people pop up, you know?”
Santos rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. Whatever. Intentional or not.”
Mateo nods once and lifts his drink. Javadi sinks lower in her chair as she lifts hers—and you try not to look around at the rest of the table as you bring your own up to your lips.
Beside you, McKay drops her purse to the ground and straightens, clearly invested now.
“Alright, I’ve got one,” she says, grinning. “Never have I ever… faked it.”
Javadi chokes, Santos snorts, and across from you, Jack huffs out a quiet laugh.
“Never?” Ellis asks, eyes wide. “So you always—”
“Oh, God, no,” McKay laughs. “Definitely not. I just refuse to fake it.”
Laughter moves through the table again, a little louder this time, and everyone takes a second to decide whether or not to raise their drinks.
You lift yours slowly, looking anywhere but at Jack.
“Okay, my turn,” Ellis announces, shifting in her seat. “Never have I ever… hooked up with someone at work.”
The table reacts around you, a mix of laughter and quiet protest, but it all blurs at the edges when you finally glance up—because Jack is already looking at you.
Not surprised. Not amused.
Just… watching.
He doesn’t laugh or say anything. He just lifts his drink, slow and deliberate.
And something sharp twists in your chest.
“What’ve you got, Langdon?” McKay asks, nodding at him across the table.
Langdon strokes his chin thoughtfully for a moment—then sighs.
“Alright, I already know I’m going to get shit for this, but—” He clears his throat. “Never have I ever… had sex in public.”
McKay laughs, loudly, and lifts her drink to her lips without hesitation. Ellis and Santos drink too, while Mohan laughs into her hand and Javadi sinks even lower in her chair.
Across from you, Jack sips his drink again like it’s nothing.
And that sharp twist in your chest doesn’t ease.
Because of course he has. Of course there are other people. Other women.
And you—
You catch Santos’ gaze from the other end of the table—sharp, knowing, daring.
Your grip tightens slightly around your glass.
And before you can talk yourself out of it—
“Okay, my turn,” you say lightly, sitting up a little straighter.
Everyone turns to you, but you keep your eyes fixed on your glass.
“Never have I ever,” you say slowly, “…finished during sex.”
For a second—nothing.
Then the table erupts.
“What—no—” Mateo is already laughing, leaning forward like he thinks you’re joking. “You’re kidding.”
Javadi chokes on her drink, coughing as she turns toward you. “Wait, seriously?”
“Oh my God,” McKay says, half-laughing, half-staring at you like she’s trying to figure out if you’re lying.
Langdon huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Well… that’s unfortunate.”
Whitaker just blinks at you, caught somewhere between surprised and confused, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that information.
Santos doesn’t say anything. She just leans back in her seat, watching you over the rim of her glass with a slow, satisfied smile.
And across from you—
Jack just goes still.
Completely still.
His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does—sharp, dark, focused in a way that makes your stomach flip.
It takes you a minute to remember how to move. How to breathe. How to laugh and sip your drink and keep playing the game that doesn’t stop just because it feels like your heart did.
Eventually, everyone eases off the third-degree on your embarrassingly real confession, and Mateo pipes up next with something ridiculous that makes the table groan. Then Javadi comes out with something surprisingly rebellious—and blushes hard when Mateo flashes her a wink.
And so it goes on.
You know it does.
You can hear it—voices overlapping, laughter breaking out again, someone arguing over what counts, someone else swearing they’re being misrepresented—but it all feels… distant.
Like it’s happening a few steps away from you instead of right here at the table. Because now, all you can focus on is Jack. On the way he’s hardly moved. Hardly spoken. Hardly looked away from you.
At some point, he mutters his own confession with a small smirk and everyone laughs—but you don’t catch the words. You’re too aware of everything else to hear them. Too aware of your pulse pounding in your ears, the thrum of the music beneath your feet, the way Jack’s jaw ticks every time you glance back at him.
Another round starts. Then another.
Someone groans. Someone laughs too loud. Santos says something that earns a chorus of reactions—but it all slips past you, unimportant, forgettable.
Time stretches. Blurs.
Your drink empties, refills, empties again.
People shift in their seats. Someone stands. Someone leaves.
Then suddenly—
“You ready?”
You blink.
Santos is standing beside you, brows raised.
“Ready?” you echo.
She nods toward the door. “Time to go. Most of us have to work tomorrow.”
You glance around at the empty table. “Oh.”
Santos is already halfway to the door by the time you gather your things and catch up to her. You’re still pulling your jacket on as you step outside, bracing against the cool night air that nips at every inch of exposed skin—which, in this dress, is a lot of skin.
“The Uber’s just around the corner,” Whitaker says.
“Great,” Mohan mutters, hugging her jacket tighter. “I’m freezing.”
You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or just the heat lingering beneath your skin from the way Jack had been watching you earlier, but you’re not nearly as cold as you should be.
“You sure you don’t mind if I stay over tonight?” Javadi asks, glancing between Santos and Whitaker.
Santos shrugs. “As long as you don’t mind the couch—and Dr. Shamsi isn’t going to have us arrested for kidnapping.”
Javadi lets out an awkward laugh. “Uh—no. It’s totally fine. I told my dad.”
“Are you working tomorrow?” Whitaker asks.
Javadi shakes her head. “Day off. You?”
Whitaker sighs. “Yeah.”
“So am I,” Santos adds. “And if I don’t get at least five hours sleep, I cannot be responsible for other people’s lives.”
“That’s reassuring,” Jack mutters, almost startling you as he steps out of the bar.
He buries his hands in his pockets, hardly sparing you a glance as he steps closer to the group. There’s a faint hitch in his step—something you recognise from the waning hours of a night shift, when he’s been on his feet for too long and starts to favour one leg.
“This is us,” Whitaker announces, nodding toward the car pulling up at the curb.
Mohan hurries forward first, yanking the door open and climbing into the back seat—and Javadi is next, flashing you a smile before she ducks in beside her. You step forward—then hesitate. Whitaker is already holding the front passenger door open, and Santos is standing at the curb, about to join the others in the back.
“Wait.” Your pulse jumps. “There’s too many—”
“You’re with Dr. Abbot,” Santos says lightly, her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to smile.
Your stomach drops.
“I—I’m what?”
Santos shrugs. “Javadi’s staying over and Mohan’s place is on the way to ours. Just makes sense.”
Then she climbs into the car, shuts the door, and rolls the window down.
“See you tomorrow!”
There’s a chorus of goodbyes from the others before the car pulls away from the curb—and the cool, quiet night settles in too quickly. The only sound is the dull thrum of music from the bar, and the pounding of your pulse in your ears.
For a second, you don’t turn around. You can’t. Not now that you’re alone with him.
Then—
“I’m this way,” he says, voice low and rough and maddeningly hot.
You nod, but don’t dare look at him as you start following the line of parked cars up the street.
The night air feels sharper now, cooler the further you get from the bar—and it makes you pull into yourself, arms folded tightly while your jacket barely does anything to help.
Jack keeps an easy pace beside you, not crowding you, not touching you, but close enough that you’re aware of him anyway. Of the space he takes up at your side. Of the way he adjusts slightly so you’re walking on the inside of the path, further from the curb, without making a thing of it.
Neither of you says anything.
It’s not awkward. It’s just… quiet in a way that feels heavy, like the silence is holding onto everything that happened inside instead of letting it go.
Your heels click unevenly against the pavement, catching slightly every few steps, and you’re suddenly, painfully aware of everything—the way your dress shifts as you move, the cool air against your skin, the way your pulse hasn’t quite settled.
You feel too sober. Too aware.
When his car finally comes into view, he moves ahead of you just slightly—just enough to reach the passenger door first and hold it open.
God. He’s so annoyingly considerate.
You give him a small, tight smile before climbing into the passenger seat.
The car is still warm, still holding onto the heat from earlier in the day, and it smells like him in a way that’s subtle but unmistakable—clean, familiar, something faintly sharp beneath it that you can’t quite place but instantly recognise. The seat gives slightly beneath you, softer than you expect, and for a second you just sit there, hands hovering like you’re not entirely sure where to put them.
It’s his.
All of it.
The way everything is exactly where it should be, nothing out of place. The faint scuff on the console. A pair of sunglasses tucked neatly into the centre compartment. His backpack thrown into the back seat like he’d discarded it in a hurry and never thought about it again.
The sound of the driver’s side door opening almost startles you.
You drop your hands into your lap, shifting slightly and smoothing your dress down over your thighs like that might ground you somehow.
The car immediately feels smaller when Jack climbs in. More intimate. Closer in a way that’s almost stifling.
You keep your eyes fixed out the windshield.
Waiting.
For the engine to start. For the car to move.
But nothing happens.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, settling into every inch of the space between you.
And then—
“You can’t say shit like that around me.”
You blink, finally turning toward him—and regretting it immediately. He’s so irritatingly handsome, so annoyingly gorgeous in a way that makes you want to be stupid and reckless and climb across the console into his lap.
“Say what?” you ask, your voice embarrassingly thin.
He looks at you—not fully, just turning his head slightly.
“You know what,” he says, his voice low and rough with something that sounds a little too close to control slipping.
And you do.
You know exactly what he means.
But before you can say anything else, he turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. The radio crackles a little before some late-night news station fills the silence—and he doesn’t move to turn it off, doesn’t even turn it down. He just drives.
The radio reporter’s voice hums through the car like white noise, talking about something you’re not really listening to as you try to focus on keeping your breathing even.
You can still hear his voice.
You can’t say shit like that around me.
The way he said it. Low. Controlled. Like it cost him something to keep it that way.
Your fingers shift slightly in your lap, smoothing over the fabric of your dress again without thinking, and your mind starts turning his words over before you can stop it—pulling at them, testing them, trying to make them mean something that makes sense.
Because what does that even mean?
You glance at him, quick, like you might catch something you missed—but he’s focused on the road, jaw set, one hand loose on the wheel like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just change everything with eight little words.
You look away again.
No. He didn’t mean it like that.
He’s just—he’s your attending. He’s responsible. Of course he’d say something. Of course he’d—
Except he didn’t say it like that.
Your stomach tightens as your thoughts circle back, slower this time, more deliberate.
The way he kept pulling you away from people tonight. The way he’d been watching you. The way he didn’t laugh, didn’t joke, didn’t let it go.
The way he said it.
Around me.
Not here. Not in front of people.
Around me.
Your breath catches slightly, and you shift in your seat, suddenly very aware of the space between you—of how close he is, of how easy it would be to just turn your head, lean in and—
No.
No, that’s not—
You swallow, gaze fixed stubbornly ahead.
You’re just reading into it. You have to be.
Because the alternative—
Your pulse jumps.
God. The alternative is too much to even consider.
But the thought lingers anyway.
It settles in the back of your mind, quieter now, but heavier—pulling at everything he said, everything he did, everything you might have missed until now. The words circle back, sharper this time—until—
The car stops—and you blink.
For a moment, you don’t move. You can’t.
Then Jack clears his throat.
“Oh—uh—thanks,” you mutter, reaching for your seatbelt buckle.
He nods once. “Anytime.”
You push your door open before you can think too hard about it, stepping out into the cool night air that hits a little harder this time. Your heart is still beating in your throat, your pulse still too loud, your thoughts are still circling those eight words—eight little words that feel like they weigh far more than they should.
You hesitate—one hand on the door, the other gripping your keys in your jacket pocket.
God.
This is stupid.
This is reckless.
This is—
“Do you—” You clear your throat, the words catching slightly before you force them out. “Do you want to come up?”
He stares at you for a second, then lets out a short, disbelieving breath, like he’s not quite sure he heard you right.
“You can’t be serious.”
Heat rushes up your neck, quick and unwelcome, and for a second you just stand there, wishing you could take it back—rewind a few seconds and keep your mouth shut.
What the hell were you thinking?
“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “No, that was—that was stupid.”
You turn away before he can say anything else, pushing the door shut harder than you mean to as you step back onto the sidewalk. You don’t look back. You refuse to. You just keep walking toward the lobby door, drawing your keys from your pocket and fumbling through them to find the right one.
It takes longer than it should, but eventually you find the lobby key and wriggle it into the lock.
This door has never been your friend. It’s old, a little rusted, and the lock has always been janky—but now your hands are shaking, and this stupid old door seems to think that’s funny, because it won’t budge.
You jiggle the key and try again, but nothing changes.
Then—
“Here.”
His voice is low. Close.
Your hand stills as he steps in behind you, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back—the solid line of his chest just shy of pressing into you as he reaches past your shoulder.
His fingers brush yours as he takes the key—and the lock turns easily this time.
Of course it does. Traitorous fucking door.
His arm lingers there for a second longer than it needs to—then he pushes the door open.
You don’t even glance at him as you step inside, already turning back to grab your key before the door swings shut—but he’s still holding it, barely a step behind you.
He tilts his head slightly, nodding toward the lobby. “Go.”
It’s quiet. Controlled.
Not a suggestion.
Your breath catches, just for a second, and you hesitate—long enough to feel it, whatever this is, tightening between you—
Then you turn and keep walking.
And he follows.
He follows you across the lobby, up the fire stairs, down the corridor, all the way to your apartment door. He stands a little closer than necessary as you unlock it—almost like he doesn’t think you know how doors work now—but the key turns smoothly this time.
You push the door open and step inside.
The apartment is quiet, dim, and you shrug out of your jacket without thinking. You can feel him watching you as you drape it over the arm of the sofa, and it’s a little... thrilling. Dangerous. Because Jack Abbot is in your goddamn apartment right now, looking at you like he’s a man on the edge—
And you’re daring him to jump.
“Drink?” you offer, keeping your voice light—innocent.
He clears his throat. “Water, please.”
You can’t help the small smirk on your lips as you brush past him, a little closer than necessary.
“So polite,” you murmur.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t shift—but you can feel him there, tense just beneath the surface.
You open the fridge and bend over to grab a bottle of water, letting your dress ride up the backs of your thighs in a way that’s totally unnecessary. Jack clears his throat again, just a little too sharp, and when you glance back toward him, he’s turned away completely.
You press your lips together to keep from smiling too wide as you straighten again.
“Here,” you say, stepping toward him and holding the water out.
He turns hesitantly, taking it. “Thank you.”
Your eyes catch his, a slow smile tugging at your lips before you bite the corner gently, just enough for him to notice. He looks away quickly, jaw tightening as he focuses on uncapping the water bottle.
You brush past him again, still a little too close, and move toward the sofa, dropping onto it and leaning forward to take off your shoes.
Jack takes a long swig of water, then clears his throat for the third time.
“Are you working tomorrow?” he asks.
You glance up, still leaned forward, and it’s hard not to notice the way his eyes dip from your face.
“Isn’t that something you should already know?”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he can’t quite help himself.
“You’re impossible. You know that?”
Heat rushes up your neck at the way he says it—short, sharp, loaded—and you bite back a grin, letting your eyes glint just a little as you straighten.
“Am I?” you murmur, tilting your head just slightly. “Only one way to find out.”
He freezes for a second, shoulders tight, hand curling slightly around the water bottle—and it crackles softly under his grip. His breath hitches, just barely.
“I should go,” he mutters, voice low and clipped.
He takes a step toward the door—and you shoot up from the sofa, heartbeat racing.
“Wait—uh—before you go,” you say, stepping toward him, “could you help me with something?”
He hesitates, turning slowly, as if every second in here is costing him something.
You move until you’re almost between him and the door, looking up at him through your lashes.
“Could you help me out of my dress?”
The second the words leave your lips, you forget how to breathe.
Jack’s jaw tightens, his shoulders coiling ever so slightly. His fingers twitch around the bottle, just a whisper of movement, as if holding himself together by force. His eyes catch yours, dark and sharp, taking in the faint scrunch between your brows, the small pout on your lips, the way you’re offering him something he never thought he’d be allowed to have.
He nods once—careful, controlled—but the tension radiating off him is almost unbearable.
Your stomach flips.
Without a word, you turn, sweeping your hair out of the way while your pulse hammers in your ears.
You feel him shift, his warmth, and the ghost of his touch at the nape of your neck. And that first, tiny contact sends a shock straight through you—hot, sharp, impossible to ignore.
He pauses, just a heartbeat, and you catch the tiniest hitch in his breath.
Then he moves again, slow, deliberate, dragging the zipper down almost painfully slow, his knuckles grazing your skin—warm, rough, controlled, just enough to make your heart pound in your throat.
“How do you do it?” you whisper, voice catching slightly. “How are you always so… unaffected by everything?”
“Unaffected?” he murmurs, almost tasting the word, as if testing it against himself.
His knuckles brush the small of your back, pausing where the zipper ends—but he doesn’t stop. His fingertips graze your skin, deliberate, teasing, tracing the line of your spine upward again, slow enough that it drags your breath with it, sharp enough that heat blooms through every nerve.
“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low and rough, almost breaking, “how much you affect me.”
Your breath catches, sharp and sudden. Everything in your chest pulls tight, something hot and dizzying blooming low as his words sink in.
You turn before you can stop yourself—and he’s closer now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the shift of his breath, the space between you narrowing into something fragile and dangerous.
For a second, neither of you move.
And then his hand finds your neck—
Not rough, not rushed—just firm enough to anchor you there, thumb pressing under your jaw like he needs to feel that this is real, that you’re real. His other hand tightens where it still holds the loosened fabric of your dress at your back, fingers curling into it like restraint is slipping through his grip.
He hesitates, just for a breath. Like he’s giving himself one last chance to walk away.
Then he kisses you.
It’s not tentative. There’s nothing careful about it. It lands like something he’s been holding back for too long, all that control finally snapping under the weight of you standing here, asking for him, looking at him like that.
His mouth is warm and certain against yours, a sharp inhale breaking through you as you lean into him without thinking, your hands finding him just as quickly—his stomach, his chest—anything to hold onto as the world tilts. He makes a low sound, barely there, but you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration settling deep in your chest as his grip tightens.
You melt before you can stop yourself.
Your head tilts back, giving him more, and he takes it immediately, deepening the kiss with that same quiet intensity that steals the breath right out of you. His thumb shifts along your jaw, not lingering, just enough to guide you where he wants you, and the control of it—God, the way he still tries to control it after everything, after all that restraint—makes something in your stomach flip hard.
His hand at your back slips under the loosened zipper, fingers pressing into your bare skin now, warm and steady, but there’s tension in it. You can feel it in the way his grip flexes, like he’s still trying—still—to hold the line even as he pulls you closer.
It doesn’t work.
Not when you press into him like this, not when your fingers curl tighter in his shirt, not when you kiss him back without hesitation, without thinking about consequences or lines or anything except how he feels against you.
He exhales against your mouth, sharp, like you’ve just undone him, and for a second the kiss falters—not because he’s pulling away, but because he’s trying to.
You feel it. The conflict. The split second where he almost stops.
Your hand slides up to his jaw, fingers catching there, holding him in place before he can even try.
“Don’t,” you whisper, barely pulling back, your lips brushing his as you speak.
And something in him gives.
You see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way his hand tightens at your back, pulling you flush against him this time, the last inch of space gone like it was never allowed to exist in the first place.
When he kisses you again, it’s deeper.
Less restrained.
Like he’s finally stopped pretending this isn’t exactly what he wants.
It’s different now—harder, hungrier, like something in him has shifted for good. His hand slides from your jaw to your waist, gripping tight as he steps into you, crowding you back without breaking the kiss, without giving you a second to think.
Your back meets the door with a soft thud.
He doesn’t stop.
If anything, it only makes him sharper, more certain, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of urgency that steals the air right out of your lungs. You barely get a breath before he takes it again, and you let him—God, you let him—tilting into him, giving him everything he reaches for.
His hand tightens at your waist, then slips lower, dragging you flush against him again, like he needs to feel exactly how close he can get before he loses control completely.
And you can feel it—how close he is.
It’s in the way his grip flexes, in the way his breath turns uneven against your mouth, in the way the kiss keeps deepening like he can’t quite stop himself from taking more.
Your fingers find his shirt again, pulling him closer, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to drag in a breath, his forehead almost brushing yours, like he’s trying—one last time—to get a handle on this.
He doesn’t.
His hands are on you again, immediate, sliding up your sides, pushing the straps of your dress from your shoulders in one smooth, decisive motion. The fabric gives easily, slipping under his hands like it was never meant to stay there in the first place—and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet.
His breath catches, and his gaze drops—just for a second, but it’s enough.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low, rough—nothing steady about it now.
You meet his eyes, chest rising and falling fast, heat still sparking under your skin.
“Bedroom,” you murmur.
For a second, he just looks at you.
Something in his expression shifts—tightens—like that word landed exactly where it shouldn’t. His gaze searches yours for a moment, checking for hesitation, for doubt.
But he doesn’t find any.
He nods once—and you turn, already moving toward the bedroom. You can feel him right behind you, close enough that his hand finds your waist again before you’ve even taken two steps, steady, grounding, like he’s not about to let you get too far ahead of him.
It’s barely a walk.
More like being guided—pulled—across the apartment toward your room, your pulse loud in your ears, every step charged with the knowledge of what you’ve just set in motion.
The door barely makes it closed before he’s on you again.
Not rushed—never rushed—but certain, like the decision has already been made and there’s no point pretending otherwise. His hands find you first, steady at your waist, turning you back toward him before you can take another step into the room.
Your breath catches as you look up at him. There’s something in his expression you’ve never seen before. It’s not soft, not gentle—just stripped of whatever distance he’d been holding onto all night.
Gone.
His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, and this time there’s nothing in the way of it—nothing to hide behind, nothing to buffer it—and the heat in it settles low in your stomach, heavy and immediate.
“Still want this?” he asks, voice rough, quieter now—but it lands heavier here.
You don’t answer. You just step into him.
And it’s all the permission he needs.
His hand tightens at your waist as he pulls you back into him, and the kiss this time is slower, deeper in a way that feels intentional—like he’s choosing it, not chasing it. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of controlled hunger, every shift measured, every breath deliberate, like he’s letting himself feel it fully instead of fighting it.
Your fingers curl into his shirt, and he exhales against your mouth, something unsteady finally breaking through.
His grip shifts—firmer now—guiding you back a step, then another, not hurried, not careless, but unrelenting all the same. You feel the edge of the bed behind your knees before you fully register moving at all, your focus too caught in the way he’s kissing you, the way his hand anchors you like he’s not about to let this get away from him.
His mouth breaks from yours just long enough to draw in a breath, his forehead pressing briefly to yours.
Not hesitation. Control.
Or what little he has left of it.
“Last chance,” he murmurs, quieter now.
You drop back onto the bed, gaze locked on his, breath still uneven.
“I’m not the one holding back.”
You barely have time to move up the mattress before he’s there, crowding over you, hands braced on either side as he follows you down. The mattress dips under his weight, the space between you gone in an instant—replaced by the solid heat of him, the firm press of his hips against yours.
His mouth finds yours again, hot and insistent, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to pull a soft sound from you—but it’s different now. Slower. Not restrained, but deliberate. Curious, almost.
Like he’s learning you.
The way you react. The way you move under him. The way you give.
Your hands slide up his chest, fingertips digging in as heat coils low in your stomach—but they don’t stay there long. He shifts his weight slightly, steady, controlled, one hand lifting off the mattress to catch your wrist.
His fingers close around it—not tight, not forceful—just certain, guiding.
He lifts your hand above your head.
“Jack,” you whisper. “I—”
He shushes you.
“Let me do this, okay?” His voice is rough, thick with something unsteady beneath it—something that makes your stomach knot. “I’ve got you.”
And you believe him.
His hand slides down your body, slow and sure, brushing over your chest, your waist, the curve of your hip—each touch deliberate, like he’s taking his time even now, even like this. His fingers hook at the inside of your thigh, grip firm as he nudges your leg wider.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”
The words go straight through you.
You can already feel the damp heat between your legs, the slick fabric pressed close, but the way he says it—the way his voice drops—makes your hips shift up instinctively, chasing something you can’t quite reach.
Chasing him.
And he notices. Of course he does.
You only just catch the faint lift at the corner of his mouth before his lips are back on yours, swallowing the breath from you as your back arches, pressing yourself up into him without thinking. Your fingers curl into the sheets above your head, tension pulling tight through your body as everything narrows down to where he’s touching you—where he isn’t touching you.
His hand drags back up your thigh, slower this time. Intentional. And when his fingers finally press against you through the thin fabric, you gasp.
He takes the sound from you immediately, mouth moving against yours, deeper now, like he’s feeding off it, like every reaction just pushes him further. His fingers start to move—slow, circling, testing—while his mouth leaves yours to trail along your jaw, your cheek, the side of your neck.
With your mouth free, the sounds slip out before you can stop them.
Soft. Unsteady. Needy.
And he loves it.
You feel it in the way his breath shifts, in the way his grip tightens just slightly, in the way his hips rock—slow, controlled, a subtle pressure of denim that’s more suggestion than friction.
“Jack—” your voice catches, breaking on his name. “Please. I want—”
“Tell me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder, voice low and coaxing.
“More,” you manage, breath shaking. “Need more.”
He groans against your skin, the sound low and rough, his body settling heavier over yours like any space between you is something he can’t stand.
Then his hand shifts.
Your breath catches as his fingers slide beneath the damp fabric, dragging through your wet heat in one slow, deliberate stroke.
Your whole body jolts. “Fuck—Jack—”
The reaction pulls something from him—a sharp inhale against your neck, his mouth pressing there like he needs to ground himself for a second before he loses it completely.
You’ve never felt like this before. Never this hot, this open, this aware of every inch of your own body.
And you’ve never wanted anyone like this before.
“God,” he murmurs, voice thick, lips tracing back up your throat. “You’re so wet for me, sweetheart.”
All you can do is nod, whimpering softly, your hips lifting without permission, chasing him, asking for more without the words—and he gives it to you. Of course he does.
His finger slides inside you, slow at first, letting you feel it—the stretch, the heat—before he pushes deeper, and the sound that breaks from you is swallowed instantly as his mouth finds yours again, your back arching beneath him as he starts to move. Not fast. Never fast. He sets a rhythm instead, steady and controlled, curling his finger just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your hips move against him again.
And when you press into it, when your body starts to chase that feeling properly, he adds another finger, the stretch pulling a broken sound from your throat as your hands tighten in the sheets and your body rolls beneath him, helpless to it now, completely caught in the slow, deliberate way he works you open.
Every movement is intentional. Every curl hits deeper, sharper, building something tight and aching low in your stomach that makes your whole body tremble, your breath coming out in uneven gasps as you press into his hand, chasing, needing.
Then his thumb finds your clit, and the contact is immediate—devastating.
You cry out, sharp and breathless, your whole body tightening as he starts slow, deliberate circles that send heat spiralling through you, your hips lifting again, desperate now, unable to stay still under him.
You can’t answer—not when his mouth is everywhere, your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he can’t decide where he wants you most before he finds your lips again, and this time the kiss is different again. Hungrier. Messier. His tongue presses into your mouth just as his fingers push deeper, his thumb working harder, more deliberate now, and the moan that tears from you is swallowed whole.
“Please,” you whimper against his mouth, breath breaking. “Please, I—need you.”
He lifts his head, dark eyes searching yours, brows pulling together just slightly.
“You sure?”
You stare at him, trying not to whimper as your whole body clenches around his stilled fingers, the sudden stillness almost worse than anything he was doing before.
“Never have I ever finished during sex, remember?” you manage, breathless but steady enough to land. “You gonna fix that, or what?”
Something feral flickers across his face.
And then it’s gone—replaced by something heavier. Something decided.
He kisses you again before you can catch your breath, all teeth and tongue, the restraint he’s been clinging to snapping clean in half as he groans into your mouth, the sound dragged straight from his chest. You feel the loss of his fingers immediately, your body protesting it, but it’s replaced just as quickly by the slow, deliberate roll of his hips, the friction of denim against your soaked panties making you gasp against him.
“Fuck,” he breathes, like he can’t quite believe it.
He pulls back just enough to shift, bracing himself on one arm while the other moves to his belt, not rushed but far from steady now. There’s a hitch in his breath, a tension in the way his fingers work at it, shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself, and your gaze drops before you can stop it.
He’s already hard—fully, heavily—flushed and slick at the tip, and the sight of it sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through you, your mouth going dry even as your body reacts in the complete opposite way.
“Fuck—” he chokes, the word breaking out of him. “I haven’t been this hard in—” His eyes flick back up to yours, dark and molten, and whatever he was going to say changes. “—ever.”
It hits you low and deep, twisting something tight in your stomach that makes your hips shift under him without thinking. You finally let go of the sheets, your hands finding him, sliding up to wrap around his neck as you pull him back down, needing him closer, needing him everywhere.
Your legs come up around his waist, drawing him in, urging him forward, and his breath stutters as he presses in, his swollen tip dragging against the damp fabric between you. The contact is just enough to make your head fall back, a broken sound slipping from your throat as he tries—tries—to hold himself up, one arm braced, the other moving between you.
You can feel the strain in him now, the way everything is slipping in real time, in the slight shake of his arm, in the uneven rhythm of his breathing as his hand hooks into the waistband of your panties.
“I’ll buy you new ones,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, almost distracted, like the thought barely registers before it’s gone. “Promise.”
And then the fabric gives.
The sound of it tearing—sharp, sudden—goes straight through you, your breath catching hard as he pulls the fabric out of the way, the last barrier gone in an instant.
It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.
But it is.
Jack Abbot—controlled, composed, always holding the line—losing it enough to rip your panties off you?
Fuck.
He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretch—the sudden, overwhelming closeness, the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, that dizzy edge of fear and urgency tangling together until all you can think is him—here, now, inside you.
For a moment, you just breathe—pant, really—eyes squeezed shut, hands locked on his shoulders as your body clenches around him, like you’re trying to keep him right there, like you never want to let him go. He drops his head to your neck, breath hot against your damp skin, and you feel the way it shakes out of him.
“You—fuck—you’re so tight, sweetheart,” he pants, voice rough and muffled where his mouth presses into you. “I’m not gonna last—”
“Then don’t,” you murmur, your voice softer but no less certain. “Just fuck me. Please, Jack.”
A groan tears out of him, low and wrecked, and you feel it through his chest as he shifts above you, hips pulling back, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes your stomach coil tight, sparks chasing across your skin. You suck in a sharp breath, your grip tightening on him—and before you can brace, he drives forward again, deeper this time.
“Fuck—” you cry out, the sound breaking loose without warning. “Jack—”
He doesn’t stop. His hips roll back again, slower now, controlled in a way that almost makes it worse, his head lifting so he can look at you, really look at you, like he’s checking, like he needs to see it.
The anticipation coils tighter in your chest, sharp and electric, lighting up every nerve in your body until it almost hurts.
“Mhm,” you manage, breath unsteady, nodding as your arms wind tighter around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer, like it still isn’t enough.
For a second—just a second—you’re distracted by something stupid, the feel of his shirt between you, the barrier of it, the way you want it gone, want skin on skin, want to see him, feel him, all of him—
And then he thrusts forward again. Harder again. And the thought disappears completely.
Your body jolts beneath him, every movement knocking the breath from your lungs, and the sound that leaves you is loud—too loud—echoing back off the walls in a way that would make you self-conscious any other time.
But not now.
Right now, you don’t care who hears. Not when it feels like this.
His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, tangled with raw cries, and he answers with a rough sound against your shoulder, biting it back as his hips drive into you at a relentless pace. He’s barely holding himself up now, his weight pressing into you in a way that feels like too much and somehow still not enough, the strain in him obvious in every uneven breath, every sharp exhale against your skin.
His hand drags down your side, back to your thigh, fingers digging in as he pushes your leg wider, and the shift—small as it is—hits something deeper, sharper, your vision flashing white as your head tips back and the knot in your belly pulls tight. His grip slides to your hip, anchoring you there, holding you in place so every thrust lands exactly where it needs to, deep and unrelenting, the sound of it filling the room, wet and rhythmic and impossible to ignore beneath the broken sounds you’re both making.
And then his hand moves between you.
You feel it immediately—the change, the focus—as his fingers find your clit in the slick mess between your bodies, steady despite everything else, despite the way he’s losing himself in every way. Your back arches, breath catching sharp as his touch turns deliberate, circling, pressing, coaxing, sending jolts of sensation straight through you until it’s too much, not enough, everything all at once.
“Jack—” you whine, the sound falling apart as soon as it leaves you. “Fuck, I—”
“I know, sweetheart,” he mutters against your jaw, voice wrecked. “Come on my cock, yeah?”
Your hips lift to meet him without thinking, chasing the rhythm he’s set, chasing the pressure, the friction, the way he’s working you with a precision that feels almost cruel now. His hand doesn’t falter, his fingers moving with intent, building and building, every touch sending sharp bursts of pleasure up your spine as the tension in your stomach pulls tighter, tighter, until it feels like it might snap.
It’s never felt like this before. You’ve never felt like this before.
Your whole body tightens, back arching, legs trembling around him as your hips grind up against his, desperate, chasing something you can’t hold onto. He keeps hitting that same spot, again and again, relentless, his pace rougher now, less controlled, while his fingers stay locked on you, steady, practiced, pushing you right to the edge and holding you there.
You cry out, the sound raw, breaking from your chest as everything finally tips.
The release hits all at once—sharp, overwhelming, tearing through you in a rush that steals your breath and leaves nothing behind but heat and tension snapping loose. Your body locks up around him, tightening, pulsing, your hands gripping at him as your legs shake, your hips still moving against his like you can’t stop, like you don’t want to.
“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, his voice wrecked as he keeps moving inside you—slower now, but deeper, like he’s chasing every last pulse of you, like he doesn’t want to miss a second of it. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”
His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and then he loses it completely—a broken sound tearing from him as he drives into you one last time, deep and hard, spilling inside you as his whole body tenses, shuddering above yours.
You feel it—every part of it—the way he comes undone, the way he clings to you through it, like he needs something to hold onto just as much as you do. Your bodies keep moving together, slower now, instinctive, chasing the last fading edges of it as your breathing stays uneven, your chests rising and falling in sync, skin slick and overheated where you’re pressed together.
It takes a moment to come back down—a long one.
But eventually, the tension drains from him and he collapses almost fully above you, face buried into your shoulder, his weight heavy and grounding as he exhales, slow and spent. It makes it a little harder to breathe—but you don’t mind.
Not when you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, strong and real, still racing like yours.
-
For the first time in two weeks, Jack Abbot isn’t stupidly early for his shift. He couldn’t be, really. Because he’d woken up late this morning, limbs tangled with yours in warm sheets that smelled so much like you it made his head spin—and that had thrown off everything else he needed to get done today.
If it was up to him, he wouldn’t have left at all—but he had to. He had police paperwork to finish, a neighbour’s cat to feed, and sleep he should’ve caught up on before being back in charge of an entire emergency department for twelve hours. But on the bright side? He knows you have a swing shift today, which means he doesn’t need to be early to see you, because you’re going to be stuck at PTMC until at least ten p.m. tonight.
With him.
And he really shouldn’t be looking forward to that as much as he is.
“Afternoon, Dr. Abbot,” Dana says, glancing over the top of her glasses. “Wasn’t sure we’d see you today. Aren’t you usually here by now?”
“I’m on time,” Jack mutters. “I’m a busy man.”
Dana hums, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly as her eyes drop back down to the tablet in her hands.
Jack tries not to appear too conspicuous as he scans the department, glancing toward the trauma bays and South corridor as he passes the nurses’ station. He shouldn’t be this anxious to see you again—not in the apprehensive kind of way, but in the way that makes it feel like his lungs won’t quite fill until you’re near him again.
“She’s not here,” Dana says without looking up from her chart. “Wasn’t feeling well, so Ellis came in early.”
Jack spots Ellis across central, exiting one of the rooms with Santos at her side, and he opens his mouth to say something—defend himself, maybe, lie about what or who he was looking for—but he hesitates, unsure what he could say that wouldn’t incriminate him further.
So instead, he just drops his head and keeps walking, fumbling for his phone in his pocket.
He’d seen you this morning. Just this morning. You were sleepy, had a headache, so he got you water and Tylenol and kissed you before he left—but you hadn’t said anything about feeling so unwell you were going to call in sick.
Jack doesn’t stop until he reaches the lockers, then turns back to survey the ED one last time before leaning a shoulder against the wall and pulling up his text thread with you. He hadn’t texted you today because he knew he’d see you tonight and didn’t want to seem… overbearing. Even now, he’s not sure if he should—but he feels off in a way he hasn’t in years, like he’s waiting on something he can’t control and it’s making him feel sick.
What if last night hadn’t meant what he thought it did? What if you regretted it? What if it was just—
“Hey, kid,” Dana calls from the nurses’ station. “Big night?”
Jack’s head snaps up—and there you are.
The relief hits before he can stop it, sharp and instant, loosening something in his chest he hadn’t realised was wound so tight. He swallows it down just as quickly, his expression settling before anyone can clock it.
“You don’t know the half of it,” you mutter.
Dana huffs a short laugh. “I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”
Jack can’t help but watch as you cross the floor toward him, your backpack hanging from one shoulder while the other hand presses two fingers to your temple, like you could massage the headache away. There’s a smug little smile on your lips when you reach him, slowing your steps until you pause just beside him—not too close, but enough to make his breath catch.
You glance down at his phone, at the open message thread where his thumb is hovering, and your smirk curves a little higher.
“Miss me?”
Jack locks his phone and tucks it back into his pocket.
“Thought you were sick.”
You lift one shoulder. “A little hungover, so Ellis swapped with me.”
For a second, neither of you move. He just looks at you—and you look right back, like you both know exactly what’s changed, even if neither of you is about to say it out loud. Not here. Not now.
“And I missed the night shift attending,” you say finally.
Then—before he can respond, before he’s even fully processed what you said—you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. Only brief. Barely anything.
But it feels like everything.
And just like that, Jack Abbot is done pretending he isn’t yours.
cw. brat taming (barely), tummy bulges, clark talks you through it, semi-voyeurism, unprotected sex, doggy, gentle dom! clark, size difference, pull out method, 18+ content ahead. adults only.
synopsis. clark kent just wants to give his boss a gift for her birthday. she brushes him off as always. he's had enough.
clark kent never thought he'd be the guy to take orders laying down, but here he is, working for you, someone adjacent to a tyrant. with how bitter you are, he suspects you must've grown up without love or attention, because here you are now, taking it out on the people around you with no hesitation. you hold yourself above everyone to the point where it feels like the workplace isn’t a democracy. everyone must fall at your feet, or risk demotion. or worse.
regardless, clark is a very patient and kind person. sees the best in everyone, looks for reasons why you act the way you do, rather than talking unfavourably about you with the rest of his colleagues. when he finds out, much to your chagrin, that your birthday was coming up and no one’d noticed, he decided to take it in to his own hands and went out to buy you cute things.
a dress that he knew would look nice on you, a stuffed animal, and flowers.
he decides to drop it off with you privately to not make a scene. he’d hate to embarrass you, and he didn’t do it to seem like a good guy in front of everyone else. it was all about you. so during lunch, while everyone was out, he came into your office after knocking. his hair’s falling over his forehead, glasses slipping down his nose, that soft smile spreading on his face when your eyes flicker from the flowers to the bear and back.
“i uh…” he clears his throat, shifting on the spot. “happy birthday. i thought you might like these.”
you look up at him from your spot at your desk, then shift your gaze to the gifts - your gifts - that he’s holding under his arm. he can’t be serious, can he? how did he even find out? with how close you keep your cards to your chest, you figure he must have done research about you behind your back.
“kent, i don’t know who told you it was my birthday, but i don’t accept gifts from employees. especially not stuffed animals. i’m not a child, in case you haven’t noticed.” truly, you love stuffed animals. but you’d sooner swallow printer ink than disclose that to him.
though your tone is harsh, clark doesn’t flinch. he just blinks at you, steady. calm in a way that’s infuriating.
“it’s just me. nobody else knows.” his voice stays so soft it makes your skin prickle. “i just wanted you to have something nice today.”
the teddy bear’s button eyes are aimed at you. it would be easier if he looked hurt or embarrassed, but he just looks… patient. he expected the snap, but it doesn’t change anything for him. he’s used to you by now.
clark’s tuned in to your every reaction. his senses pick up everything, from your shallow breath, to the tightness in your voice, to the way your perfume is overlaid by a certain restlessness that clings to you no matter how polished you look. he doesn’t mean to be so hyper focused on you, but he can’t help it. he’s watched you long enough to know exactly what the tenseness in your body means.
he sets the bouquet down carefully on your desk, placing the teddy bear beside it. “you don’t have to like them,” he says quietly. “i wanted you to know somebody cares.”
you snap again. “and that’s not your job, kent. your job is to get copy in before deadline.”
he doesn’t leave, or argue. he knows its pointless with you, because once you've got something set in your mind, it's nearly impossible to budge you. unless... you're persuaded well enough. clark stays where he is, watching you with those steady blue eyes. he tilts his head slightly. “you seem… tense, boss.” he says, carefully. “i know i don’t have the right to say that. but...i notice.”
the words hit home for you because you know they're true, you just don't know how he knows. you take pride in the fact that you're very difficult to read, and yet here he stands, your subordinate, telling you you're worked up. you glare up at him, unable to discern that he can smell the frustration and pheromones radiating off you. you decide to play clueless. “you’re observant. congratulations.”
he takes a step closer. one slow, deliberate step, and suddenly the office feels smaller. it's not exactly crowding, because he's far too gentle and considerate of you to do such a thing, but his presence is imposing. with the striking size difference between the two of you, he's looming over you regardless of if he intends to or not. “can I help?” he asks softly.
your lips part, your face screwing up in sheer disbelief at the bold ask. “excuse me?” the sincerity and eagerness to please you is obvious on his face, and it's honestly worse than if he'd been teasing you. you loathe pity. "i don't mean to overstep," he continues, leaning a little closer to test the waters, "it's just, you do everything for everyone else, you're working all the time... it feels like no one's looking after you.”
clark gently touches your shoulder, and you flinch. he can feel the way your pulse and heart rate increase drastically and how you're growing more flustered. “i’d like to. if you’d let me.” by now, you should've screamed at him and thrown him out, but his eyes are locked on yours intently, and he's tracing your skin under his fingertips, distracting you from coming to your senses. you know he knows exactly how wound up you are, how much of it isn’t anger at all.
you scoff, push back in your chair. “i don’t need taking care of, kent. least of all by you.” when you stand and try to brush past him, his hand closes around your wrist gently. "let go, now." you hiss up at him, in awe of his boldness. is he not afraid of you? why is he not intimidated by you? you could destroy him, his career, his-
“no. not until you stop pretending you don’t want this.”
your hesitation and the movement of your thighs pressing together is all the confirmation he needs.
clark turns you, presses you down against your own desk in one easy, devastating motion. you're bent over embarassingly, pencil skirt riding up over your thighs to reveal a strip of pretty blue lace. hm, unexpected, clark thinks.
papers scatter onto the floor. “kent, if you don’t-!” your words die when his hips press against your ass and you feel the sheer, impossible size of him straining against his slacks. your knees almost buckle. “clark,” you say desperate to keep your footing. he's too focused on how you've said his first name. he can count how many times you've done that on about three fingers. “don’t you dare-”
he’s already pulling your skirt up, pushing the fine material to your waist as his big hands splay across your hips. he leans forward to press fully against you, muttering filth in your ear. “you’ve been wound so tight, boss. i need to help you relax.” you nudge your ass back against him in an attempt to get some control of the angle, but his palm pushes at your shoulder blades and forbids you. "not this time. my turn to be in charge."
his breath is warm against your ear, voice disturbingly soft in contrast to the iron way he holds you bent over the desk. you try to turn your head and spit some insult back at him, but then you feel him fumbling his fly open behind you, the sound of a zipper dragging down, and every nerve in your body seizes up.
clark tugs your panties aside with thick fingers, the lace stretching against your skin as he exposes your puffy cunt to the cool air. you're mortified at how wet you are already and how easily his thumb can slide up and down your seam before he lines himself up. "it's slippery," he hums. "your body's more honest than you are, boss."
then the fat head of his cock is nudging at your entrance, barely breaching, and your retort breaks off into a shaky gasp. clark doesn’t push in all the way, simply grinding the tip forward to press into you, then slip out again and leave your walls clutching at nothing. more slick oozes out of you. “clark.” you plead.
“mm?” his hand strokes over your ass soothingly, though he doesn’t stop rutting his cockhead against your soaked little hole. in, out, just enough to pop past your entrance before retreating again, juices gathering on his shaft. “too much?” he murmurs.
you fist your hands against the desk, panting hard. it’s been too long since anyone’s touched you, and he knows it. he’s figured it out somehow, the bastard. you can feel it in the way he handles you, all gentle but immovable, patient but not merciful.
“don’t… don’t tease me,” you manage. he answers you by nudging it inside again, his chuckle is low, warm against your spine as he leans over you. “tease you? 'm trying to make it fit. you’re so tight, i can barely get the tip in.” his tip drags slowly through your resistance and stretches you before sliding free.
he ruts in again, deeper this time, just past the crown, and holds there, thick shaft throbbing as your walls clench desperately around him. you feel like you might tear in half, even though you're so wet that you're dripping onto his cock, long, slimy strings connected to where your pussy and his swollen tip meet.
clark’s free hand finds yours where it’s clenched into the desk. he peels your fingers open gently, threads his much larger hand through yours and pins it down, grounding you even as he rocks his hips in shallow thrusts. “i’ll get you used to me, kay?” he whispers. “gonna stretch you out nice and slow so it's not this difficult next time i'm inside you.”
next time.
next time.
your brain fogs up.
he ruts again, slip, stretch...and every drag of his tip makes you arch and push back in spite of yourself, desperate for more. his cock is the opposite of gentle like him, fat, swollen, too big for your body no matter how slow he goes.
he eases the head in first, the same way he’s been doing for what feels like hours, letting your hole stretch wide around him, but this time, he doesn’t pull out. he groans a little too loudly for someone who's fucking his boss on the clock, but he can’t hold it back anymore. he starts to inch forward, deeper, deeper, until you’re squealing into the desk.
“shhh,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades even as you writhe. “i know, i know, sweetie. breathe, please. i'm gonna get allll of me in you."
the veins ridging along his shaft drag against your walls with every careful inch he pushes inside. he's pulsing hotly into your puffy walls, stimulating places that haven’t been touched in forever. your nails claw at the desk. “clark, mmh, clark, it’s too-!”
“shh” he interrupts gently, his hips rocking forward another inch, stretching you wider, wider, the fat base of his cock pressing mercilessly against your cunt lips. he's nearly bottomed out by now. “it's not too much. see? you're taking so much already.”
you wail when he shifts his angle just slightly, because the curve of him bends forward just enough to hit something unbearably deep, a soft, spongy spot that makes your vision blur. he groans against your ear. “feel that? right here. right here, boss.” his hips nudge again, the curve of his cock stroking deliberate circles against that sensitive patch inside you, and you sob against your desk, the sound humiliatingly high-pitched.
the deeper he goes, the more you feel like you’re being split open, your body forced to mold his cock, which swells thicker the further in he goes. by the time his heavy length fills you fully, the head is pressing so deep against your womb you swear he’s rearranging something inside you.
he just holds there, hips flush with your ass while his cock is pulsing in your cunt. “see?” he pants, “i told you i’d fit. took it all like a good girl." his hips flex and the thick curve grinds into that spongy spot again, wringing a choked squeal from your throat.
you thrash, trying to deny it, but the words fall apart. “it’s ngh, f-fuck, it’s too- clark, it’s too much."
his palm strokes down your trembling belly, cupping low where the shape of him bulges up against your insides, pressing outward. he groans when he feels it. “aw, look at that. you can feel me here, can’t you?” he presses up firmly on your tummy bulge, making you cry out when the fat length inside you shifts and grinds deeper against your sweet spot.
clark doesn’t give you a chance to catch your breath. once he’s got every fat inch seated deep inside you, he finds that rhythm that makes you go limp against the desk. not too fast; he’s not jackhammering you into the wood, but not slow either. a steady, perfect pace, deep thrusts that pull little noises from your throat you can’t swallow down.
his cock slides out until only the swollen head remains, then sinks back in to the hilt, veins dragging against your slippery walls, the curve of him finding that spongy spot with every stroke. “gosh, you feel so good.”
you’re clinging to the edge of your desk like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality, eyes wet, mouth open and useless. the sharp click of your heels against the floor matches the rhythm of his thrusts. he keeps his chest pressed to your back, murmuring right into your ear. “mnh- knew you just needed someone to take care of you. my poor boss-" he punctuates his word with a deep shove of his cock in you. "-all alone on her birthday. nobody noticing. nobody giving her what she needs.”
he bites down on your neck, then presses hot, open mouthed kisses against the sweat-slicked flesh. he moans as your cunt flutters helplessly around him. “but i noticed. i always notice you.”
he presses up against your belly, right where you bulge with the fat shape of him, and he uses the leverage to lift you slightly, pulling you higher onto his cock. The angle changes so he's pushing in even deeper. you nearly scream, having to bite down on the stupid teddy bear he bought you so you don't alert anyone who's still in the office. he keeps squishing your tummy, pushing the outline of himself inside you. “i know, baby, it’s so much. all that attitude, and now you’re just a little sweetheart with me stuffing you.”
you know he's fucked you stupid, as you've gone from hurling insults and dismissals at him to sobbing and moaning like you're in heat. he's close; every squeeze of your walls has his thrusts stuttering. you’re so wet and tight he can barely keep the steady rhythm. his hand presses harder into your stomach, grinding you against the desk as he forces his cock as deep as possible.
he moans, voice breaking with strain, “you gonna let go for me? you gonna soak me for your birthday?”
the little patronizing tone in his voice is what tips you over the edge. your whole body convulses, thighs quaking as your cunt clamps down violently around him. you gush hard, an embarrassing flood that spills all over his cock, soaking his slacks where they hang half-open. your pussy milks him, and you can feel the way his fat length is suddenly slippery with your release.
his hips jerk and stutter, as his cock is squeezed tightly. he can see it: your slick walls sucking after him, clamping down with such force that it feels like your cunt doesn’t want to let him go. a creamy ring circles the base of his cock, thick and wet from the way you’ve coated him inside. “haa- goodness,” he pants, watching himself disappear into you again.
when he tries to pull out, your walls keep clinging to him greedily, sucking him back in like your pussy's begging to be filled. he nearly finishes on the spot, his cock throbbing violently, heavy with the load that wants to be spilled in masses into you. his instincts scream to finish inside you, to plug you full. but if he came now, there'd be a risk that he’d knock you up on your own desk.
with a grunt, clark drags himself out at the last second, your walls suctioning at him, fighting to keep him buried. he nearly shoves back in to finish where he started, but manages to pull free, yank your skirt higher, and bare the soft curve of your ass.
“oh g-geez, 'm cumming!” his cock jerks violently in his fist as he strokes once, twice, then spills in hot, thick ropes across your ass and thighs. creamy spurts paint your skin, hot and sticky, dripping down the crease of your cheeks and slipping down the blue lace he’d pushed aside. he groans with every pulse of his cock, emptying load after load on you. it's so much that it gathers at the swell of your ass and trickles down the backs of your legs.
clark braces himself over you while panting and watching his cum streak and drip across your body. his big hand settles on your back, smoothing you down gently as you twitch against the desk, still leaking slick down your thighs.
pairings: the void x reader, robert reynolds x reader
cw: pwp, smut, afab reader, light cnc, no use of condoms, breeding, vaginal fingering, talks and mentions of mental health issues.
bob sees you twice a week.
mondays and fridays, sharp. three times every other week when the team’s schedule loosens, and he slips in on wednesdays—quiet and early, like he doesn’t want anyone noticing he’s here. you pretend not to, but you always clock the way his shadow crosses the frosted glass on your door before he knocks. there’s a peculiar reverence to it. like he’s stepping into church.
once in a while, you run into each other outside the four wide walls of your therapy room. the space is neutral by design: soft taupe couches, warm light, two large plants you’ve kept alive with a stubborn devotion—like it’ll mean something if they make it through the year. but the grocery store has none of that softness. no boundary. no title. no safe distance. just fluorescent lights, silence, and aisles that feel too narrow when he’s in them.
you had been scanning the back of a cereal box—reading ingredients out of habit more than necessity—when you felt it. that dense, unmistakable pull. not quite like being watched. more like being studied.
you follow the weight of it with your body first, spine stiffening under the quiet pressure. you turn. and there he is.
to your far left, past two rows of dry goods, bob. or rather—robert. his eyes, usually so tightly sealed behind politeness and wariness in your sessions, are blown wide with something he hides too late. you catch the exact second he sees you seeing him. the sharp pivot of his gaze, the twitch in his jaw. guilt.
you almost laugh. not out of mockery, but out of the strange tenderness of it. that a man like that—cosmically powerful, thickly built like the sculpted edge of a greek myth—could look so much like a boy caught staring at his crush from behind a locker door.
you press forward with your cart. as you pass him, close enough to catch the faint ozone-and-laundry scent that always clings to him, you murmur, soft but amused, “i’ll see you later, bob.”
you don’t look back—but you don’t need to. you can feel the electricity shift behind you, sharp and rattled.
the beginning had been difficult.
tense isn’t quite the word. the tension in those first five sessions had been less like discomfort and more like entering a room where a sleeping animal lay coiled in the corner—you couldn’t see it, not really, but you felt it. you knew it was there.
for the first three sessions, he hadn’t come alone.
she came with him. yelena. at first glance, you thought she hated you—her eyes hard, her accent sharp, her whole body language defensive like she was guarding something delicate inside a glass box. turns out it was just her face. that, and a thin layer of hypervigilance that seemed bone-deep. she watched bob closely. sat across from him in the chair like an anchor in human form. said almost nothing unless she felt you were pushing too far. then she’d step in—not harsh, but firm, like she’d had to learn how to drag people back from edges they didn’t know they were standing on.
your second “session” wasn’t much of a session at all.
an hour and thirty minutes of awkward silence padded with small talk so stiff it could’ve been stitched together from a textbook. you had tried—god, had you tried.
“how are you feeling today, bob?”
“i’m okay. and you?”
“i’m good. thank you for asking. did you do anything this weekend?”
“it was fine. how was yours?”
a mirror. he was a mirror. every question you sent across to him came back reflected. no cracks. no entry point. the only emotion he’d shown—if you could call it that—was when he first stepped into your office and complimented your plant. a small, unexpected kindness. you remembered it clearly. the way he’d looked at the pothos on the windowsill like it was more alive than he felt.
but he wouldn’t meet your eyes for long. not really. he kept glancing at the small analog clock that hung above your shelves. you’d caught him counting seconds more than once, his jaw flexing, fists resting tight on his knees. you had started to wonder if you were doing something wrong.
were you pushing too hard? too soft? was it you?
at the end of that session, it was yelena who stayed behind.
she stepped close enough that her voice was low, but not threatening. “he doesn’t trust this yet,” she said. “one of our teammates—he had a bad experience with therapy. put a bad taste in bob’s mouth before he even walked in.”
she’d almost said “friend.” you could feel it in the pause. but she changed the word at the last second to “coworker,” like putting emotional distance would make it safer. you didn’t ask questions. just nodded.
you were starting to understand that bob came with wounds you wouldn’t see right away. that maybe he didn’t want to be saved. maybe he was only here because someone else thought he should be.
and still—he came back.
infact, bob comes back the following friday. alone.
no yelena. no buffer. just him—broad shoulders hunched like a man who’s spent the whole morning clenching something invisible between his teeth, jaw stiff like it’s locked around something unspeakable. the kind of tension you feel in men who have seen too much and had nowhere to put any of it.
he doesn’t say hello. just steps into the quiet space of your office like a man walking into weather—unprepared, but moving forward anyway.
he sits without a word, his long legs folding awkwardly into the same corner of the couch he always chooses, like routine is the only lifeline he trusts. the leather creaks beneath him, and for a moment the only sound is that, and the ticking of the small wall clock behind your desk.
there’s a smell that trails faintly behind him. not unpleasant, but strange—metallic, electric. burned ozone, scorched copper wiring. the scent of power that has nowhere to go. power that doesn’t belong in a body still pretending to be human.
and he’s in a brown knit sweater.
that’s what you notice first, and you’re not even sure why. he wears sweaters often—neutral tones, soft materials that stretch just slightly over his chest and arms, as if he’s always one breath away from tearing through them. but you’ve never seen this one before. the texture of it is heavier, coarser, like it was meant for colder places. you recognize the color before the cut. a warm, earthy tone that lives folded in the back of your own closet. you think—absurdly—you might have the same one. you wonder if he’d noticed. if this is coincidence or something closer to longing.
before you can stop yourself, you speak.
“i like your sweater.”
bob’s head lifts slightly. not all the way, just enough for you to see a flicker of something unfamiliar in his eyes. not surprise. not confusion. something quieter. hesitation.
his mouth opens, then closes. a second too long. then finally, he responds.
“thanks. i… thought maybe it looked comfortable.”
he doesn’t say on you. he doesn’t say like yours. but something in the way his eyes move—a tiny drag of his gaze over your arms, to your collarbone—tells you everything you need to know.
and suddenly you’re both sitting in a room that feels too small for what isn’t being said.
you nod, gently, like you’re not about to fall into whatever soft place just opened between you.
“it does,” you murmur. “it suits you.”
bob exhales through his nose. a shaky thing. almost a laugh. his hands rest on his thighs, fingers splayed. not clenched. not balled into fists. just there. palms down. like he wants to ground himself. like he’s trying not to touch anything too hard for fear it’ll break.
you let the silence stretch again. safe. waiting.
eventually, he speaks.
“i didn’t want to come today,” he admits, voice low, almost lost in the quiet. “i didn’t want to sit here and say nothing again. i thought if i just stayed home… if i skipped it…”
he trails off. you wait.
“but then i kept thinking about that plant,” he finishes softly. “the one in the corner. and your chair. and the sound of the pen you use when you write things down.”
he swallows, eyes flicking down to the floor.
“i think i missed it.”
you don’t rush in. you don’t wrap his words in praise or comfort. you just breathe through the gentle ache blooming in your chest and respond, softly, truthfully:
“i missed you, too.”
and just like that—just barely—his shoulders drop. not completely, but enough. a fraction of a man letting himself be held by a room.
you can feel it in the air now, like something shifting under old floorboards: the intimacy, the beginning of a quiet, tangled dependency. and somewhere else, unseen—something in him watches this unfold. not entirely him. not entirely separate.
the air chills for half a second. the light in the room dims not visibly, but emotionally. like a presence turning its head.
and then it’s gone. or maybe it never really left.
what the fuck were you thinking?
the words slice through the steamy hush of your bathroom, your own voice muted by the toothbrush in your mouth and the soft gurgle of water running faintly in the background. you lean forward into the mirror, one hand braced against the counter, your reflection fogged slightly but not enough to hide the haunted irritation carved into your expression.
suds gather at the corners of your mouth like guilt trying to froth its way out. you spit, rinse, and stare at yourself for a long, accusing moment. you look… normal. too normal. like someone who hadn’t said something wildly inappropriate to a patient just two days ago.
‘i missed you, too.’
you groan, dragging a towel over your face, as if you could scrub the memory clean.
jesus. what the hell was that?
he’d been vulnerable. tired. exhausted from holding back something bigger than even he could name—and you? you’d gone and injected the moment with intimacy. loaded the air with suggestion. he didn’t say he missed you. he said he missed your fucking plant. your chair. the sound of your pen scratching on your notepad, as if that alone could tether him to reality.
and yet.
yet you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he looked when he said it. not just the words. but how he said them. soft, low, eyes not quite meeting yours like it hurt to be seen too clearly.
you rub at your jaw with the towel, then toss it aside. the feeling has settled into your bones now, heavy and warm and unwelcome. unprofessional.
maybe it’s the way his lips part just slightly when he’s concentrating. or the fact that when he smiles—even if it’s a small, awkward thing—you can tell it’s real. that’s what gets you. the distinction. the knowledge that you’re one of the few people who’s learned to tell the difference.
and his eyes. jesus. those eyes. wide and dark and painfully soft when he’s not shutting the world out. he looks at you sometimes like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered. like you’re something safe. like he wants to curl into your palm and just breathe.
but it’s monday now. the weekend’s over. whatever inappropriate fantasies or intrusive thoughts you wrestled with in bed at night, or sitting alone with your tea while re-reading your notes—those had to go.
you’re a professional.
which is exactly why you’re currently sitting in your office wearing the exact same sweater he had on friday.
you hadn’t even realized it at first—just pulled something warm from your closet, an old favorite, worn soft at the cuffs. but now, seated in your chair, notebook on your lap, you can feel it like a confession clinging to your skin.
same warm brown. same slightly oversized sleeves. it smells faintly of lavender and detergent and your skin, and suddenly you’re wondering—what if he notices?
you tell yourself it’s harmless. coincidental. a shared preference in clothing. nothing more.
but then you remember the way his eyes had lingered—not on your face, not on your words, but on the texture of your sleeves, on the shape of you wrapped in softness. like maybe, for a second, he wasn’t thinking about loss or pain or the terrible weight of what he is.
maybe, for a second, he was thinking about you.
and that’s what scares you most. not his power. not the rumors—how walker and ross speak of him like he’s a nuke that hasn’t gone off yet. not even the void itself, the shadow that lingers just beneath his skin like a second pulse.
no. what scares you is the feeling that if he looked at you just once—really looked—you’d let him in.
even if it meant letting something else in, too.
because there’s something in him. you’ve felt it. just at the edge of the room, just behind his shoulders when he’s quiet. it watches you. it knows your name, even though you’ve never spoken it aloud in sessions. the void. you don’t say it, even in your notes. but it knows.
and some terrible part of you wants to know it back.
your clock ticks gently toward the hour. you glance toward the door just as the handle moves—quiet, deliberate.
bob is early.
of course he is.
the door opens with that soft metallic click, and bob steps in like he’s afraid to take up too much space. his shoulders are drawn in, a silent fortress of muscle and tension. he’s early—twenty minutes early—and he doesn’t make eye contact at first. he rarely does when something’s eating at him, when he’s walking around with thoughts that feel too big for his skull.
he closes the door behind him with quiet precision, the kind of gentleness that feels practiced, not natural. like he’s afraid of making noise that might echo wrong. then he just stands there for a second, hovering just past the threshold, eyes scanning the room—like he’s waiting for something. permission, maybe. a sign that he’s welcome.
you look up from your notes and offer him a smile. it’s soft. undemanding.
“hey, bob.”
he lifts his gaze just slightly, and in that flicker of eye contact there’s something tentative—like a man brushing his fingers against the surface of warm water, unsure if it’ll burn or soothe. then he looks away again, jaw tight, eyes flicking across your space like he’s grounding himself in the details.
then he sees the sweater.
and pauses.
“that’s… new?” he says, his voice low and a little hoarse, like it hasn’t been used much today. it’s not a question. not really.
you glance down at yourself, feigning casualness you don’t quite feel. “you wore something like this on friday. i guess i have the same taste and forgot.”
his lips twitch at that—just a ghost of a smile, quick and uncertain, like it surprised him by rising at all. “looks better on you,” he murmurs, and then drops his gaze again so fast you almost wonder if he regrets it.
you don’t let yourself react. not outwardly. but there’s a warmth under your skin now, spreading slow like heat from a cup of tea cradled too long in your hands. it lingers in your chest, unfamiliar and dangerous.
you gesture gently toward the couch. “sit?”
he does, and there’s something different about how he moves today. less rigid. less performative. he sinks into the cushions with a breath that sounds closer to relief than restraint, his hands settling on his thighs with fingers open—not clenched into fists, not folded into his sleeves. just there. present. like he’s trying.
“so,” you say quietly, “you’re early.”
he nods. “didn’t sleep. thought i’d just come.”
you study him. he looks tired, but not destroyed. there’s a kind of emotional fatigue around his eyes that tells you he hasn’t been resting—though he hasn’t been spiraling either.
“still having nightmares?”
“not really,” he says. “i keep thinking… if i close my eyes too long, i’ll hear it again.”
“what do you hear?”
he breathes in through his nose, chest rising beneath the worn black fabric of his t-shirt under the cardigan. he shifts slightly on the couch. “it’s not a voice. not exactly. it’s more like… pressure. like a thought that isn’t mine, but it knows where mine live.”
there’s a gravity in that sentence that makes your stomach tighten. you nod slowly. “does it speak to you?”
“no,” he says, but there’s a strange uncertainty in the way he says it. “but it waits. it wants to. i feel it sometimes when i’m walking down the street. at stoplights. it waits for me to be alone. it waits for me to be tired.”
you keep your voice even, your gaze soft. “and what does it want?”
his eyes finally meet yours. fully this time. and there’s something so raw in them—something that sits at the jagged intersection of pain and need. you feel it in your chest, like a tide pulling forward.
“i think it wants to be known,” he says. “like it’s… jealous.”
the air shifts in the room. a low, invisible shiver moves across your arms, like static brushing skin.
“jealous?” you echo.
he nods again. “friday… when you said you missed me… i haven’t heard that in a long time. not like that. not like it mattered.”
“i meant it,” you say. gently. without hesitation.
he exhales, shaky and almost laugh-soft. “i know. that’s the part that scared me.”
you tilt your head. “scared you why?”
he looks down at his hands, those big, open hands resting on his knees like he doesn’t trust them anymore. then, quietly: “because i don’t know what part of me heard it first.”
you inhale, slow and controlled.
there’s silence between you now, but it’s different. it’s not avoidance. it’s mutual stillness, like two people listening for something just outside the window.
bob leans forward slightly. his voice, when it returns, is small and unguarded.
“i think… it likes your voice.”
that lands deep in you, low and soft. not just the content of what he said, but how he said it—carefully, like a secret being handed over instead of confessed.
you stare at him, and for a moment you’re not sure which of you is more vulnerable.
then, carefully, you close your notebook and meet his eyes. “you’re not alone in this. not in here.”
he blinks, and something in him slips just a little—like a crack along old stone letting light bleed through.
“can i stay a little longer?”
you smile softly. “you can stay as long as you need.”
and for the first time, he doesn’t check the clock. doesn’t glance at the door. just sits back into the couch, letting the quiet settle, as if he’s not afraid of it anymore.
he glances at the corner shelf, then back to you. “you read a lot?”
you nod. “when i can. i don’t sleep much either, so it helps fill the space.”
bob leans back slightly, and for the first time, the lines around his eyes seem to ease. “what do you read?”
“neuroscience, mostly. some poetry. case studies. sometimes trashy fiction with bad romance and worse science.”
he actually smiles at that. not forced, not brief—just soft and real. “i used to read a lot. college stuff. research. i liked the weird cases. the ones people couldn’t explain.”
“oliver sacks?” you ask, half-teasing.
he points at you. “yes. that guy. i never finished the book. felt too close.”
you lean forward slightly. “want to borrow it?”
his expression shifts again—something uncertain, something boyish. “you’d let me take one?”
“just bring it back.”
bob nods, and something in his face flickers—like an old memory brushing against the edge of the present.
“i will.”
you both sit in the quiet that follows, but it’s no longer awkward. the clock ticks gently, the soft hum of the heater filling in the blanks. there’s no sign of the void in that moment. no second skin. just two people sitting in a room built for listening.
peace doesn’t last long.
you’ve long accepted that. you’ve studied the brain’s circuitry enough to know we aren’t built to live in it. we chase peace like a high, yet once it settles into our skin too long, we start picking at it—doubting it, mourning it before it’s even gone. it’s a brief visitor, peace. kind, but impermanent. you only ever really notice its presence when it leaves.
it’s the thought playing through your head as you sit curled into your office chair, gaze unfocused on the small news stream rolling across your tablet. you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t keep watching this channel—it’s too much, always too much—but you let it play anyway. background noise, you tell yourself. just static to fill the room.
“the new avengers put a swift and permanent end to this morning’s armed robbery attempt. one confirmed fatality—officials calling it a clean takedown by the enhanced member of the team, sentry.”
you don’t react right away. the words feel like they land through molasses. permanent end. fatality. clean takedown. sanitized language for violence, for another body left cooling on concrete. you shut the tablet off and look down at your lap, heart tightening.
you know who they mean.
and you know who’s about to walk through your door—it’s wednesday after all.
the knock comes late—nearly ten minutes past the hour. you rise and answer it quickly, afraid he might bolt again like that first week. but bob stands there, rain-soaked, sweater clinging to his chest like it forgot how to fit him. his hands hang useless at his sides. he doesn’t meet your eyes.
he says nothing as you let him in. he walks past you like he’s underwater and takes his usual place on the couch—only this time, he doesn’t fold himself into the corner like he usually does. he sits stiffly, forward, elbows on his knees, shoulders tight like cables strung to snapping. you don’t go to your chair. you sit down quietly in the middle cushion beside him.
you wait.
the silence feels like it breathes, alive with something fragile and dark. you glance over, but his face is bowed. all you see is a fist clenched against his mouth, the tremor running along his jaw.
you shift slightly, giving him your full attention, careful not to crowd him. “do you want to tell me what happened?”
bob swallows.
the words crack on his tongue before he can even let them out, brittle and uneven. you see the tremble at his knuckles, the way his knees bounce like he’s trying to keep himself from bolting.
“he had a gun on someone. she was… she looked like a kid. and i—” his throat cinches. “i thought i could stop him without… i didn’t think. i didn’t mean to crush his chest in.”
then it all unspools.
the sob that breaks from his chest isn’t quiet. it’s the kind that fractures. that echoes. his body hunches, fists pressed into his eye sockets like he’s trying to force the tears back inside where they came from. but it’s too late.
bob cries like he hasn’t been allowed to cry in years.
your breath catches—not because he’s weeping, but because of how he weeps. it’s not heroic. it’s not stoic. it’s raw. terrified. embarrassed. human.
you slide from your chair before thinking, moving to the couch, your movements slow and purposeful. you sit beside him—not touching at first, not imposing—and wait.
but then your hand reaches out. gently. you cradle his face, thumb brushing along the high crest of his cheekbone, wiping away the warm, salt-heavy tears trailing toward his jaw.
bob flinches.
only slightly. but enough. a twitch like an animal unsure of whether touch means comfort or pain.
and then—slowly, achingly—he leans into it.
his weight tips forward, and he folds into your body with a kind of desperation you’ve only ever seen in those teetering on the edge. he slides forward and sideways, arms clutching at your waist, and then he’s pressing his face into the soft cotton of your shirt, right between your breasts. not with any intent—there’s nothing lewd about it. he folds into you like something hunted, like a child who’s run out of ways to hold himself together. his arms wrap tight around your back. you feel the hot press of his cheek, the way his breathing shakes against your ribs, shallow and uneven.
you hold him, firm but gentle. your fingers card through his hair, wet from the rain and sweat, and you murmur soft things—words you don’t plan, things like:
“you didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”
“you were scared.”
“you’re not a monster.”
“you’re still here.”
each word lands like balm on an invisible wound.
his cries taper eventually, but his grip doesn’t loosen. you keep your hand stroking through his golden hair, down the broad stretch of his back, like grounding wire. he stays pressed to your chest, breathing unevenly, and for a long moment neither of you speak.
then, finally, his voice returns—smaller than you’ve ever heard it.
“i’m so tired.”
you press your chin to the crown of his head.
“i know,” you whisper. “i know you are.”
“i don’t want to be him,” he mutters. “i don’t want to be that man on the news.”
“you’re not,” you say softly. “you’re still trying. that’s what makes you different.”
the room settles into quiet again, not peaceful, but real. human.
eventually, his sobs soften. the shaking subsides. his breath grows heavy, slowed by exhaustion. he doesn’t pull away from you. you don’t ask him to.
and then—something shifts.
you feel it before you see it. a pressure. a disturbance.
you glance toward the far wall, drawn to the faint gleam of the rain-slicked window. your eyes catch the reflection.
and your heart stops.
there, behind your own shoulder—not behind you in the room, but in the glass—stands a figure that is not bob. it is not a man.
the shape is human only barely. towering, made of endless shadow. shoulders stretched like smoke, chest heaving like it feels something too large for flesh. where its face should be is only depth—void, endless and swallowing.
the eyes glow like the dying blinding white of a star. brighter than flame. not neutral. not blind.
they are feeling.
you can’t name what they express. but it’s more than rage.
there is sorrow in that stare. wound-deep. ancient.
and worse—there is a possessiveness that coils in your gut like cold water down your spine. not jealousy, not quite. something older. hungrier. like the monster has seen you—has seen what you are to him, to bob—and it has already decided you belong in its story too.
you blink.
it’s gone.
just the window. just the rain.
just bob, soft against your chest, quiet now. fragile. alive.
and still holding you like the only real thing in the world.
you stare into the blinding white light of your phone screen, thumb frozen over yelena’s name.
the two of you weren’t close. not in a way that gave you room to say what you really wanted to say now. your exchanges had always been brief—punctual, neutral, like coworkers passing paperwork across a desk.
“he hasn’t been sleeping again.”
“he says the meds taste like chalk.”
“they switched him to something stronger.”
never real. never personal.
never once about the void.
you tap the message field. pause. backspace. then stop entirely.
what would you even say?
hey, did you ever see something standing behind him, watching with white eyes full of terror and doom?
hey, have you ever felt like he’s not alone in the room even when he is?
a low groan escapes your throat as you toss the phone face-down on the nightstand. the charger clicks into place. the soft glow vanishes.
you’re alone now. the kind of alone that hums. that presses into your thoughts the moment the noise dies out.
except—it doesn’t feel like alone.
not really.
your body is tense. restless. bob’s face flickers across your mind again: pressed to your chest, hair matted with sweat, breath rattling like it hurt to breathe. he’d clung to you like something drowning. your fingers had curled at his nape, feeling the tremor in his spine. his voice had broken on your collarbone like a child’s.
i didn’t mean to.
you shouldn’t feel the way you do.
but you do.
the guilt makes it hotter. shame spreads like syrup in your chest. you shift beneath the covers, legs tangled, thighs clenched tight. your skin prickles with that first slick wave of arousal, thick and deep-rooted.
your hand slips low.
you tell yourself it’s just to relieve the pressure. to get to sleep. to forget. but when your fingers skim the damp patch between your legs, something sparks and you know—you’re not stopping.
you bite your lip. your other hand fists the sheets as your fingers drag slowly over the soaked fabric. your clit pulses beneath the damp cotton, sensitive to the lightest pressure. you rub it in slow, tight circles—just once. just again. then again.
a moan slips out before you can stop it, and suddenly it’s not slow at all. your hips buck into your hand as you grind harder, faster. you picture his hands, broad and trembling. his voice, cracking apart as he cried. you feel sick. you feel alive. you press two fingers beneath the waistband, slide them into the wet heat gathering between your folds, and groan into your pillow.
you’re so wet it’s obscene. your fingers slide easily, curling inside as you start to fuck yourself in rhythm—fast, shallow thrusts that never quite satisfy. your clit throbs, desperate for more friction, but you can’t bring yourself to stop fucking your fingers.
he’d feel different. you can’t stop the thought. bigger. rougher. he’d ruin you just by holding on too tight.
“filthy,” a voice murmurs. you ignore it.
it’s just your imagination. just stress. your subconscious chewing through the detritus of trauma and lust.
but then—
your hand falters.
because the fingers inside you shift—deeper than you can reach. a pressure you didn’t create. your eyes fly open. your palm hasn’t moved. but the fingers—longer, thicker, calloused—are still moving inside you.
the thrusts become punishing. the stretch too much. it hurts. it burns. but it’s good—so good you choke on the sob clawing up your throat.
you want to stop. you should stop.
but your hips rock helplessly into the touch, chasing the burn. your clit is throbbing now, begging for friction. and then it’s there—a pad, rough, not your thumb, not your skin, circling it with maddening precision.
“such a mess,” the voice croons again. and suddenly, there are hands—hands you didn’t summon, didn’t imagine—pawing at your chest, yanking your sleep shirt up, fingers twisting your nipples until pain blooms through the pleasure like light through stained glass.
“fucking slut.” rough hands close around your breasts, fingers digging in as they cruelly twist your nipples. you bite back a startled cry, muffling soft ‘ow’s and slurred ‘stop’s, but beneath the sharp sting, a trembling moan escapes you—if it hurt so much, why didn’t you pull away?
“feels good, doesn’t it?” the voice murmurs, low and taunting.
against all reason, your lips part, and a shaky, breathy “uh-huh” slips free, betraying the mix of pain and desperate pleasure flooding your body.
you’re crying now. tears streaking hot down your temples as you moan, gasping please, and more, and don’t stop like a prayer.
you’re beyond language. just friction. just heat. the fingers fuck into you brutally, hitting something deep and soft that makes your whole body seize. the palm circles your clit faster now, harder, rougher, like it knows what you need better than you do.
it climbs. higher. higher. you’re going to break apart. it’s too much.
and then you come—shuddering, curling, a sob breaking through your lips as your cunt clenches around the phantom fingers, pulsing, gushing, trembling like a violin string drawn too tight.
“good girl.”
the voice exhales in your ear, close enough to feel.
and this time—you feel it. the whisper. the breath.
your hand flies to your ear.
dry.
your fingers are bone dry.
you’re gasping, body spent, heart pounding like it’s going to give out. sweat slicks your spine, and your thighs ache from the tension. you feel the wetness between your legs—thick, hot, real.
you push yourself upright, blinking blearily. the shadows in your room seem darker now, richer. your gaze drifts toward the window. the reflection meets you there.
not yours.
not bob’s.
it stands behind your own ghostly silhouette, just slightly offset. like a smudge on the mirror of reality. a tall figure, draped in black that shimmers like liquid night. shoulders hulking, body indistinct—except for the eyes.
red.
deep.
not empty.
not hungry.
but yearning.
possessive.
wounded.
you stare. you don’t scream. you don’t move. you’re not sure you can.
some part of you understands now—without words, without certainty—that it had always been watching.
waiting.
friday comes around far too quickly.
you’re no stranger to patients flaking on sessions—ghosting with half-hearted apologies, or none at all, when the weight of unpacking their own mind became too heavy. some would rather vanish into the dark than face the shape of their feelings under sterile office lights. you’d grown used to that. what you weren’t used to was the shift in yourself. a quiet dread, thick and strange, coiling in your chest as the hour approached. you’d had days before when you didn’t want to go in—when the weight of holding everyone else’s pain felt too much—but this was different. this wasn’t burnout. this wasn’t exhaustion. this was hesitation, sharp and personal. it was knowing you’d see him again.
and not being entirely sure which version of him you’d be seeing.
but when the hour and a half mark comes and goes, when the clock’s minute hand stretches past his session time and he still hasn’t walked through the door, you feel something strange twist in your stomach.
not disappointment—no, something closer to shame.
you sit in silence for a while longer, pretending to read over notes from earlier in the day. but your pen hasn’t moved in ten minutes, and the air feels heavier by the second. you begin to wonder if you’d crossed a line on wednesday. if that embrace—the warmth of his body melting against yours, the way you let your hand cradle his jaw like something precious—had been too much. too familiar. too not clinical.
because in those few moments, he hadn’t felt like your patient. he hadn’t even felt like bob. he’d felt like something else. like someone you shouldn’t be touching the way you did. and yet you had.
maybe he felt it too. maybe that’s why he hadn’t come.
or maybe this was punishment. karma, manifest. some cosmic weight crashing back onto your shoulders for what you’d let happen in the dark, what you’d let touch you when you were alone in your room, mind flooded with guilt and heat and a whisper that wasn’t yours. the thought of him sobbing into your chest should’ve haunted you. but instead it had stained your sheets.
and something had known. had seen. had felt it too.
it’s friday again now.
bob had missed two sessions. you hadn’t texted yelena — perhaps that was your first mistake. your first being even taking him when you’d been requested for this high risk case. you wanted to do good though, be good, god it was pathetic. some part of you still believed you could reach inside a broken mind and coax the light back out. but you weren’t sure what you’d been reaching for when it came to him. or what had been reaching back.
you’re pulled out of your thoughts as you hear a gentle knock on your door.
expecting dr. lavish to come in and ask if she could borrow one of your pillows for the child patient she had — or maybe even the janitor giving you your fill of lysol wipes again — you look up, words already forming on your tongue.
but it isn’t them.
the figure standing in your doorway is taller than you expect. shoulders slightly hunched like he’s trying to take up less space, hair somewhat damp, clinging to his temples like he’d come in out of the rain — though the forecast had been clear all day. his eyes flicker up to meet yours, and the room seems to contract. the air thickens. the shadows in the corners deepen.
it’s bob.
or — at least, it looks like him.
there’s something too still about him. something stretched too thin across the bones of his face, like a mask left out in the sun too long, warped and brittle at the edges. his shoulders hang wrong, his skin damp and pale under the dull overhead light. and though the shape of him is the same, you sense immediately that you aren’t alone with him.
not really.
you shift in your seat, the stiff leather sighing beneath you, and force a small, brittle smile onto your face. you are glad to see him. you tell yourself that. but the memory of that last session clings to you like wet cloth — the way he’d clung to you, sobbing into the hollow of your chest, face pressed against the curve of your breast like some half-drowned thing desperate for air. the way your hand had cradled his jaw without thinking. the heat of his skin. the sound of your heartbeat in your own ears, too loud, too fast.
and then… the other thing.
the thing that found you alone later that night. that climbed into your skin with a whisper you pretended not to hear.
he moves to sit down, and you watch as he bypasses the end of the couch — his usual spot, where he could angle himself half away, where there was distance — and instead settles into the middle. dead center. like an animal too exhausted to keep running.
and neither of you speak.
the clock ticks too loud.
a minute. two. long enough for the air to thicken, for your chest to ache with it.
“you missed your sessions,” you say at last, voice quieter than you intended. you don’t ask why. you’re afraid of the answer.
bob drags a hand through his hair, damp strands clinging to his skin. his other hand grips the side of his neck, thumb pressing into his pulse point like he’s trying to steady himself.
“i know,” he murmurs. his voice sounds different. thinner. like it’s traveling from too far away. “i… i couldn’t. not after… not after what happened.”
you feel it then. the ghost of his weight against you. his face against your chest. the way you hadn’t pushed him away. the way you’d held him.
the way it hadn’t felt clinical.
the way it hadn’t felt like bob, or like a patient at all.
“i crossed a line,” you say, a faint tremor at the edges. “i shouldn’t have—”
“it wasn’t you,” he cuts in, sharp and sudden. his head snaps up, and for the first time, he looks at you.
and god.
there’s something else behind his eyes.
something ancient. hungry.
something that knew you long before bob ever stepped into your office.
“i mean… it was,” he stammers, softer now, shaking his head. “but it was me too. and… him.”
your stomach turns to ice. you don’t have to ask who he means.
you try to swallow, but your throat’s too tight. the room feels too warm, the overhead light too bright, painting sharp hollows beneath his cheekbones. his jaw flexes, and you catch the subtle tremor of it — the tension working beneath his skin like something barely restrained.
then he parts the pretty pink of his lips, sucking in a slow, ragged breath through his teeth, and it’s only then — when your gaze flickers downward, like some cowardly thing seeking escape — that you see it.
obvious. heavy against the fabric of his pants.
your breath stutters.
his face colors instantly, a flush blooming high on his cheekbones, and for the first time in what feels like days, bob moves with something almost like instinct. embarrassed, he reaches for the pillow beside him, his movements sharp and jerky, and drags it into his lap like some flimsy barrier. like it could hide what both of you have already seen.
a sick, guilty thing twists in your stomach — and deeper than that, something warmer. a cruel little spark that shouldn’t be there.
neither of you speak.
the clock on the wall ticks so loud it’s unbearable.
“i’m sorry,” he says at last, and his voice is wrecked. frayed. like the apology costs him something. “i… he’s — it’s hard to—” bob stops, squeezing his eyes shut, as though he could wring the thought out of his head by force.
and you feel it again. that pressure. that presence. a cold, unseen palm at the nape of your neck, trailing down your spine like a lover’s touch. a voice — no, a thought, or the suggestion of one — breathing against your ear.
look at him.
and you do.
the pillow’s doing nothing now. the poor thing crushed between trembling fingers, knuckles white, the fabric tented and betraying every inch of his arousal. and his eyes — god, his eyes — glassy and feverish and desperate, flicking between your face and your mouth like he’s seconds from breaking apart.
“i can’t stop thinking about you,” bob whispers, his voice barely there. “about… what it felt like. that night. the way you held me. the way you… the way you smelled, the way you—” his breath shudders out, and he grips the pillow tighter, as though afraid of what his hands might do. “he shows me things. tells me to do things to you. things i don’t even wanna admit i—”
do it.
the command slithers through the room like smoke.
and you don’t know if it’s him or you that moves first — can he even hear the voice? surely, right? the way his breath catches, the way his eyes dart to the empty corner of the room like something’s watching. or maybe that’s just you. maybe it’s always been just you.
but a second later you’re on the couch beside him, so close the heat of him bleeds into your skin, your lips brushing the crook of his neck. his skin tastes like salt, like sweat and the faintest trace of something metallic beneath — like ozone before a storm.
your hands slide down, finding the rough fabric of his jeans, and he whines. the sound punched from his throat, raw and helpless. mumbles spill past the pretty pink of his lips, words half-slurred and broken: “feels… s’good… oh fuck… you—ah… you…”
your name, somewhere in there, buried beneath need.
his hips twitch up into your palm without meaning to, a desperate, unconscious thing, and you feel the thick, aching heat of him through denim.
you reach a hand behind him, diving your fingers into those golden locks — soft, sweat-damp at the nape — and you tug, sharp enough to make his breath catch. this time he lets out a helpless little mewl, the sound raw and sweet in a way it shouldn’t be.
“i’m sorry — please,” he whimpers, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows the desperate plea.
the sound hits you low in your belly. some awful, electric pulse of satisfaction.
and bob groans like it hurts, his free hand fumbling at the waistband of his jeans, so frantic now it’s almost pathetic. he gets them halfway open — the button popping loose, the zipper dragging down — but the fabric snags on his thighs. too tight, too rushed.
your hand is there before he can even ask. diving beneath the band of his boxers, the heat of him heavy against your palm. when your fingers wrap around his cock — flushed, flushed and pretty, the tip wet and slick with need — he gasps, a sharp, broken sound. his head falls back against the couch with a dull thunk, pupils blown so wide they swallow the blue of his irises whole.
you press your mouth to his pulse point, feeling it hammer under your lips.
“bob,” you murmur, the name thick on your tongue, tasting unfamiliar now. sacred. defiled. both.
and he shudders, hips arching into your palm, chasing every slick stroke.
“please,” he rasps, voice cracking clean in half around the word. “i… i need—i can’t—”
and there it is again — that impossible pressure. the cold touch at the edge of your perception. a phantom hand curling around bob’s throat, tilting his head just so. the void’s attention thick in the air, a purr like silk against your ear.
yes. more.
your hand works him slow at first — teasing, cruel — watching the way his thighs tremble, his lips parting in little wrecked gasps. and when his breathing stutters, when his fingers clutch the couch like he’ll fall through it, you tighten your grip, pace quickening.
“you’re doing so good for me,” you whisper, because you have to. because you need something to anchor yourself to. something to make you human in the middle of this.
and he shakes his head, whole body trembling, fists clenched so tight his knuckles go bloodless.
his voice is wrecked when he manages, “h-he wants me to do bad things to you.” you can feel him get impossibly harder under the weight of his own words, leaky pearly pre spilling out of his tip.
it spills out like a confession, shame and hunger and terror twisting the words.
your thumb brushes over the leaking head of his cock and he keens, teeth catching his bottom lip so hard it goes white.
“what kind of things, bob?” you murmur, dragging your lips along his jaw, your own pulse a thunderclap in your ears.
he chokes on a sound halfway between a sob and a moan. “h-he… he wants me to—fuck—hurt you,” bob whimpers, the words broken, sticky with fear and want. “says… says you’d like it. says you’re already his.”
the air thickens. you can feel it, heavy and cold and waiting.
let him. you’ll thank me.
and before you can answer, bob’s hands are on you — clumsy, desperate — hauling you fully onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his hips. his cock throbs against you, slick and flushed, leaving wet heat wherever it drags against the thin cotton barrier of your panties. the act is out of pure, feral need, his strong arms locking around your waist like if he let go, you might slip away, vanish into the ether.
he bucks up into you with a broken sound, rutting against the damp heat of you, though you’re still fully clothed. the friction’s maddening, a tease and a promise both. his hands shake where they grip you, fingernails digging into flesh.
you coo softly at him, an almost pitying sound as you try to still his desperate movements.
“slower, baby,” you murmur, fingers brushing through sweat-damp locks, watching the way his pupils blow impossibly wide at the word. “let me—”
you fumble with your clothes, shoving your pants down your legs, panties dragged aside, blouse hiked carelessly up your chest. your bra’s plain — nothing made for this kind of thing — but bob doesn’t care. his gaze devours every new inch of skin, lips parted, breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts.
you tug his sweater over his head and he’s beautiful in that reckless, ruined way, hair mussed, skin flushed, a thin sheen of sweat glinting along his collarbone. you let yourself fall back against the couch, your body a pliant offering.
his mouth is on yours a second later, rough, uncoordinated, all teeth and tongue. his cock drags against your bare slit, slick and searing hot, the head catching against your clit in a way that makes your hips jerk.
he pulls back just enough to pant, “do you have a—condo—”
the words barely form before it cuts through the air like a blade.
fuck her.
a voice not his. not yours. low and cold and hungry.
you feel yourself clench, empty and aching, around nothing.
your head lolls against the couch cushions, eyes fluttering shut, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow bursts. the void presses against the room’s edges, thick and suffocating, coiling tight around both of you. the weight of inevitability.
bob groans like he felt it too. his hand cups the back of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw as if to steady you — as if to apologize — but his other hand’s already guiding himself to your entrance, cock nudging against your entrance, the tip sliding through your slick folds, catching against your clit just long enough to make your hips stutter up into him. his breath hitches, a soft, shattered sound against your throat.
“wanna make you feel good,” he breathes, the words half-spoken, half-prayer, clinging to you like something holy in a place meant for sin. “‘s good… so good,” he mumbles again, lips dragging against your neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin. his voice is ruined, thick with everything he can’t say.
and then he’s pushing inside — thick, flushed, leaking — the stretch sudden, greedy, obscene. it burns in a way that makes your head tip back, a sharp gasp ripped from your throat as your nails bite into the curve of his shoulders. there’s no caution, no tentative easing. he sinks in to the hilt with a desperate, jerking thrust that has both of you crying out.
the void purrs its approval, the sound vibrating through the room like a pulse, thick as fog.
bob’s face buries into your throat, his hips snapping against yours, sloppy, relentless, the wet sound of him moving inside you lewd in the suffocating quiet. you’d forgotten about his strength — the way his body dwarfs yours, how easily he cages you beneath him, how every thrust makes the couch shudder beneath you both.
“too tight,” he whines, voice breaking on the words. “god—so tight—i c-can’t—”
but he doesn’t stop. can’t stop.
and it isn’t dominance. no, it’s desperation. raw, pitiful, a boy unraveling by the second, chasing the feeling like it might save him.
you hadn’t realized your eyes had fallen shut until you feel it — that heavy, unmistakable knowing of being watched. your lashes flutter open and there he is.
the figure. the presence. the void.
standing just behind bob, a shadow clothed in the suggestion of a man, towering and lean, one pale, long-fingered hand splayed across the back of bob’s neck. guiding him. possessing him. and worse — looking directly at you. not bob, not the trembling wreck he was making of himself, but you.
its head tilts, like it’s curious. or amused.
keep going, it croons, voice a cold whisper against your ear though its mouth never moves. she’s feeling so good, isn’t she?
you don’t answer. can’t. your lips part, but all that escapes is a choked moan when the void’s grip tightens on bob’s neck and his hips slam harder into you, the couch groaning under the force.
bob sobs out a breath, tears hot against your skin. “wanna be with you forever,” he pants, the words tumbling from him like they’d been waiting in his throat for years. “d-don’t wanna go… wanna be yours, wanna be inside you, wanna—”
breed her.
the command is silk-draped violence.
fill her up. make her carry you inside her. tie yourself to her in every way that matters.
bob sobs like the words struck something primal in him, his thrusts growing frantic, uncoordinated, as though possessed by it. his body no longer his own. a vessel for want, for worship, for something older and crueler than love.
his cock drags against every aching, oversensitive nerve inside you, and you can feel how close he is — his breathing ragged, hips jerking, muscles tensing as the heat builds.
“i—i wanna… fuck, i’m gonna—” bob chokes out, teeth sinking into your shoulder as if he can hold the moment in his mouth. his voice breaks completely. “let me… let me c-cum in you… p-please.”
you’re not sure if it’s him asking. or if it matters anymore.
the void’s hand slides from his neck to his jaw, tilting his face up, forcing his tear-streaked, blissed-out gaze to yours.
his hips jerk, needy, helpless, cock twitching inside you as he rocks deeper still, as if the sheer act of possession could anchor him to something real. something solid.
but nothing is solid anymore.
not the room, not your sense of self, not the man trembling above you.
there’s a part of you — some tiny, flickering ember of rational thought — that should scream. should shove him off, should demand your space back, your body back.
but it’s smothered, buried under the heady crush of heat and breath and the delicious, terrible pull of being wanted this badly.
you feel the void’s presence lean in close — not touching, but still there, its hand a phantom weight at your throat, fingers brushing the pulse hammering just beneath your skin.
bob whimpers as your walls flutter around him, his eyes rolling back, his grip on your hips bruising now. “i—i can’t… fuck, i’m gonna—”
do it, the voice hisses. take it.
and bob shatters.
his body tenses, cock throbbing as he spills inside you in thick, searing pulses, a raw, broken sob tearing from his throat as he clutches you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to this world. his face is wet against your skin, tears mingling with sweat, with spit, with everything filthy and sacred between you.
you feel it flood you — hot and thick and endless — and the sensation is overwhelming, tipping you into your own release with a gasp you barely recognize as your own. your body arches, every nerve alight, and you swear you can feel it: something more than physical, something ancient and cruel and impossibly tender claiming you both.
bob’s voice is a hoarse, frantic whisper against your throat, words slurred and frantic. “i love you… i love you, i—please don’t leave, please—”
your hand moves in slow, aimless circles against the damp, feverish skin of his back. his breathing’s slowed, chest rising and falling in unsteady swells, face buried in the hollow of your neck like a child hiding from the dark. you wonder if he’s drifted to sleep — or if sleep for him is something else entirely now, a place the void follows him into.
the room is thick with it still. not just sweat and sex, but something heavier, cloying. the unseen weight of a presence unwilling to leave.
you feel it then — not imagined this time, not a trick of nerves frayed thin by loneliness and guilt. cool, incorporeal fingers brush against your lips, two of them, familiar now in a way that makes your stomach knot. the same touch you’d felt deep inside you nights ago, when the world had gone still and your room had filled with the scent of earth and dying stars.
he doesn’t have to speak.
doesn’t have to coax.
your lips part for him on instinct. a quiet, shivering surrender.
and something pushes past them. not flesh, not air. a taste like dark water, like the hour before dawn. it’s cold, at first, but it warms as it settles on your tongue, curling against your teeth, and you realize with a terrible, aching certainty — he could take anything he wanted from you in this moment.
but he doesn’t.
instead, the presence cradles your face — not physically, not in a way the waking world would see, but you feel it. an unbearable tenderness, like the hush before a storm, like the first touch of rain on parched earth.
“mine,” it murmurs, not in command, not in triumph.
but in something closer to awe.
and for a moment — just a moment — you understand. loneliness isn’t just a human thing. even the dark wants company.
even the old, endless things.
and so you let him stay. let him settle in the hollow parts of you, curl around your heart like a second pulse. because you don’t have it in you to be alone anymore. and neither, it seems, does he.
somewhere beside you, bob stirs in his sleep, mumbling your name like a promise.
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