pairing: Jax Teller x female reader
warnings: nsfw 18+ (gun play, fear play, p in v sex, unprotected sex, rough sex, light choking, explicit language, mention of overdose off-page)
word count: 2.3k
summary: Jax comes home late, loaded with pent-up frustration, and takes it out on you in the most controlling, dangerous way he knows how.
a/n: so after some careful deliberation lol I've decided to participate in kinktober because I have fomo, but I'm not going to do it every day because I'm lazy af lol anyway this is officially the hottest thing I've ever written 💦 happy reading x masterlist
You knew Jax was angry the second he walked through the door, which wasn't a surprise at this point.
Over the past day, the quiet rage Jax had been wearing like a second skin was like a slap in the face. There had been mentions of Juice and Nero, and you'd overheard Jax drop words like overdose and betrayal while he was talking on his burner to God-knows-who, and while you were curious, the last thing you wanted to do was ask. You loved Jax, and you wanted him to lean on you so you could help carry the weight and darkness that came with being the President of SAMCRO, but you didn't want to know a single thing about club shit. It made you too vulnerable.
Plus, you knew what Jax was like when he was pissed off beyond belief. He was broody, emotionally distant, not to mention he smoked like a fucking chimney. He wouldn't tell you, even if you wanted to know.
The only benefit of these moods was that the sex was fucking incredible, even better than the usual animalistic, raw, sweat-dripping-down-your-back, can't-remember-your-name, tearing-your-clothes-off in-the-hallway type of sex.
When he was angry, Jax fucked you like it was the only thing keeping him from burning Charming to the ground, like he was trying to forget the lives he'd taken, the brothers he couldn't save, and the piece of his soul he left bleeding out on some backroad years ago.
You kept your eyes glued to the TV when he slammed the door shut, his heavy footsteps on the wooden floor, followed by the sound of his keys dropping in the ceramic dish you'd snagged from the flea market last year. You heard him let out a slow exhale, which was the telltale sign that he was trying not to explode.
You swivelled your head over the back of the couch to look at him. He looked exhausted; his blonde hair was slicked back, though strands were already starting to fall loose around his face, his jaw was locked so tight that you could see the muscle clenched beneath his stubble, his lips were pressed into a hard line, and as his dark eyes met yours… oh, shit.
"Get up," Jax said, his voice calm. If it weren't for the quick rise and fall of his chest, you wouldn't think anything of it.
You stood slowly, trying to ignore the dampness that was pooling in your underwear already. You couldn't take your eyes off him.
"Jax, are you o—" you started, not able to finish your sentence because the small sound of a click cut through the quiet.
"Come here," he growled, the sound low. Your gaze dropped, catching sight of the gun hanging loose in his hand. Your heart was beating so fast that you thought it was going to fall out of your chest, and not with the fear that you should be feeling.
You shouldn't be enjoying this.
"I'm not goin' to ask again," Jax said sharply. You walked forward slowly, and Jax tilted his head sideways, pinning you with a look that made your mouth dry. "I had a bad day."
You licked your lip, pulling your bottom one between your teeth, and Jax's eyes followed the movement. "Do you… want to talk about it?" you asked hesitantly.
Jax stepped closer, shaking his head. "Not really."
The space between you vanished, and your bodies were almost flush when he lifted the gun slowly, the metal grazing your chin as Jax used it to tilt your head back. Your gaze caught his, and a long moment passed before he said, "Open."
You didn't pull away. Instead, your mouth fell open, and you leaned into him as the barrel met your tongue. It was cold and smooth, and the metallic taste already had the saliva pooling in your mouth and it wasn't even halfway in yet.
"Look at you," Jax muttered, his nostrils flaring. Oh, this was bad. So bad. Your body was at war with itself. You were turned to the point of discomfort, and you needed him to get you off. "You like this, huh?"
You nodded, unable to tear your eyes away from Jax as he pushed the barrel in deeper, your jaw stretching around it. You took a deep breath in through your nose and tried your hardest not to gag as the tip of the gun reached the back of your throat, but Jax only watched you for another second before he slid the gun out, a trail of saliva hanging from the tip of the gun to your lips.
Before you could even utter a single word, Jax grabbed your arm and spun you around, pushing you against the wall. His body was pressed against yours to keep you there, and you could feel his hard cock rubbing on your ass.
Oh God, you were so wet. Knowing Jax was just as turned on as you were didn't help the situation either.
"You scared?" he asked softly, sliding the gun along the waistband of your shorts.
You shook your head. "No," you whispered. You got a nose full of his cheap cologne mixed with cigarettes as Jax leaned in, his warm breath against your ear.
"You should be," he whispered, your eyes fluttering shut as his lips trailed over your jaw. "You should know better than to trust a man with a fuckin' gun."
You could feel the muzzle as he pressed it to the small of your back, just enough pressure to make you freeze, while Jax's other hand moved across your hip, past the waistband of your shorts and between your thighs.
"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he growled against your ear, his voice almost pained when he found your slick pussy. You had gone bare all day, not bothering to put on any underwear after your morning shower. "Is that what you wanted? Me to come home and find you like this?"
Yeah, he was reveling in how wet you were, the cocky bastard.
"Yeah," you smiled, your head falling back on his shoulder, just as he dragged two fingers up, stroking slow circles over your clit again and again.
You needed more. You couldn't wait. You pushed your hips back, grinding his cock harder against your ass, and the low sound he made vibrated in your chest.
"Please," you gasped. "Please, Jax. Just fuck me. I need it." He dragged his soaked fingers out of your shorts, letting them glide up your stomach under your tee, smearing you on your own skin. "Jax—"
He silenced you with a kiss, grabbing your chin and forcing your head back. You opened for him instantly, tasting cigarettes and whiskey and the promise that you were about to be fucked stupid. With a groan, you reach behind to wrap your arm around his neck, tangling your fingers into his hair to deepen the kiss, meeting his tongue stroke for stroke.
He kissed you like he was trying to crawl down your throat and devour every fucking part of you, like the only way to calm the chaos inside his head was to drown it in your mouth.
He pulled back, breathing hard, his bruising grip on your jaw lingering for a beat before sliding down your body. His hand curled tight around the waistband of your shorts, and in one harsh yank, he dragged them down your legs and let them pool around your ankles.
You stood there, completely exposed and trembling, the only sound coming from the low hum of the TV in the living room.
Then you feel it.
Cold.
You held your breath, skin erupting in goosebumps, as Jax trailed the gun up your inner thigh, slow and deliberate, getting higher and higher. You didn't dare move, didn't dare speak, and just as you thought he was going to glide it across the curve of your ass, he stopped. With a sharp nudge of his Nikes against your ankle, he kicked your feet apart.
"You're lucky I need this pussy wrapped around my cock, otherwise I would've fucked you with this gun to show you who you belong to," Jax murmured, dragging the barrel through your slick folds, leaning down to trace the curve of your throat with his tongue.
Your whole body shuddered when you felt the cold, hard metal of the gun tracing slow, deliberate circles around your entrance. You opened your mouth to say something, like "stop" or "don't", you know, like a sane person, but your breath was caught in your throat and you weren't able to form a single sentence.
Jax hummed, and your traitorous pussy clenched around nothing. You were soaked and aching, and waiting for him to push the gun into you was like waiting for a dick pic after you already sent nudes; soaked, restless, and way past pretending to be chill.
"Please, God," you bit your lip, though not hard enough to stop yourself from moaning as he moved up to circle the cool metal over your clit.
Just as you were about to snap, Jax slid the gun away. "Knew you’d be ready for me," he said, softer but still rough. "You always are."
You turned your head to look over your shoulder just in time to see Jax's hand move to his belt, pulling out his delicious cock; heavy, hard, and angry red. Saliva pooled in your mouth instantly, wanting nothing more than to drop to your knees to lick away the bead of precum leaking from his tip.
"Face the wall," Jax rasped. "I ain't goin' slow."
Okay, Daddy.
You faced the wall and planted your palms against the painted surface as he stepped in close, one hand holding the gun firmly to your lower back, the other guiding his cock. He dragged the thick head through your folds, slow and taunting, over your clit, down your slit, and back again until you were whining.
"Fuck yeah," he said, low, guttural. "Been thinkin' about this all day."
A shiver slipped down your spine as Jax lined up, stealing one more second to hear your pathetic whimper before he drove into you. You choked on a gasp as he bottomed out instantly, the stretch burning and perfect. He didn't give you time to adjust before he was snapping his hips forward again, meaner, deeper, until you felt him everywhere.
You tried to arch your back, to hold onto him, but he nudged the gun harder against the base of your spine and your whole body lit up like a live wire. "Good girl, takin' every inch of me," he hissed, his hand coming around your throat in a tight grip. "This pussy is mine, you hear me?"
"It's yours, this pussy is yours," you bit out. "Shit, shit—more, goddamn it, Jax." You grabbed his wrist at your throat with one hand, the other still braced in front of you, when he quickened his pace, his thrusts brutal enough to rattle the frames on the wall.
"You feel that?" he growled against your cheek. The gun bit into the base of your spine with every drive of his hips; metal to bone, a sharp little sting that hurt for a moment before it flooded your body with pleasure. "You grip me so fuckin' tight. You like the danger, don't you?"
You nodded wildly, crying out when his fingers returned to your clit, giving it a light slap before moving his fingers fast. You were shaking, gasping, clenching around him, and the noises you were making were borderline feral. You were going to come so fucking hard.
"Oh my—oh, fuck, Jax. Harder, p—" you cried, your body trembling. "Please, harder."
"That’s it, baby. Take it," Jax breathed. The obscene wet sound of your pussy and skin slapping echoed off the walls, mixed with your broken moans and his feral grunts. "I want to feel you come. Come on my cock, darlin'."
"I'm gonna come, Jax."
The gun hit the floor with a loud clunk seconds before Jax wrapped his arm around your waist, yanking you back into him. He held you to his body while he thrust into you with brutal force, his other hand continuing to roll over your clit. This is what you needed: to see this man let go, to forget everything going on in his life, even if just for a moment.
"Jax—" you gasped.
Your pussy clenched, and you felt as if the ground was falling from beneath your feet as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through your body. Your orgasm hit you so violently that you didn't even make a sound at first; your mouth just dropped open, your body locked up, and your legs shook.
You couldn't fucking breathe, and spots were dancing across your eyes as your head fell back against Jax's shoulder, his thrusts punishing as he picked up speed. You felt his shaft stiffen, and a heartbeat later, he was coming too. You shuddered as you felt him spill into you, your tight pussy milking every last drop out of him.
You rest your forehead against the wall as Jax dropped his to your shoulder, the two of you trying to catch your breath. He was still inside you, sweat cooling between your bodies, when your voice, hoarse and in disbelief, broke the silence: "You turned the safety off."
Jax didn't move. Instead, he let out a short, tired breath against the back of your neck that may have been a laugh. "Yeah," he said, his arms tightening around you. "The gun wasn't loaded, though."
You turned your head slowly, pining him with a wide-eyed glare. "Jax."
"What? You think I'm an idiot?" He shrugged, unapologetically. "I'm not gonna risk blowin' your back out. Literally."
"You're a fucking psycho." You huff.
"Yeah," he muttered, kissing your jaw. "Tell me somethin' I don't know."
you and jack finally get a second alone on vacation, so he bends you over the balcony and fucks you while everyone else drinks downstairs.
𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ interested in how the pitt crew got approved for a week in greece? the original invitation is still posted
PAIRING: jack abbot x fem!reader
WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI explicit sexual content, AFAB reader, smut, PWP-ish elements, unprotected sex??? kinda it's just not mentioned if there's a condom involved or not, praise kink, slight degradation, semi-public sex, exhibitionism, voyeurism (potential), one brain cell between this two tbh
PROMPT: here!
WC: 0.8k
Jack makes a conscious effort not to dwell on the consequences of what, in hindsight, had been a truly abysmal series of decisions.
Best case scenario he’d be labeled as a pervert. Worse case, he’d lose his job and spend the rest of his life unable to show his face anywhere in the city of Pittsburgh without wanting to walk in traffic.
And honestly, it would all be deserving. There are very few respectable interpretations of having his subordinate bent over the balcony railing where anyone with functioning eyesight could look up and catch them in the act.
It’s made worse by the fact that every time his cock drives into you, another sweet little mewl spills out, each one louder than the next. It leaves him with a brutal urge to hear it again, makes him less careful than he ought to be. Makes the risk feel secondary.
He tells himself his coworkers on the patio are too drunk to notice. Most of them seem to be. They’d all been generously overserved at dinner, then even more generously self-served once they stumbled back to the Airbnb.
So drunk that he’s pretty sure Santos had Whitaker by the shirt at one point and shoved him straight into the shrubs bordering the patio while yelling something about George?
He hadn’t caught the rest. Hard to focus on much of anything when you’re clenching around him like the way you are now.
“Poor thing,” he says, leaning down close enough that his mouth brushes the soft shell of your ear. “You must’ve been so desperate for it to let me have you out here like this.”
You let out a weak little whine, head lolling against his shoulder.
“S’your fault.” Then, more broken on the next thrust. “Y-You made me like this.”
He has no rebuttal for that. He is responsible for the behavior you’ve displayed on this trip.
Desperate. Pent up, restless, a little spoiled from how thoroughly he tends to you when you’re home and no one else is around to interrupt. Usually, if you want him, you get him. In the kitchen. In the shower. Half asleep in his bed with his hand already between your legs before either of you say a word.
But this trip has been one long exercise in frustration. Coworkers roaming in packs. Thin walls. Doors opening without warning. Someone always needing something stupid, always shouting down the hall, always appearing right when he gets his hands under your dress.
So when you finally get him alone on the balcony, all it takes is one look. One kiss. You settling into his lap while he sprawls back in the chair, drink loose in one hand, the other already sliding up your thigh. After that, there’s no stopping it.
Now your panties are tugged aside, your dress bunched at your waist, and the obscene little sounds of him pushing into your soaked cunt disappear beneath the music and laughter below.
“Yeah,” he mutters. Soothing something he has no intention of fixing. “Know I did. Sorry, baby.”
Your fingers reach behind you for him, interlacing with the hand he has on your hip.
“Jack… please, ‘m so close.”
He reaches down through the slick heat between your thighs and presses two fingers to your clit, working you harder.
“That’s it. My good girl.” His voice drops lower. “Better be quiet unless you want everyone downstairs finding out just how good you take my cock. ”
And you do try. He feels it in the way your body tightens against him, in the way you bite down on the sound for half a second too long.
But then your pussy clenches hard around him and whatever noise you were trying to swallow slips free anyway. Such a pretty sound it nearly takes his knees out from under him.
Jack’s hand stays at the swollen bundle of nerves at your clit, working you through it because he’s selfish enough to want every shudder of your orgasm, every pulse.
He gives two more rough thrusts, maybe three, and then he’s done for too, climax hitting him hard and mean, his jaw going slack as he presses deep and rides it out inside you.
He stays folded over you after, chest heaving against your back, lips finding the strip of skin where your dress has slipped off one shoulder.
He tastes the coconut lotion there. Hint of tiare flower, half faded now beneath sweat and night air and sex. Summer in a bottle. It makes his head feel pleasantly blank all over again.
So he presses slow kisses there, then more, then drags them up toward the strap of your dress like he can’t quite stop.
His voice is still rough when he mutters sweet-nothings into your skin: Sweet girl. So good for me. Knew you could do it.
Then you’re turning in his arms as much as the angle allows, all wobbly and sweet, reaching back for his face. Your kiss lands crooked at first, more smile than anything, but he kisses you anyway, like he’s got all the time in the world.
It is, briefly, a perfect moment.
Then he opens his eyes.
Robby, down on the patio, tips his glass toward him.
Jack closes his eyes once.
Fuck.
this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini
𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!
Lena’s legs are kicking back and forth on the counter that she’s sitting on. The sleek marbled countertop is a mess, thanks to you. For as long as you’ve known Lena, she’s made it abundantly clear just how much she loves pancakes. All sorts of them, blueberry, chocolate chip, and brown sugar— all of the possible combinations. Sprinkles, maraschino cherries, and a crap ton of whipped cream.
“No sprinkles today, Lena Beana.” You hum as you mix the batter in the bowl. You can’t get it right. It’s either too watery or too thick. You can’t put the correct amount of ingredients and Lena’s amused as she watches you.
“Cherries?” She asks, holding onto her stuffed bunny.
You think about it. It’s ten pm, she can’t have much sugar or she’ll be too rowdy. Even now, she tells you she can’t sleep, you can’t worsen it. “Only natural, not maraschino.”
She pouts, bottom lip jutting out. “Those aren’t as yummy.” But she’s distracted when a glob of your batter spills out of your bowl.
“Fuck.” You curse, hands sticky.
“Curse word.” Her soft voice tries to scold you.
“Sorry, mama.” You apologize as you grab far too many napkins to clean yourself up.
The laugh that leaves the little girl has you turning to look up at her after minutes of concentration. “What are you laughing at?” You poke her belly, making her giggle some more.
“You’re really, really bad at this.” She glances at the mess of ingredients you’ve created. There’s flour on counter, spilled milk and water, butter and oil smeared all around.
You sigh, admitting defeat. “Yeah, I am.” You grab the cereal Nicky had picked up specifically for moments like these. “Froot Loops instead?”
She nods, her leg hair bouncing around her. “Yummy.”
You grab a bowl from the cabinets, along with a spoon, clattering across from where she’s now sitting, having moved to a stool.
“You should ask my uncle Pope for help.” She speaks with a mouthful of cereal. “He likes to clean.”
The grin falls to your lips easily at the mention of Pope. “You, Lena Blackwell, are a genius.” You press a kiss to her temple, whipping your phone out. You send him a text that reads, ‘NEED HELP ASAP.’
He doesn’t rush downstairs, not like you thought he would. His eyes are immediately on Lena, even with his calmed demeanor, making sure she’s not injured. And then, to you. You’re grinning as you lean against the counter, “funny story, handsome,” you hum. “There was a robbery! Wasn’t there, Lena?”
The little girl nods with a mouth full of cereal, scooping some more in her spoon.
“That right?” He asks roughly, unamused.
You nod, “yes. And you know what’s so horrible? They tried to take the expensive stuff but then they changed their path to the kitchen. And then, they tried to make pancakes.”
“Tried?” He asks as he makes his way to the countertop, lifting a spoon that’s in a puddle of the white sludge.
“No. They succeeded because they were really smart and knew how to cook.” You watch as he takes the mess in, carefully moving around the countertop, circling you and Lena. “And then, they took the cooked pancakes and told Lena she could only have Froot Loops. It was sick.”
Lena nods, speaking with a mouthful of food. “It’s true, uncle pope!”
Pope shakes his head, grabbing a towel from the sink, ready to get to cleaning. “Lena, don’t follow in her footsteps. Lying is bad.”
You grin, turning to Lena who’s already watching you, waiting to hear what your argument is. You shake your head at her, silently telling her to forget his words. She’s content with that response, going back to her cereal.
“It’s not lying. It’s story-telling.” You defend playfully, letting him clean the mess you’ve made. “I’m building up her imagination. She’s going to write best-selling novels.”
He scoffs, “says the liar.”
“Not a liar.” Both you and Lena speak at the same time. You two fall into fits of giggles.
“You’re copying me.” You tease her.
She grins, “no, you’re copying me.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Yuh-huh.”
“Children.” Pope chastises, both of you turning to look at him as he’s moving the used plates and utensils into the sink. “Lena, go get ready for bed. You,” his glare isn’t tense as usual but it’s directed to you. “Wash the dishes.”
You groan as Lena runs off with a giggle to her temporary bedroom. “Come on, it’s not my fault. It’s the robbers.”
“Yes.” He repeats, “it was the robbers fault but they left and you’re here. Wash.”
Despite the attitude that you have, you do decide to do it as he does the rest. You two clean in silence. It’s not horrifically awkward but silence means you overthink. And overthinking is bad. You have to keep going or it’ll be too much to handle.
“Pope?”
He doesn’t speak, a simple hum tells you to keep going.
You don’t respond immediately, and you can feel the way he turns to face your back, “what?” His voice seems to be naturally harsh so you don’t flinch or stress over the tone.
You put the plate down, turning to face him, wiping your wet hands with the dry rag beside the sink.
You’re not nervous around men often. Most don’t hold a candle to you. To how great you know you can be. To how great you know you are. But Pope isn’t just any man. From the second you saw him three years ago at the grocery store, you know this was it. You knew even then, that Andrew Cody is the guy you’re going to end up with. And yet, you still don’t speak.
The air is charged with tension. No, not tension. Softer. You can’t quite put your finger on it as you two stand there, barely a few scuffles apart, staring at each other.
Your breath hitches, itching to say these words out loud. “I really like you.” You admit, a little too easily, because of how intensely you mean them. Wholeheartedly. Irrevocably. In any way to describe how truthful you're being.
He doesn’t hesitate, “you’re lying.”
Your eyebrows furrow, a scoff bubbling out of you. “Excuse me?”
He shrugs, swinging a clean rag over his shoulder, arms crossed as he leans against the countertop. “That’s your hobby, right?”
Now you’re offended, crossing your arms over your chest as well, “is that why you never take me seriously? You think that, because I like to lie, that my feelings for you are a lie, too?”
“Would I be wrong to think so?”
It’s your turn to not hesitate, “yes.” Breathily, “I wanted you the second you walked into the store.”
“What?” His face scrunches in confusion, in that same cute way that makes you smile.
“Nothing.”
“No,” he takes a single step forward. “What store?”
You wanted to hang this over him longer but you can’t. The excitement is burning through you. You need to tell him just how long he’s been invading your thoughts without even knowing his name. You need to tell him how much worse this need for him has intensified since getting to know him.
“You really don’t remember me?”
“Of course I remember you.” He sounds offended by whatever accusation you’re throwing at him. “I think about you all the time.”
You take a step towards him as well. “You do?”
He rolls his eyes, “don’t let it get to your head.”
You laugh, “you’re letting it get to yours.”
“What? It’s not.”
“Not that one.” You hum.
He grabs the towel on his shoulder and covers his crotch as you cackle. “Shut up.”
You shrug, still grinning. “Helen’s.” You speak the name of the grocery store. It’s a small, family owned grocery store, one where the owners are always over and chitchatting with the customers. A staple in the tight-knit community.
“That your mother or something?”
You shake your head, “the grocery store.”
“Okay… you want me to go to Helen’s? What do you need?”
You groan, eyes shutting momentarily, trying to keep your emotions intact. You open them to his body much closer to yours, closing the distance. His hand is ghosting over your cheek, scared to touch you. “Do it…” your voice is small and desperate.
It happens so fast. His hands fall to your cheeks, forcing your face up as he pushes you to lean against the sink, knee slotting between your thighs. His nose is nudging against yours, breath heavy against your lips.
You’ve had his thumb in your mouth and his fingers in you. And not a single kiss. A forehead kiss but you’re not counting that. You need to kiss him. Have to. You’re desperate for it. You try to push your face to his but he holds your face back. “No.” His voice is whiney as he speaks, forehead against yours. “No.” Neither of you pull away.
The camera linked to the doorway chimes, reading the license plate out loud in its robotic and monotonous voice. A button beeps and a familiar voice is heard as the machine asks to state his name. “Barry Blackwell.”
He doesn’t fully pull away, not until the front door opens and in comes Baz.
You clear your throat, fixing your shirt as Pope goes back to cleaning. You smile politely at Baz, “Mr. Blackwell.” You greet. “Welcome.”
His smile toward you is seen as charming by most. And you don’t hate it, but you don’t care for it. “You can call me Baz.”
You grimace softly with a laugh, shaking your head. “No… my step-dad tells me to never put my boss at my level.”
Baz ignores this, turning to his brother, watching him carefully. “You good, bro?”
Pope nods stiffly, “good.”
It’s awkward. Pope clearly isn’t good and his brother knows this. You know this. And Baz is about to push, about to ask again, when you jump in. “I’ll show you to your room.” You push off the sink. “It’s right across Lena’s. Come on.”
Baz nods, grabbing his bags again and following behind you as you lead him out of the kitchen. You don’t turn to look at Pope, scared to see how upset he is. Not for fear, but because the disappointment in his features will make you want to rush back to him in front of their company.
“This is a really nice place.” Baz chimes as he inspects the walls and furniture around.
You hum, nodding. “Yeah. Sammy’s parents are really well off.” You tell him. “He’s a stockbroker or something like that, I don’t know, some boring stuff. Mother’s a lawyer.”
He whistles softly, “fuck. Should’ve picked a different career.”
You huff a small laugh, opening the door to his bedroom for the next few days. “Property manager isn’t cutting it?” You joke.
“Not even close.” He drops his bag as she leads him into the sleek and clean room. “They happily married?”
You smile softly, “very happily.” You answer, unsure of what to say next. “Uhm… it’s late. I’m gonna go put Lena to bed and—“
“How is she?” He cuts you off. “Lena? Was she… upset?”
It almost warms you to know that he does care, which gets harder and harder to believe the longer you take care of the little girl. “At first, yeah. But she got over it. She’s having fun here. She picked some fruit with the gardener and Nicky when we got in. We’re thinking of making a pie tomorrow.”
He lets out a breathy little laugh, nodding as he slumps onto the edge of the bed, taking a much needed seat. You’re slowly sliding back to the door, needing a quick escape. “So, you—“
He interrupts you again, “thank you, by the way.” He hums. “Allison’s boyfriend doesn’t want her to watch kids anymore while pregnant. And her mother…” he trails off for a moment. “She doesn’t care for being a mother any longer, clearly. Know you weren’t fond of kids at first, heard J mention it to Nicky. But youre good with her.”
You take the compliment, “thank you. She’s… she’s a really great girl.” You add, “so, can—“
Again. “You are too.” You tense at his words. “You’re a great girl.”
“Oh… uhm…” you wipe your sweaty palms against your bottoms, drying them as best as you can. “Tha-thank y—“
You almost want to yell when you’re interrupted again. But you feel relief wash over you when Lena rushes into the room, “daddy!” She jumps into her fathers arms, cheering happily and rambling away about what she did today.
This gives you the chance to slip out of the room, a heavy breath leaving you once you’re in the clear. “Fuck…” you mutter softly, anxious from the too long moment.
You push off the wall you were leaning against, eyes falling onto Pope’s as he stands at the stairway, watching you with a cup of warm milk at hand. For Lena, of course. He’s watching you carefully, worried. You send him a small smile and walk to your bedroom, embarrassed.
authors note . . . hiiii sorry for the lag!! hope you guys like it <3
taglist (purged it a little, sorry if i took you off and you DO interact, just message me and I’ll add you. other than that, taglist is open, only a few spots open) . . . @theariespov @slytherclaw1978 @manilovewomen1 @harhar0777 @cassierins @hhusbuds @shitface-t @firstlyferrari @marauvderss @vesperazhier @love-pluto-love @peachyfckingkeen @wylewhims @byfragonard @xreader1989 @inbred-eater @verygentlementrash @sagelovesbooks @callmestgalex @robinavitchabbotslut @momdancingtomcr @pr3ttygirlavenue @cherryybombbthoughts @tatoda @cosmicneptune @buckystwilight @iansunibrow @cosmosnkaz @feminine-ominon @caterppillar @milestellerismybf @scream4mami @niyizh @4ngelest @4rtem4r
ཐི♡ཋྀ — summary; you find Chibs in the garage late one night, and you can’t seem to tell him no (Chibs Telford x fem!reader)
ཐི♡ཋྀ — warnings; unestablished relationship but they’re fooling around ?, they both work late one night, reader takes a drag of his cigarette, they have sex in gemma’s office lol, smut, minors do not interact!!!, unprotected p in v, creampie, semi public in the idea of reader’s waiting on someone picking up car keys and doesn’t know when they’ll stop by yk?, chibs is a tease about it, but that’s it i think??
ཐི♡ཋྀ — word count; 1,596 words
ཐི♡ཋྀ — a/n; we're gonny just ignore how the first pic is from s1 and has jax in it 🤗
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you’d been helping Gemma out in the office, and she had asked you to stay late tonight to hand back keys to an old friend of hers that needed to come by later.
what you didn’t expect though, was Chibs to still be here working on something.
it was late, but he was working away with the radio playing on the workbench behind him.
he moved with a rag over his shoulder and a cigarette between his lips, focusing on the car in front of him while you watched him through the office’s blinds.
your eyes followed him around the garage, the papers you had been flipping through momentarily forgotten as you focused on Chibs.
his arms flexed under his coveralls as he tweaked with something under the hood of the car, and the sight had heat flooding your body.
Chibs looked good, really good, and you’d told him about it time and time again.
tonight was no different.
he lifted his head as the song on the radio ended, smirking to himself as he caught you staring at him.
your eyes quickly darted away from him, trying to focus back on the paper in front of you but he’d already cleaned his hands on a rag and moved towards you.
“you’re here late”
the door creaked open as he spoke, moving closer to you until he sat on the edge of the desk in front of you.
“waiting on one of Gemma’s friends to hand back her keys”
Chibs raised a brow at your words, taking a drag from his cigarette before exhaling away from you, using his hand to wave away the smoke.
his eyes flicked down to the paper in front of you, trying to read the words upside down while he spoke.
“ach sweetheart, i can hand them back for ye”
you shook your head, resting your arms on the edge of the desk while looking up at him.
“Gem asked me, it’s okay”
he went to counter your words, but you shook your head again, reaching for the cigarette between his fingers.
Chibs passed over the cigarette, watching you take a drag before a sigh fell from your lips as he continued on.
“caught ye staring again love”
his words had heat creeping up your neck, making you look away from at being caught staring.
“want to tell me what it was about this time?”
this was common whenever Chibs caught you staring, he always wanted to hear what played on your mind when you got lost in admiring him.
it was always the same though, you only ever really stared because it was him.
“same as last time?”
he chuckled at your words, taking the cigarette back to take another drag of his own while a smirk played at his lips.
“aye that it?”
you rolled your eyes, trying to focus on literally anything other than him, but it was impossible.
whenever Chibs was around, you found it hard to focus on whatever the task at hand was. Gemma had called you out on it before, always murmuring about working up the courage to actually tell him how you felt.
“you look good, i don’t know what else you want to hear me say”
his smirk deepened as his tongue poked out to wet his lips, easily drawing yours eyes to the move.
“tell me what ye want sweetheart”
Chibs told, stubbing out his cigarette before hooking a finger under your chin, tilting your gaze up to focus on his eyes.
a whine bubbled in your throat as you tried to pull free from his hold, but it was no use. Chibs knew you like the back of his hand.
“c’mon love, use yer words”
you nodded slow, moving the papers out the way without looking at them.
“want you.. but i can’t, i have to—“
he cut you off by pressing his lips to yours, his kiss deep and claiming with you gasped, allowing him to move you to sit on the edge of the desk.
his hands moved quick, easily working down your jeans and underwear while his lips stayed on yours.
“Chibs.. i can’t..”
your protest fell on deaf ears as he pushed your thighs apart, making room for his hips while he worked open his own belt.
“better be quick then, eh? can’t leave my girl all needy ‘nd wanting”
a moan fell from your lips at his words, and you knew you had no shot at pushing him away or denying that you wanted this.
so you let him continue.
the desk creaked under you as you lay back against it, watching him tug down his zipper before freeing his cock.
“always gonny take care of my girl”
he murmured while moving the head of his cock through your arousal, before he pushed against your entrance to hear you moan out.
Chibs smirked as he kissed you again, swallowing down your moans as he pushed into your warmth in one smooth thrust, sinking the whole length of his cock into you.
“you better hope she doesn’t come soon”
your words only seemed to make him chuckle again, his hips pulling back until only the head of his cock remained inside, before he was pushing back in, starting a pace that had your arms wrapping tight around his neck to cling to him.
“love.. the only person coming soon is you”
his words had your walls fluttering around him, while moans fell from your lips like water.
he always was a cocky bastard when you let him in, but you could never say no to him for long, especially not when he fucks you so good.
one of his hands pulled your right leg high around his hip, allowing him to deepen his thrusts as you continued to moan beneath him.
Chibs grunted against your ear, nodding slowly as your walls fluttered around him, drawing him in deeper with every thrust he gave.
“that’s it, sweetheart”
he murmured, tilting his head to kiss you again, easily swallowing down your moans as his thrusts continued.
“that feel good?”
you could only nod in response, moaning out as he gave another sharp thrust and your walls rippled around him at his unrelenting pace.
pleasure painted itself across your face as the office filled with the sounds of your joint moans and the steady slapping of skin on skin, followed periodically with another groan of protest from the desk.
a strangled moan tumbled from your lips as Chibs angled his hips, hitting that one spot with a newfound precision that he normally only had when he was able to take his time with you.
“fuck Chibs..”
you moaned out, already hurtling towards your climax and you both knew it.
Chibs grunted again, thrusting into you again and again as your walls continued to flutter around him, pulling another throaty groan from his lips in the process.
“aye love, moan for me. let her know why she’s no getting her keys when she shows up”
his words were full of that teasing tone, and you couldn’t help but want to wipe the smug smirk off his face, but you couldn’t.
the pleasure buzzing through your body felt too good.
“bet she’d love that, wouldn’t she?”
the head of his cock hit that one spot again as he murmured against your lips, every thrust he gave hitting with more precision than the last.
“Chibs..”
you mewled, teetering on the edge with a needy whine.
he smirked against your lips as you pulled him into another needy kiss, muffling your next slew of moans as he continued to move against you.
his hips rocked into yours again, hitting that one spot over and over until your moans grew louder and more desperate.
“that’s it, there we go”
another creak came from the desk as Chibs gave another thrust, sending you over the edge with a muffled cry of his name.
your walls spasmed around him, soaking his cock with your release and causing his pace to falter.
“that’s my girl”
he murmured, giving another thrust before his hips completely lost their rhythm. Chibs groaned as your walls gave a sensitive flutter around him, before he was cresting over the edge after you.
a ragged groan fell from Chibs’ lips as he buried himself to the hilt, rutting shallowly into you as he spilled himself into your warmth.
“fuck love..”
his voice was wrecked and his accent thicker, making you giggle under him.
Chibs rested his forehead against your shoulder, taking a deep breath as the high rushed through his body.
your fingers brushed through his hair, softly easing him up and into another kiss.
another minute passed before Chibs was reluctantly pulling out of your warmth, making you both hiss at the loss of him.
he quickly tucked himself back into his jeans, working his belt done and then helping you get dressed again.
“see? told ye we had to be quick”
Chibs told, parting with another kiss as a car pulled into the lot and a woman got out of the passenger seat, making her way towards you while your head spun.
you eyed Chibs through the office blinds, but he only smirked in response as you tried to stand on your legs to hand back the woman’s keys.
“got your keys here.. thanks again”
he continued to smirk at you as you dropped into the office chair, shaking your head at him.
oh he was a cocky bastard, but you couldn’t hate him. not when he fucked you like that.
reblogs are highly appreciated !
if you want tagged for an upcoming kinktober fic, the taglist form can be found here. submissions for a day already posted will be ignored !!
you approach everything clinically, including poorly constructed sex scenes in books. dr langdon decides to take that as an invitation to give you a proper sex ed lesson.
pairings: nerd!reader x frank langdon
warnings: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content, reader reading smut, virgin!reader (kind of implied more than outright stated), innocence kink, corruption kink, langdon supplying reader with an sex book?, literally so freaked out and for what, female masturbation, phone sex, langdon talking you thru it!!!
wc: 6.2k
You’ve always had a somewhat fraught relationship with imagination. People say you lack it, to put it plainly. They say you’re too literal. As if being literal isn’t the reason airplanes stay in the air and bridges remain standing.
But you just happen to find reality plenty beautiful. More than beautiful, actually. Reassuring. There is dignity in a thing that can be tested, reproduced, and counted on.
Newton’s law. The sodium-potassium pump. Entropy. Even the grimmer systems at least are consistent if nothing else.
So naturally, medicine was what you pursued in college. Everything means something. Everything is attached to something else. Symptoms are not random; bodies are not whimsical.
Even if an answer is hidden, it exists, and if you are willing to stay with a problem long enough, turn it over enough times, peel it apart layer by layer and build it back from the inside out, eventually it reveals itself.
Fiction does not afford you that courtesy. Fiction wants you to tolerate blank spaces and gaps. You hate gaps. You love knowing.
Fiction gives you half a scene and waits expectantly, like congratulations, now you do the labor.
Build the room. Place the bodies. Infer the angles. Ignore, apparently, that the human body is not an abstract concept but a heavily regulated system of hinges and limits and gravity and very obvious spatial constraints.
You are experiencing one of those gaps now, staring so hard at the page your eyes begin to sting a little, focus tightening to a punitive little point. You think if you look at it severely enough the scene might resolve into something you can understand.
The book says the woman is “on top,” which should be clear enough on its own, except the next sentence immediately ruins that clarity by describing angles that do not, as far as you can tell, exist in three-dimensional space.
And you have so many questions.
Is there a bed involved here? A couch? A floor? Any surface at all?
You reread the line. Maybe you overlooked a prepositional phrase hiding in plain sight. A detail that will clarify whose leg is bent and why it apparently now has the range of motion of a paper clip.
Nothing. No luck. Still opaque.
Possibly more vague now, because repetition has begun to dissolve whatever confidence you had in your own reading abilities.
It is difficult to overstate how humiliating it is to be bested by mediocre smut.
You sigh and look to your watch. 9:18 p.m. Late. The bus is always late. That’s why you have this book in your hand in the first place, wanting to turn dead time into something educational. Unfortunately that’s not how it’s going.
You blow out a breath as another gust of wind snakes over the exposed strip of skin between your socks and the hem of your jeans.
They used to hit lower on your ankle, but courtesy of your building’s shitty communal dryer, they don’t do that anymore.
“Interesting reading choice.”
It is not a voice you prepared yourself to hear. You weren’t prepared to hear a voice at all, really.
So when you hear the familiar pitch of Landon, your body overcorrects, sending you backward like a startled deer losing traction on ice.
You see the next ten seconds in a flash: the hollow thunk of your head on the pole behind you, the stuttering apologies delivered as your vision tunnels, the concussion protocols that will surely haunt you for weeks, months, possibly forever.
But those ten seconds never actually happens.
Instead, you cautiously peer up into the flat, coolly appraising expression of Langdon, whose hand is placed behind your head, taking the brunt of the impact.
“Oh. Hi. Dr. Langdon. I, um, this isn’t — I’m not —” You’re already floundering, trying to assemble something defensible out of a situation that is not defensible. “It was recommended,” you say at last, which is true, though not in a way that sounds remotely exculpatory once spoken aloud. “By Javadi. She said it was good, which I assumed meant, like, well-written, not — this. Which I know sounds — I hear it, I hear how it sounds, but I didn’t just, like, seek this out independently. I was curious from a clinical standpoint.”
Shit.
You just lobbed Victoria under the bus didn’t you? And unlike the literal bus, this metaphorical one arrived enthusiastically on time, probably even honked.
You add it to the growing ledger of things you owe her. Coffee, at the very least. Something artisanal, thoughtful, handcrafted.
A note, handwritten in apology, because email would be cowardly and texting would feel insufficient, and really — after what you’ve just done, you’re not sure anything short of ink, paper, and a tangible record of shame could suffice.
He removes his hand, the pressure at the back of your head disappearing as he shifts to rest it along the bench behind you instead.
“Clinical,” he repeats. His eyes flick briefly to the book in your hands, then back to you, unimpressed. “And what have you concluded so far, doctor?”
“Not a doctor yet,” you point out. Not sure why you do. “But, um, just that it’s just not very clear? Like, the scenes move really fast, and I feel like I’m missing steps in between, so I keep trying to visualize what’s happening and I just end up getting stuck on, like… where everything is supposed to go and —” You stop, frowning now. “You — you probably didn’t actually want an answer to that, did you?”
His mouth pulls just enough to suggest he’s entertained despite himself. “Not initially.”
You nod. “Okay, good, because I definitely wasn’t planning to provide detail. Just, you know — general plausibility stuff. Realism concerns.”
“Let me see,” he says, and before your frazzled brain can form an adequate objection, he's already reaching forward, extracting the paperback from your suddenly slackened grasp.
You stand abruptly, the bench scraping in a terrible sound against concrete as you reach for the book.
“You really don’t have to do that.”
A correct statement. Useless, however, as he lifts the novel out of reach without even looking at you, arm extending just enough to make it clear that this is not a negotiation, and also, somewhat insultingly, not even difficult.
You briefly consider climbing him. Scaling him like a distressed, socially compromised marsupial and retrieving the book by force.
It feels like a viable solution. You dismiss it only on the grounds that in the last five minutes alone, accumulated enough embarrassment to sustain a normal person for at least two lifetimes.
And theoretically there should be a cap.
There is not, apparently.
Because after a brief glance at the page, he starts reading aloud: “She sank down on him with an aching slowness, savoring the stretch of it, the sweet friction that made her pulse flutter faster with every roll of her body. His hands gripped her waist, guiding her, keeping her there while the pleasure mounted in teasing waves until she was shaking with it, desperate and almost there.”
You feel the heat spark up your spine and towards you neck before saturating your face. The intensity momentarily blurs your vision.
Your hands tighten uselessly at your sides, a strange, unfamiliar tightness coiling low in your stomach.
You try your very hardest not to let your mind start making substitutions. You try not to let the faceless bodies on that page acquire identifiable features. A chin dimple, for instance. You try not to let the voice in front of you fuse itself any further to the text than it already has.
You wrench your gaze upward, fixing it somewhere behind his left ear, hoping that physical distance might somehow dilute your newfound imagination that just five minutes ago you were bashing.
He closes the book with a snap, eyebrow arched. “Sounds perfectly reasonable.”
“I mean, maybe,” you respond, a little too quickly. “If there were just… more specifics? Like, about the positioning. The angle, or where —” You take a quick breath. “Never mind.”
“And exactly how would you clarify it?”
“I’d probably just… add another line,” you say. “Like, specify that her hips are lower, or that her weight is shifted forward so her center of gravity is closer to his. Just so it’s clear what’s actually happening.”
He doesn’t say anything right away and when his eyes flick forward again, they look a little different beneath the dark of the sky, the blue of them deepened into something richer. A little less straightforward, you think. Lapis held in low light, saturated in silver strips and a little too pretty.
You watch as his tongue drags across his lower lip, the briefest glimpse of moisture highlighting the subtle contours and fine, shallow ridges of texture there.
“If you’re that concerned with accuracy,” he murmurs, “I’m sure there’s ways to run a practical demonstration.”
You have a hard time understanding what he means by that and when your mind does attempt to furnish the words with imagery, you have to recoil from your own thoughts.
Does he mean with him?
No, surely not, that is not where he wanted this conversation to go, and besides, that interpretation feels reckless, egotistical even, considering he is almost certainly saying it in the most neutral, solution-driven sense possible.
If that’s what he’s saying at all. He might not be. You can’t tell.
He is offering a suggestion for you.
You are the one making it weird.
“Oh. Well, it’d probably end up being more complicated than it’s worth. I’d need a controlled setup, probably multiple attempts, and at that point it’s less a demonstration and more a full reconstruction.”
A muscle feathers along his jaw as he tips his face towards the moon-lit sky. He seems to do that a lot. Like he’s appealing to some higher power for fortitude to deal with you. Or maybe not you specifically, which would be preferable, expect it does feel rather like you are the central to the current crisis, you just aren’t sure how.
Then he exhales a small laugh, thin with disbelief, and shakes his head once.
“You’re right,” he says, voice deadpan. “Clearly I wasn’t thinking this through. Practicality first.” He glances pointedly at his watch. “It’s late. I’ll give you a ride home.”
You accept his offer without arguing, you’d be a fool not to, and trail him out toward the parking lot. A step behind, then a half step, then back again. You can’t quite decide on the appropriate proximity.
When you reach the row of cars, you realize you’ve never seen his before.
It’s nice. Grey, practical, a four-door SUV that screams fiscal responsibility and weather-appropriate footwear, a vehicle with divorced-dad energy so specific you can practically invent the rest of the man around it: patient at youth soccer, quietly resentful in a grocery store parking lot, pretending not to be wounded by logistical disappointments.
The interior only deepens the impression. It is clean, but not in a forbidding way, not scrubbed of personality.
There is a toy in the cupholder, a crumpled napkin tucked into the side compartment, a few fast-food receipts scattered near the floor like the residue of a life conducted at speed.
It feels lived in, which is somehow more intimate than if it had been spotless.
It is, disconcertingly, human. More human than you expected from a man who often carries himself like a sealed document.
Nice, you think again, and then, unhelpfully, him, the two notions beginning to blur together before you can stop them.
It’s a relatively quiet drive to start. The radio tuned to some Catholic station it must have picked up nearby, murky and hard to decipher, while streetlights drift past in bands of orange and green, staining the inside of the car with color and then taking it back.
“Javadi really recommended that?” Frank asks suddenly, piercing the silence.
“Yeah,” you admit, then wince almost immediately. “Well, sort of. I mean, I probably should not make it sound like she shoved it into my hands in some kind of corrupting-the-youth campaign. She mentioned it, but I was already curious. It was not not my idea.” You glance down, suddenly very interested in your own hands. “I’ve just been trying to do a little research, I guess.”
His fingers tap once against the steering wheel.
“And what, specifically, are you hoping to learn?”
Your mouth presses thin for a second. You’re not sure if you should continue.
“I was mostly just trying to get a better sense of... how certain things work in real life,” you say, picking each word carefully. “As opposed to in theory. Or in whatever version of reality people usually pretend is self-explanatory.”
He says nothing at first. Then through grit teeth: “You mean because no one’s explained it to you?”
You glance over, caught a little off guard by the question. “Well, not in any useful sense.”
His jaw flexes.
“And the alternative,” he says slowly, “was assigned reading.”
You wince. “When you phrase it like that, it does sound bleak.”
“When I phrase it like that, it sounds like you’re trying to teach yourself something most people learn by experience.”
“Well,” you mumble, “yes. More or less.”
The light changes and he brakes, the red wash from the signal pouring through the windshield and across his face, tinting his skin rose-gold.
He screws his eyes shut for a brief second, hands drawing tighter on the wheel before he exhales.
“In that case,” he says, opening his eyes again, “I’m not entirely convinced that’s the most reliable educational resource.”
“Why?” you ask, with enough sincere confusion to make it clear you are not arguing so much as requesting clarification.
The light turns green.
“Because it’s not source material. It’s entertainment.” His tone stays level, but only just. “It takes whatever is most dramatic, most flattering, most appealing, and presents it like it’s standard. It leaves out the parts that are inconvenient or unsexy, which means if you treat it as educational, you’re going to come away with a very distorted sense of how any of it actually works.”
“I guess that makes sense,” you say. “There were definitely sections where I kept thinking, surely that cannot be how that happens. Or at least not without significantly more preparation, flexibility, or orthopedic intervention than the text was willing to acknowledge.”
“So I gathered.”
You fall quiet after that, though not for lack of further questions. In fact the opposite is true, because now he has accidentally positioned himself as a person with knowledge of how sex works.
But that would be inappropriate on at least six different levels.
He is driving you home as a favor, not volunteering to become some kind of after-hours consultant on the mechanics of sex, and there is no universe in which asking for elaboration would make you seem anything other than catastrophically unwell.
You almost ask him anyway.
But before you can make what would almost certainly be the worst possible decision available to you tonight, the car slows, turns, and then stops.
You stare at the windshield, disoriented by the fact that you are suddenly at your apartment.
“Right,” you say, gathering your bag with the abrupt, clumsy movements of someone trying to recover from her own thoughts. “Thank you. For the ride.”
He gives a brief nod, one hand still resting on the wheel. “It was no trouble.”
You do not believe that for even a second. Still, you murmur goodnight and let yourself out, hurrying inside with as much dignity as can be salvaged after a conversation like that.
A couple days later, you’re sitting in the breakroom with your head propped in your palm, devoting a frankly heroic amount of effort to not drop face-first into the laminate.
You are exhausted, which is surely unrelated to the fact that you stayed up too late conducting what can only be described as independent research.
There is, it turns out, an astonishing amount of positions.
More than seems necessary, honestly. Far too many names. Far too many diagrams. So many that appear to require either exceptional upper body strength or a level of mutual coordination that feels statistically unlikely in the average civilian population.
Some are perfectly straightforward. Many are not. Several seem just down-right wrong.
The door opens and you glance up, prepared to offer some vague nod of recognition to whoever has come to interrupt your private collapse.
Langdon.
“Oh,” you say, straightening a little too quickly. “Hi, Dr. Langdon.”
That seems to be your automatic response to his presence.
His eyes narrow. “Rough morning?”
You give a small shrug. “M’fine.”
“You’ll have to excuse my skepticism.” He drags the chair across from you and sits.
“Just stayed up too late.”
You hope that doesn’t inspire follow-ups.
He slides something across the table toward you. A book. You stare at the cover. Then at him.
“This,” he says, tapping two fingers once against the cover, “is at least designed to explain things.”
Slowly, as if touching it too fast might make this more real, you pick it up and turn it over.
The back is dense with tidy paragraphs about desire, arousal, and the science of how women’s bodies actually work, all written in the reassuring language of expertise, which would be comforting if your pulse were not currently behaving like it had something to hide.
“That’s… unexpectedly thoughtful,” you murmur. “Thank you.”
“Don’t make too much of it.”
“I won’t,” you say, which is a lie so poorly constructed it barely qualifies as one.
You are, in fact, almost certain to make too much of it later, probably in bed, probably while staring at the ceiling.
Then the door opens again. You nearly jump. You pull the book against your chest like you are protecting classified material. Langdon’s eyes narrow a fraction.
Garcia steps inside a second later, pauses, and looks between the two of you.
“...Am I interrupting something weird?” she asks.
You stand so quickly the chair legs scrape against the floor.
“Nope,” you say. “Not at all. Nothing weird. Not even slightly.” You clutch the book tighter. “I do, however, suddenly need to go be elsewhere. For work-related reasons. Very legitimate ones.” You nod once. “Okay. Bye.”
It’s late when you finally start to read the book Langdon gave you. Your first mistake, really. You have to be up in four hours. Four.
But the book turns out to be more useful than expected. It has information. Real information. Terminology and diagrams and explanations that move in a sequence a human brain can follow, one thing leading intelligibly to the next instead of that gauzy, vague, everyone-just-knows-what-to-do, magical event nonsense.
And this all should, theoretically, be enough to satisfy you.
Except every answer you get splits open into three more questions, hydra-style, the whole thing multiplying the second you think you have a grip on it.
And yes, sometimes Google is enough. But sometimes it is not.
Too broad, too contradictory, too many tabs open at once, too many Reddit posts written by men with misplaced confidence.
So now you are sitting on your bed staring at your phone, typing a message, deleting it, retyping it, deleting it again. Because this is weird. It is weird to text him.
But then again, he did hand you the book.
He did, in a very real sense, amplify this situation. And maybe giving you additional reading material counts as tacit approval for further questions. A follow-up. Continuing education.
You hit send.
hi dr. langdon. sorry. i have a question about the book!
It takes only a couple seconds for him to answer.
Go ahead.
You sit up so fast the book slides off your leg and drops onto the bedspread with a soft thump.
You stare at the screen.
You expected eventuality, a response tomorrow morning maybe, sometime after sunrise, sometime under the polite cover of daylight when everybody involved could collude in pretending this was a normal academic exchange and not you texting a senior resident after dark about sex-adjacent material like you were requesting clarification on electrolyte imbalance.
You glance at the clock and frown.
What is he even doing up?
Surely you didn’t wake him. You cannot imagine he sleeps with his ringer turned up loud enough for that. No, he feels like a phone-on-silent, notifications-curated, emergency-contacts-only kind of man.
You spend four minutes composing the question. You send six words.
what does “building sensation” actually mean?
Need more context than that.
You photograph the page. You send it. You put your phone face down on the quilt and do not look at it for a full minute.
When you finally make yourself turn the phone over, he’s answered.
It’s the physiological buildup to orgasm. Increased blood flow, heightened sensitivity, pelvic muscle tension. Sustained and constant stimulation. The sensation compounds on itself.
Your thumb catches idly on the hem of your pajama shorts, worrying the fabric back and forth while you stare at the screen. It takes a long amount of time to realize you’re doing it. You stop. Then start again without meaning to, fingertips slipping under the edge to press against your thigh.
is consistency about location or pressure or both? the book implies they're interchangeable.
Both. Generally location first, then pressure. If you keep changing where you’re touching, it’s harder to build anything. If the location is consistent but the pressure is erratic, same problem. They’re related, but not interchangeable.
Your free hand has drifted north to the waistband of your shorts, thumb pressing little crescent moons into overheated skin. Almost feverish.
Location first.
An unfortunate instruction to receive while being aware of the exact location in question, muted now by two thin layers of cotton.
You should stop there. Obviously.
You should set the phone down, turn off the lamp, go to sleep, and revisit all of this in the morning when you are less suggestible.
Instead your hand keeps moving, slow enough that you can perhaps pretend you have not consciously decided anything, slipping lower until it hovers over your underwear, where your clit presses back against the fabric. Swollen. And then lower than that, wet.
That startles you more than anything. From what, exactly? A sex manual? A few texts? Him?
No. That last one is inadmissible. Wildly inappropriate.
So you drag your mind back to the book instead, using it as a kind of corrective, something technical to blunt that he is, however indirectly, implicated in this.
Start with indirect stimulation. Let the body acclimate. Don’t rush the thing. Let the thing, apparently, arrive on its own like a skittish woodland creature you are trying not to scare off.
Fine. Whatever.
You press your thumb down and make a circular motion, sucking in a breath so sharply it almost hurts, mostly because the sensation is immediate and strange and good. You wouldn’t say overwhelming. Though maybe you would. You can’t think straight. Surprising, then. Concentrated.
Like pressing a bruise, except the complete inverse of that, if they lit up instead of aching. It makes you want to do it again.
So you do.
Small circles. Experimental. Testing the waters.
And it’s not like this is technically new. You have tried before.
But before was rushed and graceless and was the sort of thing done half-curiously and abandoned quickly, with no patience for your own body.
You were raised sheltered, and beyond that, serious. Preoccupied with things that seemed more pressing, more worthy of your attention, as though this part of yourself could be indefinitely postponed without consequence.
You pick the phone back up with your unoccupied hand.
okay. that makes sense.
You stare at it, dissatisfied. Too final. Too capable of ending the conversation. You add another line before you can overthink yourself out of it.
and if the sensation is building, when are u supposed to switch? like to inner stimulation, i mean. or are you not supposed to unless what you’re already doing stops working?
The typing bubble appears instantly.
You don’t have to switch. That’s the first thing.
External stimulation is usually more important, especially early on. Inner stimulation is optional, not a required next step.
Little gasps keep escaping you as you refine the motion, not changing much, just enough pressure to sharpen it, back arching into the mattress.
It feels good. You don’t remember it ever feeling this good.
Maybe because before did not involve a very attractive doctor explaining your own body back to you in real time.
It is getting harder to text. Harder to think in complete sentences. Still, you manage, so if it’s working, is it better to not change anything? even if it starts feeling a lot more sensitive?
Your phone starts ringing.
You freeze when Frank's name flashes across the screen.
For a moment you can only stare. Your pulse jumps in your throat, fluttering there like something trapped, and then you are yanking your hand from your shorts and grabbing for the phone with fingers that suddenly seem to belong to someone much less coordinated than you.
“Hi —,”
“What are you doing?”
“What do you mean?” you ask, though your voice already sounds guilty, chest rising and falling unevenly. “I’m — nothing. I’m just reading.”
“You’re not a very good liar.”
You frown at the dark ceiling. “I hate the confidence with which you say things.”
“It’s usually earned.”
You make a face at that, even though he cannot see it.
“I wasn’t prepared for a pop quiz,” you mutter. “You called out of nowhere.”
“A call seemed appropriate,” he says through the soft buzz of static.
“Why?”
Your whole body feels keyed up now, strung too tight, humming with a surplus of energy like you have been plugged into the wall and simply left there to glow.
It's hard to keep still under the blankets. Harder with his voice in your ear, that low grain of it roughened by the hour, touched with that tired edge that makes him feel closer than he is. He sounds warm. He sounds half-undone.
You can picture him without trying. In bed. Hair rumpled from sleep or from his hand shoved through it one too many times, one stray piece fallen near his eyes. Maybe in pajamas. Maybe not. Either option is equally disruptive. You brain offers a shirt pushes up a little, one arm behind his head, a strip of stomach, a line of hair disappearing into plaid boxers.
You shift on the mattress. Your hand trails back down your front, fingers resuming their place on your underwear.
“Because your last text didn’t read like a theoretical question,” he says. “I wanted to hear whether I was right.”
The words move through you, like he has reached through the phone and pressed a hand flat to your lower stomach.
“And were you?”
Your hips shift on the mattress again, angling into your own touch.
You bite your lip around the small throb of pleasure that follows.
“Yeah. I was.” His voice comes through coarser now, the line fuzzing around it, but not enough to hide the change. “And if I’m hearing you correctly, you haven’t stopped.”
You squeeze your eyes shut.
“...maybe.”
There's a brief pause on the line. You hear the rustle of him moving, before he speaks again. “Tell me exactly what you're doing.”
“I’m, uh…” You mouth goes dry. “I mean, you know.”
“I can’t tell you what to do if you won’t tell me what you’re doing,” he says. “You need to be specific.”
You swallow.
“I’m touching over my underwear,” you admit finally, the words coming out hushed and a little uneven. “Just with my thumb. I’m not really… doing anything more than that.”
A soft exhale crackles through the phone.
“That’s good,” he murmurs. “Tell me if it feels good.”
Your lashes flutter at the words. Your thumb keeps tracing the same spot, a little more rhythmically now, and every so often your hand falters when the sensation catches unexpectedly bright, a live wire under your skin.
Flashing hotter and hotter and hotter until you can barely stand it.
Your thighs draw in on instinct, then ease apart again, restless, unable to decide whether they are trying to hold the feeling or escape it.
“Mhm.” It’s all you can manage.
You start to picture him again. Existing in real time in the dark on the other end of the line now.
It sends the throbbing in your cunt up tenfold, sharp little bursts of color flying behind your eyelids, green and orange and something almost gold.
You use your imagination to conjure up the image of him doing the same. Him with the phone in one hand and the other moving in lazy unhurried strokes around his cock, like this is no great strain for him, like he is as controlled in private as he is everywhere else.
You wonder what it looks like. His cock. Probably big and pink and veiny.
You know, rationally, that he is probably not doing that at all. He is probably just lying there in the dark, listening, talking, being composed for both of you.
But it is a nice thought anyway. More than nice, really. Your body answers it before you can caution it otherwise, your clit going heavier and more swollen, as you move to touch yourself without the barrier of your panties. It’s more sensitive that way. And your whole lower half seems to lean vainly into your own hand, practically preening toward the touch.
“Now I’m, um, touching myself directly.”
“Alright. Want you to try something. Can you do that for me?”
“Yeah,” you say quickly. A little too eager. “I can.”
“Good girl.” The praise makes your stomach tighten. “Want you to slide two fingers into yourself a little. Not all the way, just enough to get them wet, okay? Then bring them back to your clit and keep using your thumb, or your fingers if that feels easier. Same pace as before.”
You nod even though you know he can’t see it and slip two fingers down, enough to feel the sticky warmth of yourself, coating your digits.
You bring it back up, smearing it over your nub.
“Oh,” you mumble breathily.
“Yeah?” he teases quietly. “That better?”
“A lot.”
“Good. It’s easier like that. Less friction. If you’re getting more sensitive, too much drag starts working against you.”
He’s right. He’s always right. You feel a little strange and floaty now, like your whole body has narrowed down to one incandescent point.
“How do you know all this?” you prod.
A pause. Then, “Experience.”
“Right. That.” Another circle, another spark of pleasure down your spine. “I don’t exactly have that.”
“I gathered.”
Something in his tone makes you go a little still. Not enough to stop, but your hand falters, tightening around a thought before you can even identify it.
He notices immediately. He has some terrifying sonar for you specifically, some private frequency calibrated to every tiny shift in your breathing, every dropped beat, every half-second hesitation.
“Hey,” he says pointedly. “Don’t get in your head now. Never said it was a bad thing. Keep going. Think about something else.”
“Such as?” you whisper.
There’s the sound of breathing from the phone before he answers, “that’s up for you to decide.”
You suck in a sharp breath, squirming as you adjust phone closer to your ear
“Can you just… keep talking to me?”
There’s a huff on the other end, almost a laugh. “That’s not very specific.”
“I know.” You’re sure you’re not making much sense right now. “I just — don’t stop. Please. Just wanna hear you say anything.”
He’s quiet for a second, like he’s trying to decide what, exactly, you’re asking for. The problem is, you’re not entirely sure either.
You only know there’s a strange, tightening warmth low in your stomach, something gathering there, and his voice seems to nurture it instead of breaking it apart.
You hear something clang on the other end of the phone.
“Fuck. Okay. First need you to breathe, okay? You're tensing up, I can hear it. Relax your legs.”
You try to do as you're told.
In. Out. In. Out.
Each breath feeding the whole thing oxygen, driving you nearer and nearer to the vanishing point until your eyes threaten to roll back and your body feels like on extended nerve.
“I —” A breath. “Sorry, I just —” Another one. “Frank I think I'm — I'm close, I think, I don't — It's really intense and I don't know what I'm —” You lose the thought entirely. “I just don't know what I'm supposed to do when it starts feeling like this. Do I stop, or —”
“Shit baby, you've never gotten there before? Not even —”
“No,” you manage.
“Oh, poor thing.”Quiet. Almost to himself. “Okay. ‘S okay. Don't stop. I need you to stay with me and just let it happen, can you do that?”
“I think —”
“Don't think,” he cuts you off. “For once in your life, don't think. Just feel it.”
Something in you finally gives.
You feel all of it at once.
Your orgasm peaks so fast it almost feels like losing power everywhere at the same time, every room going dark together, and your back comes off the pillows and your hand presses harder before you even mean for it to and a gasp tears out of you, high and helpless and so unlike anything you have ever heard from yourself that for a second it barely sounds like yours.
“That’s it,” Frank says, low in your ear.
It rolls. That's the only word for it.
It rolls outward from your pussy in a slow, stunned series of tremors moving through your thighs, your spine, your chest, each wave its own distinct thing and yet not distinct at all, each one its own event, its own brief undoing.
You cannot do anything except lie there and take it, receive it as it passes through you, because there is nothing else available to you now, no other function left online, no thought, no dignity, no language, only this long bright aftershock and your body answering it whether you understand it or not.
Your breathing takes a while to come back to anything recognizable.
At first it is just air dragged in and let back out. Sweat has glued a few strands of hair to your forehead. Your hand has gone slack.
“You still with me?”
That is when your brain comes back. All at once. Hard. Fast.
Because now you are not just a body coming down from an orgasm.
Now you are yourself again. And Frank Langdon just talked you through getting off.
Frank Langdon, your coworker. Frank Langdon, your superior. Frank Langdon, whom you have just used as a combined anatomy instructor, practical demonstration guide, and live sex education resource.
“Yes, yeah, sorry.” You swallow, wipe at your forehead with the heel of your hand. “I'm here.”
“Glad to hear it,” he says. “Your sensitivity's going to be elevated for a minute, so just let your muscles relax and let your breathing even out. If you feel shaky, that's normal. If you heart's racing, also normal. Get some water when you can. Sit up slowly if you're going to move.”
“Okay,” you murmur, because he sounds so certain that for a second it is easy to borrow some of it. You try to unclench by degrees, thighs, stomach, shoulders, one thing at a time. “I am a little shaky, which is good to know is normal and not, like, a sign that I’ve accidentally broken something."
“No,” he says, and there is that low note of dry amusement under it now, just enough to catch. “You didn’t break anything. If you had, trust me, we’d be having a very different conversation.”
“Right, no, I know. Though sex-related injuries are not exactly unheard of. Do you remember that girl in the ER who had a condom stuck in her for over two months and didn't realize it? That would suck."
"Mm. It would," he agrees. "Protection is important. Equally important to make sure it actually comes back out with you."
You let out a small giggle at that and shift on the bed, drawing yourself up a little slower this time, careful like he told you to bed. The quilt bunches under your legs.
A quiet opens up. And it might be comfortable if it with anyone else. But it is not with anyone else.
You break first.
“So what happens now?” you ask, trying for light and missing by a little. “Do we pretend this was a totally normal educational exchange and never speak of it again?”
“I don’t think you’re capable of pretending that,” he says.
You flush hot all over.
“And you are?”
A pause.
“No.” The room goes still around you. You wait for him to elaborate. He doesn’t, but he does say: “You should get some sleep.”
“Yeah,” you murmur. “Probably.”
You have to be up in three hours now. Have to see him in four.
Another beat. Neither of you hangs up.
Then, very quiet, very even, he says, “Next time, ask sooner.”
“Next time?”
“If you’re going to use me as a reference source,” he says, all dry composure again, though now it feels a little put on, “I’d prefer a more reasonable hour.”
Your cheeks heat with the power of a thousand suns.
“Oh, well, Dr. Langdon, I think —”
“Goodnight.”
The line clicks dead.
You lie there staring into the dark, phone still pressed to your ear, and understand with awful, perfect clarity that this has not ended anything at all.
More gaps in your knowledge.
And you really hate gaps.
A/N: this has been sitting in my drafts 4 ten thousand yrs!!!!!!!! thinking about writing a part two but we shall see. anyway thanks for reading!! love ya always
warnings . . . this is going to spoil it but i haaaave to… SMUT! MDNI!!! being on tinder is a warning of its own i hate that place, fingering…………..
word count . . . 2.1k
You can’t say you don’t want him in the same car as you, but you’re definitely surprised to see him. But if there’s one word to truly describe you, it's stubborn. Lena’s sitting in her booster seat, wrapped in her pinky hoodie and zip up, headphones in as she watches her favorite show on her iPad. And Pope is sitting right beside her, watching you.
“What is he doing here?” You turn to J, who’s driving the van.
“He is the adult for the trip.” J shrugs, “just hurry up and sit. We still have to pick Sammy up from her last class.”
You huff, turning your chin at Pope whose eyes have yet to leave you. And despite the tingle that runs through you, you have to stay strong. You move to the farthest seat in the back, tucking yourself into the corner.
Nicky is next. She’s still half asleep as she slides into the passenger seat, snoring the second she settles down. Sammy, despite it being so early in the morning, is beaming as the van door slides open. Lena tugs her headphones off immediately. “Sammy!” She giggles happily. And then, she turns to her uncle. “Uncle Pope, move.”
Nicky snorts out a laugh, now gouging down a hashbrown. J jumps in though, “manners, Lena.”
Lena huffs dramatically. A habit she’s only picked up on since you’ve been around her. “Please.” She mutters out. “Sammy promised to hold my hand when we go up the scary hills.”
You expect him to put up a fight. Because the only other spot is on the same cushion with you and you’ve decided that Andrew Cody hates you. So why would he want to sit next to you?
Your eyes widen as he easily slides out of his seat and crouches his way to the back. “W-wait!” You push forward, desperate to get this to stop. “Lena, baby, Sammy can’t do anything to help you. You need a strong man. Or… a man. He doesn’t even have to be strong.”
Lena gives you a bored expression, “that’s not very nice.” The furrow in the little girls thick brows makes you hesitate.
You sigh, “sorry.” You press yourself up against the side of the car as Pope plops down next to you.
“The hell are you doing?” He asks gruffly.
“What are you doing?” You huff, “sit at the corner.”
“I don’t want to.”
“I’m telling you to.”
“Why do I have to listen to you?”
“Pope, move.”
He’s childish, you’ve come to realize. Instead of scooching to the other side of the seat, he moves closer to you. “No.”
“Pope.” You groan loudly.
“Uncle pope,” Lena calls from her seat. She’s tapping away at her tablet with one hand as Sammy holds the other. “Are you being mean?”
“Yes.” “No.”
“They just like each other, mama.” Nicky chimes in, turning in her seat to grin at Lena. “You tease the people you like.”
“I do not like him.” You hope they believe you, since it’s a complete lie. But your friends know you better than you know yourself.
Lena laughs like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “They do like each other! So gross!”
The drive is incredibly long. Your body was aching from the way you were pulling from him and you had to give in. His leg is nudging against yours, pressing harder at turns.
“Move.” You groan, nudging him away.
“No.” He nudges his knee against yours again.
“Pope…” you huff, glaring at him. “You’re being annoying.”
It’s his turn to huff, “you annoy me all the time.”
“I do not.”
“Do too.”
“Kids…” J chimes this time, “settle down.”
“Ain’t a kid.” You toss a napkin at him from the back seat.
Pope decides to keep going, “sure act like one.”
“Sure act like one.” You mock, deepening your voice.
“I don’t sound like that.”
You mock again, “I don’t sound like that.”
“Quit it.”
“Quit it.”
Sammy groans this time, “both of you shut up.”
Lena is out cold when you all get to Sammy’s family cabin. It’s nice, sleek. It doesn’t look like it belongs in the deep foliage, too modern. Her mother has expensive tastes though, so it’s not a surprise that there’s technology all throughout the place.
J and Pope argued for a minute about taking Lena in but J ultimately won, now heading in with the lolling girl in his arms. Nicky follows suit, already complaining about needing a shower and the bugs all around. Sammy chimes in about the high tech bug zappers her mother has in every room.
You’re stuck behind with your bags in your hand. “Hello?” You call out to Pope as he starts walking to the cabin. “Where are you going?”
He turns, his own bags in his hand. “Inside?”
You wiggle your bag around. “What happened to chivalry?”
He glances at your bags and back at you, bored. “It died.”
“Pope.”
“Yeah?” He hums, uninterested.
“Help me.”
There’s a grin tugging at his lips, one he’s trying to fight as he turns back to you. “Where are your manners?”
“Pope!” You sigh, “really? I’m too pretty to do this.” But he’s not budging. “Fine. Please.”
That’s enough for him because he’s moving over to you, grabbing your bags with a triumphant smile, “good girl.”
You think about his words long after. You hate that you want him so badly. No matter what’s said or done, nothing pulls you from this aching need.
You wonder if he’s being intentional. From what you’ve gathered, he doesn’t have much female attention. Not because women don’t want him, you see the way eyes trail over him. But he’s awkward. You’re not sure if he even notices the way he’s lusted after.
He spends so much of his time acting like he doesn’t want you, when he makes a move that he is interested, you find yourself dissecting it for hours. It’s hard not to, especially when his softer acts are rare, in text or person.
“What are you doing?” The strong voice makes you jump in your spot.
You pull your hand out of the hot tub, the water dripping down your now cold arm. You turn to him, leaning against the tub. “Letting it warm up.” A pause. “Are you getting in?”
“No. I hate hot water.”
You roll your eyes, turning away from him. “Whatever.”
You don’t hear his feet shuffling away, so you know he’s still here. And you can feel him. Feel the way his eyes are on your backside.
“Whose shirt is that?” You’re wearing a huge t-shirt, practically a dress as it sits right beneath your knees, and the neck falls off your shoulder, showing off your collarbone.
The idea is immediate. You bite your lip to stop yourself from cackling and giving yourself away. You dip your hand back into the bubbling water, humming, “why?”
“It doesn’t look like it’s yours.”
You nod, “it isn’t.” You’re grinning, wanting to turn around and watch him. Watch the way his face twists in confusion. “Absolute truth?”
He hesitates but agrees. “Yes.”
The lie is easy as you turn to face him, face back to neutral. He doesn’t know that you’ve been celibate almost three years. He doesn’t need to know that the T-shirt is J’s which you stole from Nicky a while ago.
You shrug, continuing, “an old fling. Met him on Tinder.” You can’t tell what he’s feeling. You hate that you can’t because he always looks serious. Always looks stoic. “We went for drinks and ended up back at my place.”
“But you live with your parents.” He’s trying to get you to say more, that much you can tell.
“I’m not gross, Pope. I didn’t let him touch me until they were gone for the night.”
“Okay.” Is all he speaks.
You shrug, turning your back to him once more. You’re scolding yourself because of course it didn’t work. He’s not into you. He doesn’t want you. You’re the one who wants him. You’re the one who is chasing him. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
“What did he do to you?”
His question makes your breath hitch. Slowly, you turn around to face him again. You flinch softly at how close he is to you now, chest practically pressed up to yours. “I don’t think you want to—“
He doesn’t let you finish. His harsh tone cuts you off, “Tell me.”
“He…” you’re scrambling. Nothing is coming to mind because this isn’t remotely close to being true. There’s no other guy and there’s definitely no Tinder. You mumble out the first thing that comes to mind. “He fingered me.”
His body close to yours tells you a lot more than you’ve ever seen on him. His breathing is labored, chest rising and falling from what you’re assuming is jealousy. His hands are ghosting at your hips, scared to touch you. Now you know what you need to do.
“Didn’t let him fuck me, Pope.” He backs you up fully against the hot tub, nose trailing down your cheek, to your jaw, and to your neck. He inhales you. Smells the mixture of your faint perfume mixed with the light sheen of sweat from the heat emanating from the hot tub you’ve been hovering over. “Couldn’t let him.”
This solidifies what he wants— what he needs from you. His hands fall to your hips, face nuzzled into the crook of your neck. His rough hands slowly move from your hips and to your thighs, letting your t-shirt scrunch up as he desperately searches for your soft skin.
You can’t take a full breath. His hands are tugging at the bottom of your bathing suit beneath your shirt. You expect him to tug them off of you but that doesn’t come. He pulls it taut to the side of you, letting it sit awkwardly. But you can’t focus on that when a single finger pushes between your lips, letting the tip of him press at your bundle of nerves.
A soft gasp leaves you as he begins to rub circles at your clit. “Fuck…” you whimper softly, brows furrowing as the little waves of pleasure course through you.
Your hips grind into his hand, desperate for more from him. He adds another finger, and another. He’s moved his face from your neck, his intense eyes watching your face twist in pleasure. “Pope, I…” you whimper softly, letting your forehead fall to his shoulder.
“Hey, hey,” his free hand grabs your chin, forcing you to look back up at him. “Don’t look away from me.”
And that’s all you need to listen to his command. His eyes won’t leave yours. You’re embarrassed. Embarrassed with how vulnerable this feels, having him watch you.
You almost cry when his fingers stop the motion at your clit, but you’re quickly shut up when his hand slides a little ways down and a single finger pops into you. You try to hide your face against him again but he doesn’t allow you to. The grip on your chin tightens, fingers spreading to your cheeks, lips puckered out, and keeping you still as he pumps the single finger inside of you.
You can’t speak. You’re a whimpering mess as he adds another finger. And another. You’re riding his hand desperately, completely flushed and flustered by his utmost attention. He’s captivated by you; by the way your face twists and turns in absolute pleasure, the way you’re rutting into him with a desperate need.
“Are you going to cum?” If this were anything else, you’d cackle at the serious way he speaks those words but you can’t talk. You nod wildly, hips stuttering. He’s smug. You’ve never seen him look so smug before. So damn proud of himself at the way he’s got you.
You’ve never cum so hard in your life because he refuses to let you look away. Your eyes have to be on him as your orgasm crashes over you, spasming around his fingers as your hips stutter and slow.
The grip on your face turns soft, thumb caressing your cheek. Your chest is rising and falling, catching your breath. You choke softly when his face moves closer into yours. His nose nudges yours, lips ghosting your softly painted ones. You close your eyes, lifting your chin softly to try and meet his lips. He doesn’t let them, instead, he’s pressing a soft kiss to the tip of your nose.
You’re sure you could have taken more from him but Sammy’s familiar voice is heard. “I can’t find the shorts I bought!” She calls out your name. She’s getting closer.
Pope pulls away from you, tugging your shirt back down your legs, hiding your body again. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even look at you as he walks out of the room, rushing past Sammy as she makes her way onto the back patio. She watches him curiously before turning back to you. “The hell is his issue?”
Your eyes are wide, “oh my god, Sammy. He just fucking fingered me.”
☆ ☆ ☆ authors note . . . hey… hey… what yall doing… okay deadass honest opinion. tnd and ino is my first “real” smut and it’s not my forte AT ALL so i hope you all love it hehehehe (this is also not edited… bear with me)
sometimes you forget just how big HUGHIE CAMPBELL is. out of all the boys, he’s the tallest, n for some reason you hadn’t really noticed how attractive he was until now. maybe it’s a personality change, maybe it’s character development, maybe you just like his new look - but something about him draws you to him like a moth to flame. he’s disarming, you don’t feel the threat you usually feel when being around men. you lightly bully him in a lighthearted way he tries to banter back appropriately. one day you just go for it n turn on the charm. you compare hand sizes, and your breath hitches at the sight of how he’s got a full knuckle over you - all while he doesn’t fully understand your fascination with it. you find any excuse to touch his arm, or politely giggle at one of his stupid jokes to the point where he kinda looks at you sideways for it. it’s only after butcher takes a big swig of his flask n tells hughie straight, “she fancies you, mate. might as well get a right shag ou’of it.” that he stutters out some weak protest and then hides in his room to devise a game plan. fortunately, he doesn’t have to arrange much because once you get it in your head you’re fucking tonight he doesn’t have much say in it. “oh, my god—oh, my god - oh, my god—oh,” he rambles, a horse cock you knew was hiding in the confines of his pants is now fully sheathed in you, ramming over n over again while you’ve thrown your legs over his shoulders. you’re folded in half while his long body is curved n hovering over you, big hands splayed on your ass like a bowl as he lifts your tailbone up to meet his hips, pushing a creamy ring out to string in his curly pubes. sweat beads on his forehead as he fights his endurance’s exhaustion to impress you, desperate to compare to whatever idea of him you probably have in your head. when you cup his face, his head feels so large in your hands, and when you kiss him, his tongue takes up half the space in your mouth. n that horse cock he’s slinging hurts when he gets all up in your lungs, but you like the sting.
in which frank returns home from a long shift, exhausted, but determined to give you what you want anyway 18+ (smut)
frank langdon x fem!reader (wc: 2.8k)
warnings/tags: oh boy here we go. smut!! and fluff (he loves her so bad), angst if you squint (reader is kind of anxiety ridden and insecure lol), established relationship but it's kind of new, inexperienced!reader (kinda), reader is neurodivergent coded but it's not explicitly stated, reader has long-ish hair, which langdon pulls (yum) but not aggressively, unspecified age gap, reader is vaguely mentioned to work at PTMC but as what? who knows! reader is kind of a little shit but so is langdon so it balances out, cocky!langdon (let me hit), he's also kind of condescending lol!! um softdom!langdon, sub reader, lots of praise, lots of kissing, thigh riding (hot), langdon slaps readers ass like once (hot), shitty ending bc I got tired of staring at my notes app el oh el, abundance of commas, probably bad grammar (fuck it we ball)
a/n: keeping this short because there's so many tags gulp - this is my first fic on this blog and also my first time ever writing smut so if it's bad... that is why. pls be nice. i am but a girl who has been infested by da pitt brainworms
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When you wake, it’s to a comforting weight on your head—a hand, you think—massaging your scalp. This, combined with the darkness of your room, threaten to pull you back into your slumber.
It’s not until a few foggy seconds later that the implications of the fingers running through your hair rouse you enough to turn onto your side.
“You’re back,” You say quietly, voice groggy with disuse. How long have you been asleep?
A slow smile spreads across Frank’s face, his dimples fighting to make an appearance, like the sun trying to peek through clouds.
“Mhm,” He hums. Your brow furrows, wondering how long he’s been here, and why he didn’t wake you up. Between his work and family and your own life, it’s not like there’s much opportunity to spend time alone together. Date nights are rare and sacred—even if they mostly consist of takeout and a movie.
Sensing your impending spiel, he speaks again.
“Don’t worry, I just got in ten minutes ago. It’s not even eight yet.”
You relax at this, shuffling closer to rest your head on his chest. Your silk pillow is nowhere near as enticing as the soft cotton of his worn band tee. You slowly trace the peeling vinyl of the shirt—S… T… Y… X—getting drowsier by the minute.
“As much as I wouldn’t mind staying here all night, you’re gonna be pissed if I let you go back to sleep.” He seems genuine, but the hand still playing with your hair makes you doubt his true motives.
“I know,” You sigh, voice muffled by fabric. Even despite this, you make no effort to move.
“Honey,” Frank drawls a few moments later, eliciting another huff from you.
You distantly register him bunching up your hair, and the next thing you know, he’s pulling it, guiding your head upright.
It’s not that it hurt, not really, but the tingle at the nape of your neck stirs you just enough to allow you to glower up at him in indignation.
“You’re kind of a bad listener, y’know that?” He speaks through a shit-eating grin—cause for rolling your eyes if you’ve ever seen any.
“C’mere,” He mumbles, his hand abandoning your hair in favour of your waist. The other finds your thigh and hooks it over his own. Still feeling petulant, you offer him no assistance as he forces you into a sitting position. Unfortunately, he doesn’t need it. Smug bastard.
When he’s sure you’re not going to go limp just to be difficult, he releases your waist and begins smoothing a few errant strands of hair away from your forehead.
“My pretty girl, I missed you.” He coos.
You almost break, almost—but you’ve always been stubborn, for better or worse.
This only seems to amuse Frank more. He leans forward, pressing a kiss to the crease of your brow, then the bridge of your nose, then the tip. By the time his mouth lowers to your own, you’re moments away from bridging the gap yourself.
“Kiss?” He whispers, so quiet you probably wouldn’t have heard it if you weren’t so focused on his every movement.
You swallow back a please, instead pressing your lips to his.
It’s sweet at first—it usually is. He’s smiling most of the time and eventually, you are too.
“I missed you too,” You mumble against his lips, bringing your arms around his neck.
He breathes out a laugh, “You did?”
You nod, snaking a hand into his hair as you close the gap between you once more. When you exhale into him, he parts your lips with his tongue, earning a soft sound from you. Then he’s grabbing your hips, bearing you down onto his thigh. You warm against him, feeling each of your nerve endings come alive as he grips your jaw, tilting it to the side.
You breathe unevenly, bleary-eyed as you watch him inspect your neck with a surgical precision. Before you can question him—or even begin to catch your breath—he’s leaning down and latching onto your skin. You gasp as his teeth skim your pulse point, tightening your hold on his hair to ground yourself. Your other hand falls to his stomach, skimming the waistband of his sweatpants.
He pulls back from your neck, his hand slowly finding your wrist. His grip is gentle, but firm enough to effectively halt your movements. All the while, he’s peppering kisses along your jaw.
“Mm-mm,” he shakes his head, stubble brushing your chin. The sound reverberates through you, making you shiver.
“But—“
He pulls back, his pupils dilated as he regards you.
“We can’t have sex right now, baby.”
“Why?” You ask, voice so desperate it’s almost pitiful.
He smiles sympathetically, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say there’s an air of condescension to it.
“Because if I have sex with you right now, I’ll fall asleep—“ he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, “—and then we won’t be able to watch that movie like you wanted.”
You pout, trying and failing to find a way around this dilemma. Intimacy with Frank is a spectrum; when he’s pent-up with nervous energy—usually before or during a shift (sometimes, when the ED’s slow and he has time for a rare lunch break, you’ll eat together in his car—which, on more than one occasion, has turned into you riding him desperately in the front seat, trying to make the most of your limited time whilst he mindlessly chatters about some high-risk procedure he just did). After a shift is 50/50; sometimes it’s all you can do to get through the front door before he’s pushing you up against the nearest wall. Other times—like now, you suspect—he’s too tired to indulge anything but your kisses.
I mean, it’s not like you couldn’t have sex tomorrow morning. You're both off.
“Okay,” You nod, prepared to sever all physical contact, if only just to stop your body thrumming with barely contained energy.
He doesn’t let you dismount him, though. You turn to glance down at the large hand kneading the flesh around your hipbone, flicking your gaze to him when he tracks your movement with a tilt of his own head.
“I said I couldn’t have sex with you. That doesn’t mean you can’t get off.”
Oh.
You feel your face—no, your whole body, flush.
“Oh, um, okay.” You straighten, adjusting the strap of your tank top. “Would you… want to use your fingers or, um, your mouth?”
It takes you a while to get the words out, and by the end, your eyes are squeezed shut, trying to shield yourself from your own embarrassment. You’ve never been good about talking about this sort of thing—at least, not as good as Frank. He’s older and more experienced and a fucking doctor, so talking about sex doesn’t faze him.
Meanwhile, you can barely say the word without blushing like a middle-schooler. And god forbid you have to talk about the specifics. Unfortunately, that’s all he seems to be interested in—what you want and where you want to be touched and let me hear you say it—
“Neither.”
One of your eyes flit open at that, trying to assess if he’s joking or if this is yet another thing you don’t seem to be knowledgeable or experienced enough to understand.
“What?”
“Neither. You can make yourself come.” He states, like it’s obvious.
You blink, waiting for the punchline.
There is none.
“I mean, yeah…” You trail off.
Yeah, you could make yourself come. You could also revert back to using a Nokia, but you wouldn’t, because the newer, better cellphone is right there. What you mean is—you haven’t gotten yourself off in months, because Frank has always been there—with far longer, more capable fingers than your own. And if he hasn’t… well, you just wait until you see him next.
Honestly, you’re beginning to doubt if you can still come without his input.
Without warning, Frank leans in, nipping at your bottom lip. As he pulls back, you furrow your brows in confusion, pouting.
“Sorry,” he smirks, not selling the whole apologetic thing, “you looked like you were spiralling.”
Well.
His voice takes on a gentler, more serious tone when he speaks next.
“You don’t have to do anything if you don’t feel like it, honey.”
But you do. Even with your apprehension, you’re antsy with need, shifting uncomfortably on top of him.
“No, I want to, I just… don’t know if I can… without your help.” You mumble, looking down at your thighs, which still encase his own.
A pause, and then he’s lifting your jaw with his thumb.
“Oh, sweet girl, did you think I wouldn’t help at all?”
You noticeably perk up at that, like a dog hearing the word ‘treat’. This seems to amuse him, and he gives the fat of your hip a loving squeeze before continuing.
“Do you know how I’m going to help you?”
You shake your head slowly.
“Do you want me to show you?”
His voice is syrupy sweet, almost hypnotising. You’re nodding before you even register his words fully, gripping the hem of his shirt with both hands. When he leans in, your eyelids flutter shut, waiting for the press of his lips against yours.
It doesn’t come. At least… not yet.
He just hovers there, moving away whenever you try to chase him. Time seems to warp and stretch until you’re unsure how long you’ve been waiting for him to just do it already. You’re sure he can feel your patience dwindling, and just when you’re sure you’re about to snap, he presses his lips to yours.
The kiss is long and deep and so good you sigh with relief. You try to slow yourself down, to savour the domestic, tenderness of it all—but you can’t. Your lips part on a gasp and you press yourself onto the hard muscle of his thigh before you can help yourself. You’re too consumed by his lips that you don’t pay much attention to the subtle rock of your hips. It’s not like you’re doing anything, really. It’s just to alleviate some of the ache between your legs.
That’s when Frank pinches your thigh, just hard enough to draw attention to your movements. You pull back, breathing hard and half-annoyed at him for stopping your motions.
“Do you understand now?” He breathes, sounding as wrecked as you feel. His hair is a mess thanks to your toying and his eyes seem to have taken on a darker hue of blue. Though it could just appear that way, given that his pupils have almost doubled in size, leaving little of his iris to be seen.
It takes you a minute to comprehend what he’s saying—distracted by how he looks and the persistent throbbing between your legs. You do get there eventually, though.
“You want me to…” You swallow, heat creeping up the base of your neck.
He huffs out a laugh. “Use my thigh to get yourself off? Yeah, I do.”
His words send a shiver down your spine, but don’t dissuade you. You take a deep breath and nod, looking up at the ceiling instead of Frank. You need to concentrate.
“Okay.”
“Okay.” He parrots, reassuringly, leaning back just a little. “Take your time.”
You try to remember what you were doing before, and begin rocking your hips slowly. You struggle on a few false starts, adjusting your weight a couple times before you find a rhythm that feels… okay.
“Does that feel good?” Frank looks up at you from where he’s leaning against the headboard, utterly transfixed by the way your brows furrow in determination and the worry of your bottom lip between your teeth.
“Um…” You squint, trying to figure out what you’re doing wrong. Maybe this is just another way in which you differ from Frank, another reminder of what he could be getting from someone else that he’s not receiving from you.
“Can I…” His hands linger at either side of you, waiting for your go-ahead. When you nod, he grips onto you firmly, lifting you up just enough to spread your legs open a little farther with his thigh, before pressing you back down onto him.
“More friction,” He mumbles, with a clinical kind of disconnect, guiding your hips back into the rhythm you started, watching your face for any sign of a difference. You’re about to make a joke about feeling like a lab rat, or maybe one of his patients, when a wave of pleasure shoots through your abdomen.
“Oh,” You whisper quietly.
“Yeah?” Frank chuckles cockily, sensing a newfound enthusiasm in your movements. “You can go faster if you want, honey. You’re in control here.”
He’s right. Even with his hands guiding your hips, you’re the one setting the pace. You speed up a little, ever cautious that you might do something incorrectly. Your sighs and quiet whimpers on particular drags surprise you, but if Franks facial expression is anything to go by, you think he likes them. Of course, he says this plenty too.
“Doin’ so well baby. Jesus, look at you.”
You laugh self-consciously, letting it taper off into a small whine when he bounces his leg ever so slightly.
“Didn’t mean it when I said you were a bad listener before. You’re so good, honey, doin’ exactly what I said.”
Your pace quickens at his praise, hearing the obvious arousal in his voice. You’re not sure you understand why your pleasure seems to turn him on so much, but it’s not off-putting by any means. If anything, it brings you closer to an orgasm you weren’t even sure you could achieve ten minutes ago.
“Can I kiss you?” You pant, not letting up.
Frank smiles, sitting up. The slight jolt has you biting back a moan.
“Of course you can, beautiful.”
The second his face is close enough, you’re lowering your lips to his. It’s uncoordinated and filthy and you’re whining into his mouth most of the time but the extra stimuli feels so good that you keep losing your momentum, huffing every time the pleasure you’ve been building up recedes.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” Frank whispers, seizing your hips with a steady grip. No longer in control, you’re forced to simply take the unforgiving push-pull rhythm he sets. You’ve given up on kissing him at this point, opting to rest your forehead against his instead, jaw dropping as you approach a fast-building climax.
“Just like that—please,” You careen, squeezing your eyes shut.
“I know,” Frank coos, pressing his lips to the tip of your nose, your cheekbone, your eyelid.
“Knew you’d love this. Can never keep yourself still when you’re on my lap, always squirming, aren’t you, sweet girl? At least now we know you can come like this, yeah?” He rambles, seeming half lost in pleasure himself. “Don’t even need to fucking touch you, that’s how bad you need it, huh?”
It’s the unexpected harshness of his words that makes your stomach drop, lighting your nerves up neon. Your head slumps to Franks shoulder as you cry out, feeling your muscles tense and then relax all at once. Slow waves of pleasure roll through you as Frank continues to rock you against him, forcing you to ride out your high as he mumbles praise you’re too overwhelmed to hear.
Very gradually, you start to come down. You lift your head, noticing the patch of drool you’ve left on his shirt. You lean back to meet his eyes and he chuckles as he wipes a thumb over your lip. You certainly hope you’re not still drooling.
“You with me?” He asks, pulling your tank top down where it must’ve rode up at your stomach.
“Mhm..” You nod, still seeing stars dot across your vision. You shudder as the last of the shockwaves make their way through your body.
He smiles dotingly, “Did you like that?”
You nod once more, attempting to fight back a yawn, but it’s futile.
“I’m glad,” he smiles, seeming genuinely pleased that he’s discovered a new way to make you come. You think he might have a list, but you’re too sleepy to ask about any potential tallying he’s doing.
“Okay, I’m ordering us food before you fall asleep, again.” He gently prise you off of his lap, setting you down on wobbling legs. Before he gets up to make his way to the kitchen, though, he slaps your ass gently—which, in your fragile state, is enough to elicit a yelp from you. He laughs in earnest, flicking on a lamp on as he turns around, tapping on your door frame to a random tempo.
“Do you want to order from the Thai place on Sixth? They only forgot the spring rolls once in the last four times we’ve ordered from there—which is more than the one on the strip can say—so I’m feeling pretty good about it.”
You offer him a thumbs up, which he returns, because of course he does (dork) before turning on his heel and heading down the hallway.
WARNINGS: (MDNI) suggestive content, whinny/bratty!reader, lowkey dom/mean!jack, kissing, touching, established relationship, mentions of marriage ayyyy, fem!reader implied, use of curse words, nipple play, teasing, choking lowkey, age gap not implied but pictured when written
A/N: can you tell that one line in s2 e14 reallyyyyy got to me?
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you’re pissed. jack got called into work again at the last minute. and it shouldn’t piss you off! you know who you started dating. you know he’s important and he’s needed at the hospital. but all you wanted was a date night. he’d be working a lot lately and you don’t get why. you can see the exhaustion that seeps through him after every shift. and he doesn’t need to do it. he’s worked hard and he’s well off, he could easily retire and the two of you could lay in bed for the rest of your days.
you snap out of you thoughts and look at yourself in the mirror. your hair and makeup was done. you brought a new dress for this occasion too. sighing, you get undressed and wipe off your makeup. getting into bed, you think the best thing to do is just sleep it off.
it’s late in the morning when jack finally gets home. you’re woken up by jack’s voice, soft and sweet from the side of the bed. but somehow it just makes you more annoyed. your first thought is how your date night was cut short. so you don’t answer him when your eyes flutter open and you don’t kiss back when he presses a kiss to your lips.
“what’s the matter with you, hm? still tired?” he asks.
you don’t reply, turning away from him so your back is facing where he’s standing over you on your side of the bed. frowning at your antics, he asks again what’s wrong with you. this time, you just huff.
“alright enough out of you” he grunts, folding his arms.
you don’t say anything and you think that’s the end of it because he doesn’t speak again. until you feel his hands on your side, rolling you onto your back. you let him move you but refuse to make eye contact. he moves a hand to toy with the waistband of your pajama shorts. you try to ignore the growing feeling of need that courses through you. do not give in. he moves the hand to dip in your waistband, feeling you over your panties.
“wanna tell me what’s wrong yet, sweetheart?” he presses his fingers down harder as he talks. your still not looking at him, shaking your head as a no while you bite your lip to stop from moaning.
he pulls his hand out of your pants and moves it up to your shirt, lifting it up so your tits can be seen. he pinches a nipple. you let out a whine at this, finally looking at him.
“jack! stop being mean” you complain, pushing his hand off and pulling down your shirt.
“i’m being mean? you’re the one that’s ignoring me after i came home from a shift” he laughs.
“yeah ‘cause you deserve it,” you grumble.
“oh yeah? why do i deserve it?” he asks condensingly.
“you missed date night! and you do it all the time. ‘s not fair i’m alone all the time!” you whine, crossing your arms over your chest and pouting.
“you’re such a baby” he replies.
you sit up on the bed at that, up on your knees so that your face to face with jack.
“i’m not a baby, you just don’t care about me anymore!” you point at his chest as you accuse him. jack grabs your wrist, stopping your movements and you try to pull away from his grip.
“let me go! don’t want you to touch me!”
jack let’s go of your wrist, like you ask. but instead, he moves it up to your neck. he squeezes slightly, just to remind you who’s in charge. and it does the trick, shutting you up. he free hand slides down to your shorts once more, but this time he slips it right in past your panties. you ground yourself by resting your hands on his shoulders. his middle finger slides through your folds and your eyes flutter. his ring finger joins him and they circle your clit. you let out a breathy moan.
“don’t want me to touch you but you’re this wet? make up your mind babe” he teases.
“fuck off. don’t want you near me.” you get out but it’s not very convincing. jack chuckles, his fingers rubbing faster as he leans closer and presses kisses your jaw.
“you’re mad i took an extra shift?” he murmurs against your skin.
“yes! you- you’re never around,” you say between a moan.
“you’re lucky you’re cute,” he huffs out a laugh. “wanna know why i’m always taking those shifts baby? hm? do it so i can get the prettiest and biggest ring on your finger”. he moves his fingers back between your folds, rubbing your wetness around, making a mess.
he brings his fingers out of your panties and up to your mouth. he presses them to your lips and forces you to suck on them, forcing you to taste yourself. he pushes his fingers further down your throat and you try not to gag.
bare with me on this... i am not pro cheating at all but
giving langdon head while he is on the phone to abby !!! trying to fix things while he keeps one hand pressing at the back of your head
WHILE TRYING TO FIX THINGS IS CRAAZYYYYY!!!!!! cw cheating !! don't like don't read pls
thinking about being on his lap making out all wet and sloppy and then his phone rings - you whine when he goes to answer it, but he shushes you, tells u to "wait, baby, lemme jus— hello? abby?"
you bite at his ear while abby's tinny voice comes out of the phone speaker. he's holding it to his other ear so you can't really make out her words but you can still hear her, the familiar way she talks to him.
"yeah, no I-I can be there, yeah. 6pm?"
your lips trail down his neck, sucking harshly to draw his blood to the surface - you have a no-marks-left-behind agreement, which he reminds you of with a harsh squeeze to your ass and a sharp "quit it," under his breath while his wife prattles on.
you pout at him, not one to take well to rejection. but you also hate getting in trouble, hate when he's mad or disappointed, so you slide off his lap. and in between his legs.
frank keeps his eyes on you while he talks into the phone, gaze locked on the way you make quick work of pulling his cock free, how your tongue traces the veins on his shaft, the sweet wet kisses you leave on his tip.
and then he's down your throat. he nearly chokes on his words - has to clear his throat and thread his fingers through your hair. "no, no, I'm listening. keep going."
your nose brushes against the hair at his base, throat squeezing around his cock, milking him for all he's worth while he listens to his wife bring bring up marriage counselling.
"y-yeah," he groans, pushing your head down and holding it there until you can barely breath. "that sounds good, honey, yeah we can try that."
the pet name pulls something like a half whine half growl out of you, but when you try to pull away his grip tightens, immobilizing you so you have no choice but to glare tearily up at him with a mouth full of cock.
he makes quick work of wrapping up the call just in time for your teeth to show up, grazing at the underside of his cock making him cum hard down your throat. he tosses the phone aside with a groan, chest heaving head back against the couch cock twitching in your mouth.
he finally lets you pull out, and he has the nerve to look down at you and laugh tiredly, "you're crazy, you know that?"
"and you're mean," you glare, wiping at the cum on your chin.
frank hums and leans forward, wiping some of the stickiness off your cheeks with an endeared knowing smile. "I think you like me mean, sweetheart."
summary: you and john take an edible before your flight.
content warnings/description: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content, AFAB reader, use of cannabis edibles, unprotected (piv) sex, oral sex (fem!recieving), cum eating, one line of alliteration for the whimsy
author's note: writing for john is so fun! i need more of him. immediately.
You’re sitting in the backseat of an Uber with John, watching the starry skyline of the city pass you by as you make your way to the airport.
There’s not too much traffic, thanks to it being the dead of night—you’re both used to working the night shift anyway—and you’ll be there soon.
“You’ve never tried an edible before?” John asks, brows raised. He doesn’t even bother whispering.
The Uber driver looks at you through the rearview mirror, overhearing, but doesn’t say a thing. He’ll most definitely be leaving a bad rating if you take one in his car, though.
At least John is the one who ordered the Uber.
You shake your head. “No, I’ve only smoked a few joints and hit a bong in college. Is it that much different?”
“It’s a much longer high—and it’ll really fuck you up if you take too much.”
“What’s the dosage?” you ask, pointing at his hand, stuffed into his pocket with the cookie edible.
“The whole thing is ten milligrams. But Iet’s split it. No need for you to be completely zonked while thousands of feet in the air.”
You roll your eyes. “No need to remind me. I’m nervous enough as it is. Are you sure this is a good idea?”
“It’ll help you relax, okay? Trust me. Let’s take it now before we go through security.”
“This better be worth it.”
John rips into the package and splits the Trips Ahoy cookie in half, giving you the slightly smaller piece. You clink the chocolate chunks as if toasting to a good high, staring into each other’s eyes as you scarf it down.
The car rolls to a halt as you're brought to the terminal entrance. John grabs the nape of your neck and presses his forehead to yours. “Ready?”
You nod.
The corners of his eyes crinkle in delight. “Awesome. Let’s go.”
You both politely thank the driver and hop out of the car to grab your luggage. He waves you off with a thin-lipped smile and peels off in search of more respectable passengers.
“Make sure to give him a tip, John.”
“Obviously. That’s what the company card is for.”
You check in and make it through TSA, not without sweating bullets as the rush of people forces you to speed through binning all your stuff.
John, being the light packer he is, breezes through the line in front of you with only a backpack containing a few changes of clothing and his laptop. Your eyes twitch when you hear him humming an obnoxious tune. He’s so carefree it irks you sometimes.
He says he’ll just buy whatever you both need while away at the medical conference, but still, you overpacked.
Once you both make it to the other end of the full-body scanner, he slings both of your backpacks over his shoulders and takes your carry-on in his hand with a smile.
He holds out his arm, and you interlock your fingers with his other free hand.
You both finally reach your flight gate to confirm it exists and it matches the one on your ticket, then John immediately turns around and pulls you along to walk to the club lounge.
He kisses the top of your hand as you stroll. “Let’s get some food in us.”
The lounge is sparse and relatively quiet—only the light chatter of other guests reminds you that you’re not alone. Cozy armchairs, along with high tables and high chairs, line the floor. On one end of the lounge lies a small buffet—offering an interesting combination of breakfast, lunch, and dinner foods—and on the other, a bar.
The lights are dim, a soft orange—intimate and almost romantic—odd for such a public setting. But you suppose only those with access can come in, and you see a young couple giggling with each other in the corner of the room, one person sitting in the lap of the other.
Maybe the lounge is more of a romantic getaway spot than anything else.
You sit at one of the high tables, John putting your stuff down on the floor before taking a seat himself.
“Want to grab us a few drinks at the bar while I get us some food?” he asks.
With a dry tone, you reply, “John. We just woke up not too long ago—isn’t it a bit early for drinks?”
He shrugs. “We’re at the airport, baby. No rules. Plus, it’s nighttime—guilt-free.”
“I’m getting us something non-alcoholic. I don’t need to be both drunk and high.”
He huffs a laugh. “Fine, whatever you want, you get, okay? But you will finish everything on your plate. You haven’t eaten anything yet.” John looks down at his watch. “There’s plenty of time.”
“Uh, I’m really not that hungry right now.” You can feel your speech and the environment around you start to slow, but your thoughts continue to race.
Try to keep it together until you're on the plane, at least.
“C’mon, you won’t let me eat alone, will you? I’m starving. Aren’t you?” John looks over to the buffet and rubs his hands together like a schoolkid at lunch.
You follow his gaze. “I am feeling a bit… peckish.” The smell of the food as it sits on the warmers wafts over to you, making you sniff the air.
Laying your head on your hand and groaning, you say, “You know I can’t ever say no to you, and you’re using that against me.”
He winks at you. “Love you too, honey.”
“Is all this food really necessary?” You sit back on the high chair after getting both of you a Shirley Temple from the bar.
“It’s complimentary. Of course we have to splurge. Also… we don’t have much money to spend on the company card. Consider this as us helping Robby.” John sips from the straw, the slurping noise all too familiar to you now that you’ve been with him since the start of his Dunkin’ addiction.
The small, circular table barely has enough space for you to put your drink on it. Plates line the perimeter, consisting of garnished scrambled eggs, lentil soup, creamy garlic pasta, and chocolate mousse. One plate is filled with just bacon.
“Are you okay? You look stressed out. And I know it’s not because of the food—because it looks great.”
You heave a sigh. “Sorry… with our flight boarding soon, I’m getting nervous. You know how traveling and flying make me.”
“Then eat, baby. You need some food in you.” He gestures to the array of options, and you give in before your stomach decides to speak up for you.
After eating several mouthfuls of each of the different entrees, you're stuffed and ready to head to the gate.
“You don’t wanna try the mousse? It’s goooood,” he says in a singsong voice.
“I can’t eat anything else even if I tried.”
He rolls his eyes and twists his mouth to the side before eating a spoonful of the mousse. He looks at you with sad eyes as he does. He’s so dramatic.
“You’re really laying it on thick today, aren’t you? Fine.” You try the mousse and are surprised by how good it is. It’s light and airy and sweet, but not too sweet. “Could… could you close your eyes?”
He smiles. “Go ahead and take another bite. I won’t say I told you so.”
“You just—” you start, but you can admit to yourself that you do want another taste. He doesn't have to be so smug about it, though.
He smirks as you shove another spoonful into your mouth. “Great. I think we’re ready to go now.” He stands from the chair, collects your things, and goes to kiss you. He has to bend down a bit due to the height difference, even as you sit in the high chair, but you meet him halfway.
He’s a bit rough and persistent with it, and you have to fist the collar of his shirt to pull him back for air. He licks his lips after you part.
“Mhm. Tastes better on your lips.”
You walk back to the gate, feeling a little drowsy now that you’re full and the high is starting to fully kick in, but you’re still holding on.
The flight is boarding soon, only minutes after you arrive at the gate after your indulgent feast. Nearly perfect timing—and it’s all thanks to John’s magical power: somehow knowing just how far one can push the time before being late.
Normally, when flying, you sacrifice your time and show up at the airport three hours early. But John has his arrival time locked down to the minute like it's a science. He’d rather snuggle up in bed with you than be at the airport any earlier than necessary—and you don’t blame him. Luckily, he hasn’t steered you wrong yet.
You hope your eyes don’t betray your high as you board, saying polite hellos to the gate agents.
John’s free hand holds onto yours as he shields your body from the chill nighttime air in the jet bridge. You offered to carry your things, but he refused, again. He’s so doting and in tune with you—hyper-aware of your travel anxiety and trying to ease the stress any way he can.
Even though he may try to play it off as something he just did for fun, you know that offering you the weed was really to help—in his own way.
You both find your seats easily in first class. His thick arms flex as he lifts your luggage into the overhead bin without fuss.
You plop onto the comfy seat, put your seatbelt on, plug your earbuds into your phone, and pop one into your ear.
As John sits down beside you, you offer him the other earbud, and he takes it. A playlist of nineties R&B fills your ears, relaxing you.
Lowering the volume so you can still chat, you ask, “Did PTMC really pay for first class?”
“Nah, I paid for a first-class upgrade. Can’t have you stressed out in economy, can I? I had to fight Robby tooth and nail just to convince him to let us fly instead of taking a long-ass road trip. But I got us—now that I’m making attending money.” He smiles and pats your knee as you sink further into the window seat beside him.
“O-oh. Well, thank you. It would’ve been fine, though.”
John doesn’t respond but gives you a look that obviously says, Yeah, right. Whatever you say.
As more passengers file in, the air turns stifling—the metal death trap feeling like it's gradually suffocating you, even with the extra legroom first class provides. John notices your breathing pick up at an alarming rate.
He calmly tucks your face into the crook of his neck, smoothes a hand down your back, and whispers into your ear.
“Shhh, it’s okay. Just breathe me in. It’ll be alright. It’s normal to feel anxious, but you’ll start to feel good soon. Why don’t you rest while we wait for takeoff?”
John twists the mini overhead fan in your direction to cool you down as he notices sweat gathering along your forehead.
You start to relax after taking a few deep inhales of his cologne, settling further against him. The heat, combined with the edible, amplifies your drowsiness. You fall asleep to the sound of soulful samples, live instrumentation, and John’s whispered sweet nothings.
You wake up from a colorful dream to the sound of someone yelling a couple of aisles down. You must’ve slept through takeoff, because when you glance out the window, all you see is the sun rising in an otherwise empty sky served on a bed of clouds.
“Is anyone here a doctor?” someone yells.
You peek your head over your seat and can see someone on the ground a few aisles down. But you're too dazed, too relaxed, too inert to do anything. You try to unbuckle your seatbelt and get up, but John stops you.
“Hey, I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry.”
When it seems like no one else on board is a doctor—or wants to help—John unbuckles himself, stands, and calmly, but loudly, states, “I’m an ER physician. What’s the problem?”
You breathe a sigh of relief, a bit guilty but happy John is here to help. No way you’re actually qualified to save a life right now.
Uncontrollable giggles escape you due to the absurdity of the situation, because of course you’re high, and of course someone is on the ground on the first flight you’ve been on in years.
You unbuckle yourself to watch John from his aisle seat.
He’s crouching as he checks the man’s pulse and airway, and your eyes lock onto his hands, his arms, and his cool demeanor as he lightly slaps the poor man lying on the ground.
No, this is not an appropriate time to be turned on.
John looks up at the flight attendant who’s hovering next to him.
“Looks like he fainted—from dehydration or stress. It’s possible he took something for flight anxiety—Xanax, maybe. I’ve seen this happen before. He’ll wake up in a few minutes. Let’s recline him and keep him elevated.”
The flight attendant nods, and they both lift the man back onto his seat, reclining it as much as possible.
John points to the ceiling. “He’ll need the oxygen mask for about thirty minutes, and if he has any nausea, give him Ondansetron.” The man’s eyes flit open as the flight attendant brings down his oxygen mask.
“He’s awake!” the flight attendant yells.
The entire plane applauds as John stands there with a coy smile and his hands on his hips.
It’s like a scene from a really cheesy movie, and still, you can’t help but be turned on. The whole plane is clapping for your John, after all.
He gives instruction to the flight attendant, then returns to his seat next to you. You stare up at him with hearts in your eyes.
“You’re in my spot. Scooch. He just fainted. He'll be—why’re you looking at me like that?”
“John… p-please,” you tug on his sleeve, “bathroom. Now.”
He raises his brows. “Here? Now?”
“Isn’t this on your bucket list? Why not check it off? Join the mile-high club while high,” you click your tongue, “check.”
He gives you an incredulous look, then a smile plays on his lips. “I thought you wouldn’t”—he cocks his head to the side—“well, someone’s feeling better, aren’t they?” He leans over you and puts his hands on the armrests, caging you in.
His proximity and arrogant look only exacerbate the growing ache in your cunt.
You nod.
He stares at you for a few more seconds, then holds out his hand. “Let’s go then.” He interlocks your fingers, and you both sneak off to the restroom, the flight attendants too busy tending to the revived man or passing out snacks and drinks to notice you.
As John locks the door behind you, you tug on his sweats, grabbing hold of whatever skin you can.
His chest vibrates as he laughs in amusement. “Slow down, pretty. I’ll take care of you.”
There’s not enough time to get everything off if you want to preserve some modicum of decency—you’re much too turned on from his display and the weed—but someone will need to come in sooner or later.
John shakes his head with a smile at your neediness, but his cock is hard and leaking as you pull it out from within his boxers. He can’t help but get turned on when you’re this desperate for him.
He grabs your hips and spins you around to bend you over the sink, then pulls your leggings and underwear down to your mid-thigh.
You gasp as he gropes your ass and thighs.
“Fuck, you feel so good and warm. Why’re you so warm?” he mumbles.
He warms his hands with your body, mesmerized, but then refocuses on the task when you whine his name.
Using just his thumb and forefinger, he rubs the head of his cock up and down your wet slit. He teases you, pushing into your cunt only until your hole swallows the head of his cock, then backs out. He repeats the motion again, and you whimper in frustration, cunt clenching around his tip.
“John, stop t-teasing.” You slap your hand against the mirror to give you more leverage to push back against him.
You see a dangerous look in his eyes as you watch his reflection.
“The weed get you this wet, honey? Or was it the little show out there?”
“Y-yeah. Both. And you,” you affirm, biting your lip, and he groans, cock twitching. He should’ve introduced you to the edibles ages ago.
“You have no idea what you do to me.” He gives your ass a harsh slap, the sting shaped by his hand making you jolt. You moan from the pleasure and the pain, the weed clouding your mind and heightening your senses.
“Please, John—why don’t you show me?” You wiggle your ass, and he takes that as his cue to finally sink into you, balls deep.
You reach your hand down to rub tight circles into your clit, needing the friction, while John rails you within an inch of your life.
His strokes are fast and deep, focused on making you both come as quickly as possible. After what feels like only a few minutes, you clench down on him as your clit pulses, orgasm ripping through you.
“S-shit. That fast? I’m,” he grunts, “fuck—I’m… honored.”
You don’t care enough to be embarrassed. He knows the effect he has on you. And it only makes him crazier for you, knowing how easily you fall apart for him. You both feed into each other’s desire, creating a weird, horny, positive feedback loop, but it works.
You wail into your hand, still cognizant of your surroundings, but it’s probably worthless. You wouldn’t be surprised if people right outside could hear the loud, wet squelching noises of John’s cock pounding into your cunt—his heavy balls slapping against your clit.
Another few strokes and he groans as he pumps his come into you. He spills and spills into your poor cunt, and when he pulls out, his come leaks down, making a mess of your inner thighs.
You share a quick breath as you both come down, and you turn your body around to face him.
He looks so proud it’s almost adorable. It is adorable.
“Wow—that was…” you trail off.
“It sure was. Good work, baby. Don’t we make such a great team?” He smiles and cradles your cheek with one hand, kissing you. You break for air—but he’s immediately on you with another kiss. And another. After the fifth kiss, you finally press your palm against his chest.
“S-stop. We need to hurry up in here. We’re gonna get thrown off the plane if we’re caught.”
“Okay, okay. Sorry. Let me help you clean up first.”
He gets on his knees, and they creak due to the cramped space. He cleans your come-covered pussy—lapping at you and your combined juices with deliberate flicks of his tongue. You come again when he sucks on your clit, direct eye contact and warm hands on your inner thighs propelling your orgasm even further.
You didn’t realize the weed would make you so sensitive.
What John doesn’t swallow down is gently wiped away with a towel. He kisses your clit one last time, then pulls up your underwear and leggings before tucking himself back into his sweats.
“You did so good for me, pretty. Are you ready?”
You only nod, too blissed out for words. He kisses you on the cheek.
You two quickly return to your seats, and an old woman across the aisle stares daggers at you and John.
He winks back at her, unbothered—because why would he be otherwise?
You ride out the rest of your high for the remainder of the plane ride. Calm, satiated, and at peace. You turn to John as the plane starts to land and nudge his elbow.
“How come you didn’t seem affected by the edible, like at all?”
“I have a pretty high tolerance. Plus… it’s possible that you got the more concentrated half—even if it was smaller,” he shrugs his shoulders, “you’ll never really know how much you take if you split one. It’s why I wanted you to eat. It could’ve been much more intense.”
“W-what? Is that why I was freaking out at first?”
“Maybe, since you’re just a beginner. It’s normal. And it was only at first, right? Look—we landed. Normally you’d be obnoxiously clapping by now. Don’t you think this was worth doing?”
“You’re right.” You can’t really argue with that. “It—it did end up helping me relax. Thank you, John.” You look at him with a warm smile. “What would I do without you?”
He pecks your lips and returns your smile. “Probably be lost. But that’s why I’m here.”
As you both exit the gate, you bump his shoulder. “The conference reception isn’t until later tonight. What’re we gonna do the rest of the day?”
“Well, besides reading up on our medical history… why don’t we make good use of the hotel room, hm? Have we tried doing it on the patio yet? I think that could count as having an audience, right?”
You roll your eyes. “Another one for the bucket list? That one’s only happening if you get me good and high again.”
“That’s the plan.” He gives you a wink, then wraps an arm around your shoulder and leans his head on top of yours. “How do Stoney Ranchers sound?”
pairing: college!foggy nelson x f!reader x college!matt murdock
summary: you love your boyfriend, but you're not even sure if his best friend likes you. something's got to give. (6.6k wc)
tags/warnings: 18+ only pls! mdni. threesome, spitroasting, double vaginal penetration, sweaty sex. unprotected sex. oral sex f&m receiving, cum eating. matt loses control for a bit but reader likes it and is okay with it. soft dom bf!foggy, jealous subby puppy boy matt <3, mattfoggy propaganda heh...
a/n: completely unedited bc i wrote this with one hand down my pants
Heat addles the mind but heightens sensation—isn't that what they say?
You can't remember the last voluntary movement you made. Time and memory have since become a foreign concept. There's only before the AC died and after, the latter of which stretches long and molten and winding around you, like pulled taffy.
"I'm going to die here," you mumble. "M'gonna die here and— and they're gonna find my body. And it's going to be"—you lift your head, realizing you've been muffling your voice in the pillow—"fused to this mattress."
There's space though, at least. Regarding the mattress in question, the two twin beds—Foggy's and Matt's—have been shoved together since April, a dubious project held in place by the wall on one side and dogged hope on the other. Even the sheets don't match—one's navy and one's a truly tragic shade of beige.
Right now, you're sprawled out and sweating across the seam where they meet, wearing nothing but a pair of cotton shorts and an oversized t-shirt of Foggy's.
"Aw," Matt remarks from his desk. He's got his earbuds around his neck, one of them plugged in, listening to what you're pretty sure is a contracts textbook. In this heat. For fun. The angle with which he's leaning back in his chair makes you nervous. "Maybe the RA'll put a little memorial up. 'Here she melted. She was okay.'"
"Okay?!"
"Ah, I didn't wanna oversell it."
Oh, Matt.
Even after months of dating Foggy, you can't seem to parse Matt completely. Your boyfriend's best friend has never been fully hostile to you, and you know these little jokes are supposed to be just him teasing, but in actuality—you can never tell with Matt. One moment he's okay, one moment he's provoking you again: joking that you're stealing Foggy from him, teasing you, ignoring you. Bumping into you and crowding you. You're not even sure what you've done to him.
It's not like you can bring it up to Foggy, though. Just thinking of all the little things that've made you come to this conclusion is enough to know that you're going to sound crazy and delusional if you do.
Right now though: if you tease Matt back hard enough, you can ignore the fact that his shirt is off. Not that you're trying hard to not notice too much about his unclothed body. It's just— his skin's faintly sheened in the syrupy light coming through the window.
You'd grumbled about it: how guys always seemed to lose that battle so easily just because they had the option.
But it's okay—you can be normal, right? It's just bodies. It's just bodies.
"Hey," Foggy grunts from beside you. He's shirtless, too, clad only in basketball shorts. "She's more than okay, thank you very much. She's the love of my life and she'll be remembered as such."
You bat your eyes at him exaggeratedly. "Aw, Fog."
"'Here she melted. She was pretty hot.'" He turns his head back to grin at you, eyes crinkling. "Matt's just dramatic."
"You're both dramatic," Matt says.
"Says the man who pointed the single fan at himself," you shoot back.
The oscillating fan has indeed been hogged, rotating by the corner of Matt's desk in agreement. It ruffles the dark hair at his forehead before swiveling away again.
"I'm studying," he says mildly. As if that has anything to do with anything.
"You're hogging the breeze is what you are, Murdock."
Under the thick, stifling comforter of heat, though, it only just then occurs to you that Foggy's hand has been on your thigh, rubbing along the inside of it.
"Hey," he says to you, rolling onto his side to face you. His eyes are half-lidded.
You know this look. You know exactly what it means. It's the one that usually precedes him kissing your neck hotly and talking you out of whatever you were doing.
And the thing is, there's actually nothing you'd want more than to pull Foggy's shorts down now and ride him, but fuck. Matt's right there.
"Foggy. No."
"I didn't say anything."
"Your hand's saying plenty." You grab his wrist and lift it off your leg, depositing it back on his own chest. "It's a thousand degrees," you say, and then lower your voice in warning, "Matt's right there."
Foggy makes a sound like a deflating balloon. "Matt doesn't care. He's basically furniture right now. He's a lamp." And louder, he calls, "No offense, buddy."
"None taken." And then lighter, "I've endured worse from him."
"See?" Foggy's hand migrates back, and this time it lands on your hip, squeezing through the fabric of your shorts. "Lamp says it's fine."
"Yeah. You deal with the wandering hands for a few hours. I've had years of this."
Ignoring Matt, you swat at Foggy again, harder, trying for propriety, and he retreats with a dramatic wince.
"You are so— it's too hot, Fog. I'll literally melt. Do you wanna lose your girlfriend to, um— entropy?"
"Thermodynamics," Matt contributes from the distance, needling.
"Thank you, Lamp."
He shrugs. Foggy flops onto his back with a theatrical groan, arms thrown wide.
For a while, there's nothing but the faint whirring off the fan, and the muffled sounds of the dormitory drifting through the open window. Someone's playing Ke$ha downstairs.
You close your eyes. It's so, so hot. Your thoughts go slow and syrupy, circling into the ever-perilous drain of sleep.
"...anyway," Foggy's saying. And you realize that you missed the start of some conversation he and Matt have drifted into. "I'm just saying, you can't cite that for that proposition."
"But you're thinking of the Seventh Circuit dissent, not the—"
"Oh, the dissent, he says—"
"It's a famous one, Foggy."
"Famous doesn't mean right."
"Neither does loud."
You crack one eye open and find that they're grinning at each other. Jesus. It's your favorite thing about them, at least: the way they bicker like an old married couple that secretly enjoy it. Foggy catches you looking and winks.
"Back me up here, babe."
You shudder at the name. "I have no idea what you're talking about." Planting a kiss on his cheek, you say, "And I refuse to learn."
Matt barks a laugh at that. "Good, you know Foggy's a worse influence than he lets on."
"Oh, I'm the bad influence? That's rich coming from—" Foggy cuts himself off, waving a hand. "You know what, no. I'm not taking that bait."
"What bait?" you ask.
"Matt-bait. He does this thing where, you know, he says something provocative then he sits back and lets you—"
"Oh, come on, man. I don't do 'a thing.'"
"—crash and burn and flail. You know what this reminds me of?" Foggy rolls his head toward you, conspiratorial. "There was a time sophomore year— wait, was it sophomore year? Matt, was it sophomore year when the power went out in Carman the whole heatwave?"
"Yeah, uh," Matt taps his fingers on the table, licking his lips, "freshman year, I think?"
"Right, right. And we had to sleep with the door open and there was this guy from down the hall who kept walking by in his boxers—"
"I don't think he was even wearing boxers."
"Wow, I blocked that part out, thanks for that." Foggy waves a hand. "Anyway, we drank endless shots because Matt kept saying, you know, I don't even think you can handle it, over and over, so I kept doing it and he kept doing it, over and over, and then we ended up—" Foggy stops. "Uh. Anyway, it was a weird night."
Matt's fingers have stopped drumming on the desk.
"Ended up what?" you ask lazily, only half-listening.
"Nothing. Just— just talking. We stayed up talking."
You look between them, and find Matt grinning, like the cat who ate the canary.
"What?" you say, and now you're propping up on your elbow, curious. "What happened?"
"Nothing! Matt's just being— Man, you're being weird."
"I'm not being anything!" Matt leans back in his chair and tips it back onto two legs. His mouth's curled at the corners. "I'm just saying. It was a good night."
"It was a normal night—"
Matt scoffs.
"—that we don't need to—"
"Wait," you say. Something's assembling itself in your head, puzzle pieces slowly clicking into place. Foggy's blush. Matt's smirk. Even the conspicuous way Foggy derailed his own anecdote. Ended up—? "Wait. Hold on. Matt. What happened freshman year?"
Matt turns to face you. Without his glasses, those unfocused eyes are warm and brown, with flecks of pretty amber.
"We kissed," he says simply.
The fan clicks. Clicks. Clicks.
"You—" You sit up fully. "What?"
"MATT." Foggy jackknifes upright on the bed beside you, so fast the whole mattress-island wobbles, as if he's only just woken up from some dreamlike trance. "We had a pact!"
"That was two years ago!"
"What— When was—" You can't even gather your thoughts up quick enough to substantiate anything you're saying. Matt's kissed Foggy? Foggy's kissed Matt? "Sorry, what happened exactly?"
"It was— It was before you," Matt says, all quickly, like he's had that at the ready. "Obviously."
"Obviously," you echo, looking at Foggy. He's rubbing the back of his neck, not meeting your eyes. The flush is spreading from his cheeks down to his freckled chest.
"We were drunk," Foggy says. He drags both hands down his face. "It was one time— It was stupid, it didn't mean— I mean, it meant something, but not like— not like you mean something—"
"It was more than one time," Matt says pleasantly.
Foggy falters, losing his words. Meanwhile, something's happening in your chest. It's a mix of intrigue and jealousy, though decidedly not betrayal, not any of the things you should probably be feeling upon learning your boyfriend's kissed his best friend. What it is is more like a door opening, a window thrown wide in a room already hot, flushed with heat. Electric.
"More than once," you say.
Your boyfriend's blue eyes are so, so wide and worried, brow crumpled, looking so guilty. You can practically see the gears grinding behind his eyes.
"Was it good?"
Matt's eyebrows lift and Foggy's mouth opens, closes, and opens again.
"I—" He blinks. "What?"
"Was it good?" You cross your legs on the bed, your shorts riding up. "The kiss. Was it good?"
There's only silence.
And then Matt says, "It wasn't bad."
Foggy makes an indignant noise. "Wasn't bad? I'll have you know—" He sighs, giving up, and turns back to you. "Why aren't you mad?"
You consider this honestly. "I don't know. I don't know," you say. Your voice sounds different. "I think it's... It's actually kind of hot?"
Matt's chair comes down on all four legs with a soft thud.
Foggy's staring at you. "You— I, uh, what?"
"I get it. Matt's not hard on the eyes," you say. You drag your thumb along the ridge of his knuckles, feeling each soft dip and indentation. "So how many times? Three? Four?"
Foggy glances at Matt, then back at you. "I— Yeah? Why are you asking me this...?"
"Because I want you to do again."
Matt hasn't moved, but you can see the shift in his posture.
"Do it again," Foggy repeats.
"Yeah. Kiss him again. If you want."
"In front of—"
"Yeah."
He rubs his face again with both hands. "This is— Okay, this is insane. Matt?"
"I mean," Matt's tongue darts across his lower lip, quick and unconscious, "I'm not opposed."
"Oh, you're not opposed? Come on, back me up here—"
"Come on, Fog." Matt stands from the desk. He pads across the tiny room barefoot, and the orange-white sun from the window catches the planes of his stomach, the dark trail of hair below his navel. He stops at the edge of the pushed-together beds, standing over both of you. "She did ask nicely."
For a second, there's a beat where Foggy just looks up at him. You see something pass between them, some well-worn frequency that predates you. A contemplative look of shared history. Then Foggy exhales, long and slow, and tilts his chin up.
"If this is weird after," he warns, pointing a finger at Matt, "that's on you."
"Everything's on me," Matt says, and he leans down and kisses him.
It's careful at first. Almost... Chaste? Respectful. Matt's hand finds the curve of Foggy's jaw, and they press their mouths together so softly, so easily that it makes you stomach flip. Very clearly having done this before.
Then Matt makes a sound—quiet, like a suppressed groan—and kisses deeper, and Foggy's lips part, and suddenly it isn't chaste at all.
Your breath catches. Watching them from inches away, it's all close enough to see the way Matt's hand comes down to caress Foggy's neck. Foggy, in seeming retaliation, reaches up to grip the back of Matt's neck, pulling him closer.
Matt's on one knee on the mattress now, half-bracing himself over Foggy. The way their mouths are moving together makes you feel like you can't breathe. Foggy kisses the way you know, the way he does everything. Warm and generous, open-mouthed and giving. Matt's rougher, though. Like he's taking.
You press your thighs together. It's as if the heat in the room has narrowed to a single, pulsing point low in your belly.
Matt pulls back just enough to breathe, and his lower lip drags against Foggy's. And then he's kissing him again, much deeper this time. His tongue slides into Foggy's mouth. Your boyfriend makes a muffled sound, and from Matt's neck, his hand slides up into his hair, gripping. Matt shivers, and you watch the muscles in his shoulders flex.
"Don't stop," you breathe.
Matt smiles smugly against Foggy's mouth, and you suddenly know it for what it is: he's performing at least a little, and you don't mind at all. His hand plants itself on Foggy's bare chest, fingers spread wide over his pecs. Then it slides lower, palm dragging through the sheen of sweat, the downy blond hair of Foggy's soft stomach—
"Okay," Foggy breathes. He breaks the kiss and turns his head, eyes finding yours. They're dark. Heavy-lidded. Unmistakably turned on. "You— Come here."
You're lost in the daze, though, and Foggy knows you enough to not wait for you to obey. As Matt makes room for you, Foggy reaches out to hook the back of your neck and pull you in, and then his mouth's on yours. Hot and slick and tastes faintly of lemonade, of salty spit. Matt's spit, you think hazily. His tongue pushes past your lips and you make a sound into his mouth, only for him to deepen it. Kissing you like he's claiming you back. Like he needs to know the difference.
You slide your own hands up your boyfriend's chest, over his nipples and his stomach. His skin's so sticky under your palms and you love it, how alive he feels between the two of you.
But even as Foggy's tongue slides against yours, you feel Matt. His hands are on your hips from behind, chest pressing against your back, palms skimming up your sides beneath the oversized t-shirt. His fingers are long, longer than Foggy's, and they leave trails of heat across your ribs. He's so warm. Skin-on-skin where your top's ridden up, and you can feel his cock pressing against your ass through the thin layers between you.
"Easy, easy," Foggy mumbles into your mouth, directed past you. But Matt doesn't listen: his hands coast up higher, thumbs grazing the undersides of your breasts, and you jolt, gasping against Foggy's mouth.
"Not fair," Matt mutters behind you. His mouth finds the curve of your neck, open and hot, teeth dragging, and you shudder between them. "Share."
You break from Foggy—who chases your mouth with a lazy, half-lidded look to him—and turn your head. Matt must sense the movement, because he stops his groping and fondling, and tilts his head toward you.
"Hi," Matt says hoarsely, close enough that you feel the word on your mouth.
"Hi."
"You wanna?"
You do. Fuck, you do.
You tip your head and kiss Matt Murdock for the first time. It's absolutely nothing like kissing your boyfriend. Matt is teeth and tongue immediately, sharp and searching. Hot. Hypnotizing. A little mean about it, too. He bites your bottom lip and you make a startled sound, and feel Foggy laugh weakly between you.
"Yeah," Foggy says. "Yeah, he's like that."
"Mm-hmm," you mumble, having lost all language, and then Matt's back to kissing you.
When you break apart, you're panting. Foggy's turned his face to you and you kiss him again. It's easier. Home. He sighs into your mouth the way he does when you're alone. But even as he kisses you his hips are rocking forward into Matt's hand, which has snaked around from behind you.
Matt's other hand slides up your stomach again, and between the two of them your shirt gets tugged up over your head. And like that, you're bare from the waist up, sweaty and breathless. The feeling of being freed from your clothes is almost as good as the feeling of Foggy's eyes on you.
"Jesus Christ," Foggy breathes, so clearly ogling your tits.
Matt's hands drag across your nipples, pinching firmly just to see what noise you make. From the front, Foggy's mouth drops to your chest, tongue darting out to lick at one peaked bud. You cry out, hand fisting in his long hair.
Everything's slippery. Matt's chest against your bare back. Foggy's mouth on your skin. Hands, everywhere—you lose track of whose is whose.
You slide one hand down the front of Foggy's body—down, past the trail of hair at his navel—until your fingers bump the back of Matt's wrist where it's still under the waistband of Foggy's shorts. Matt stills. You can feel Foggy's thick cock under his hand, hot and heavy and straining, and the angle's awkward but you slip your fingers under alongside Matt's and feel your boyfriend twitch hard against both of you at once.
"Oh God," Foggy says hoarsely.
Matt pulls his hand out first, fingers bumping yours as he goes. You get off Foggy, and then Matt's hooking both thumbs into the waistband of Foggy's shorts and tugging.
"Up," he says. "C'mon. C'mon."
"Fuck, I can't believe this is happening," Foggy mutters, but he plants his hands on the mattress and lifts his hips anyway. Matt drags the shorts down his thighs in one pull, and Foggy's cock springs up against his stomach. Leaking already at the tip.
Matt's hand goes right back to where it was, working Foggy's cock so loosely, slick with precome and sweat, pulling pained groans from your boyfriend's pretty, pretty mouth. He turns his face toward yours and grins.
"You want a turn?" he asks you sweetly. Insufferably smug.
"Don't be rude," you spit at him, even as you're reaching.
Your hand closes over Matt's, closes over Foggy, who's making these tiny helpless hitches of breath, eyes squeezed shut. And when you grip him a little harder, he whimpers.
"See," Matt says to you, "he likes this sound."
"I know, Matt."
"Yeah? Do you know how to get five of 'em in a row?"
"Matt, stop— Stop being mean," Foggy says through gritted teeth. You laugh, and you can't help the little squirm you do. You're so turned on you're lightheaded. You want out of your shorts, out of your panties, now.
You wriggle out of them in an undignified sort of shimmy, and your bare thighs stick instantly to the beige sheet. God, it's so hot in here you're going to combust. Seeing you're naked, Foggy reaches back and shoves Matt aside, grabbing your thigh and hauling it over his hip. Hooking you around him, and making you fit yourself against his hardness. You grind down once and cry out.
"Matt," you rasp. "Come back."
He crawls back in, a long lean creature stalking up the seam of the sheets, and when he gets close enough, you grab the waistband of his shorts yourself and tug. Like a cat being lifted out of a lap, he lifts up obligingly and you drag down his hips and he kicks out of them and then he's bare too, all three of you bare. The head of Matt's cock is flushed an angry pink. He's leaking onto himself.
"What a mess," you say teasingly. "All for us, huh?"
But your teasing's barely potent: Matt's smirking, and you kind of want to slap him and also kind of want to climb him.
"Here," Foggy says, pushing you off again to gentle you down against the mattress. "I'm gonna move you, okay?"
You go where he puts you—with him behind you, cradling your body. Another round of kisses with your face turned to him: deep and slow, the way he kisses you when he's about to fuck you.
You expect Matt to crawl up in front of you, ostensibly to fuck you, or kiss you too. Instead, he's between your thighs and nudges your legs open with his shoulders. You suck in a breath so hard you make yourself dizzy.
"Wait, wait, wait..."
"Mm?" Matt tips his head up, all puppy-like. "I can stop."
You look down your body and there he is. His cheek almost on your thigh, and he's waiting. For you; your permission.
"Don't stop," you say. Twice now you've said that—you're starting to think it might be your permanent answer from here on out.
Matt smiles and drops his face to you.
You don't get much more than one swipe of his tongue, though, before Foggy's mouth is back on yours, catching all your noise. Your hand flies out to grab Matt's hair and hold him there.
"Mm, oh my God," you gasp. "Foggy, he's—"
"I know, I know. He's showing off, huh?"
"A little, a little..." Matt keeps at it, and he's good at it. The worst part, you think, is that he knows he's good at it. You can feel him smiling smugly against your cunt every time your thighs twitch around his ears. Foggy's got his hand in your hair, petting you, stroking you, whispering sweet, dumb things in your face—that's it, no, I know, he's being such a show-off, isn't he? you're doing so, so good, sweetheart—and you don't even feel real anymore. Swimming in heat.
Matt pulls off, and you make a noise in protest.
"Don't be selfish," he says. Mouth slick and eyes glassy. "Save some for Foggy."
"Matt, don't be an asshole."
"I'm not."
"Yes, you are. Come here."
Matt obeys. He crawls up your body, heavy over you, and Foggy drags him into a kiss so filthy right from the jump. You lie there with your chest heaving and watch two men who have known each other longer than they've known you eat each other's mouths above your face. Matt's tongue flicks out and there's a smear of you on his chin. Foggy licks it off him.
"Jesus," you breathe.
They break apart and Matt sinks back on his heels. Foggy leans down and gives you a peck, almost apologetically, and then he's sliding back. Adjusting you until you're on all fours on wrinkled sheets. And just like that, he's lining himself up with you and you're so wet it's embarrassing. He slides against you twice just to coat himself, and you whimper.
"Please, Foggy..."
"I got you, baby." He pushes himself in, one slow slide and you push yourself back onto him, feeling him stretch you out. "Jesus fuck," he curses loudly, as he starts to move. "You're so wet, babe."
"S'Matt..." you mumble. "S'all Matt..."
Kneeling by your hip, Matt's still there, stroking himself slowly to the sound of Foggy fucking you. Little wet catches of sound, your panting, Foggy's groaning. The bed squeaks under you, creaking every time Foggy thrusts into you, and you don't even care if the whole thing collapses, as long as Foggy's using you to feel good.
"Matt," Foggy pants, not looking away from you. "Get up there."
"Hmm?"
"Her— Her mouth." He palms your ass, gripping it as he fucks you. "Okay, right, baby? You want—?"
You nod so fast, and drop your head against the pillow. "Yes, yes please—!"
"Mm, I don't know," Matt says, tugging at your hair to lift your head back up. He's fucking smiling. "Should I? Do you want it?"
"Uhuh, uhuh, please..."
"Say it, then. 'Matt, I want you to fuck my mouth.'"
Behind you, Foggy groans, his rhythm faltering for half a second before recovering. You swallow, peering up at Matt with big, wet eyes. "I— I want you t— Please..." Matt laughs as you falter and stutter, smiling at you so coyly. "I want you to fuck my mouth—!" you finally yelp, as Foggy drives into you especially deep.
Matt doesn't say anything more, though. He kneels in front of you, cock bobbing above your mouth. You open for him immediately. Tongue out, hungry—and you must look wild. Must look half-gone already. Matt breathes out hard above you, and slaps his cock on your lips once, twice, before feeding himself into your mouth.
"Open up," he grunts. "Suck. Yeah, just like that—"
Your eyes sting at the stretch of him. He's big, but not as thick as Foggy. Still, he's long, and doesn't give you a lot of warning before he's nudging the back of your throat. You breathe through your nose and fist the sheets, letting him set the pace, and his hand comes down to cup your cheek.
"Taking me so well, Jesus," Matt hisses. "So good at this, huh?"
Foggy's fucking you harder now, like Matt's praise has him wound up. The angle changes and he hits that place inside you that makes your throat close up, and you try to moan around Matt's cock and end up just making a gurgled sound that's got Matt swearing above you.
"Do it again," he pants.
"Working on it."
Foggy does it again. And again. And Matt rocks down to meet your mouth and the three of you find a rhythm for about thirty seconds before it devolves into something messier. More animal and desperate. With Foggy's hips slapping against your thighs, and Matt's balls brushing your chin, your hands grope blindly for any purchase you can find: Matt's hip, the bunched-up sheet beneath you.
And Matt— Matt who's been holding himself in careful check, at least, loses it. His hand tightens in your hair and his thrusts go shorter, sharper. He stops pulling back far enough for you to catch your breath.
"Matt," Foggy warns. "Hey. Easy."
"I'm being easy," he lies, voice ragged, and rocks forward again so deep your eyes water. Your fingers scratch at his thighs and you gag, and instead of pulling back he shudders and pushes deeper.
Your eyes sting and you're making sounds you can't control—high, broken things—and you feel yourself starting to slip, the world going hazy at the edges, too much heat and too much Matt and—
Foggy snaps at him. "Matt. Hey. Off."
"I'm fine, she's fine—"
"Off. Now." It's the voice Foggy uses when he means it. Not Foggy being silly or Foggy being sweet, but the one who'll go to the mat for you without thinking twice. Matt goes still above you, breath heaving, and then reluctantly pulls out of your mouth.
You gasp, spluttering. Coughing. Your jaw aches and there's spit all down your chin. Matt sits back on his heels, his cock bobbing wet against his stomach, and he looks—chastened. Pouting, like a kid who's had his favorite toy taken away.
"She was fine," he mutters.
"She was crying."
"She liked it." You did.
"Not for you to decide, buddy." Foggy's slowed inside you but he hasn't pulled out, and his hand comes to your back, stroking affectionately. So gentle that it's at odds with the filthy state of you. "Hey. You okay, baby?"
You nod, still catching your breath. "M'okay. M'good. Really good."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, Fog, I promise."
Foggy looks down at you so tenderly, and he pulls out and the sudden emptiness makes you whine.
"C'mere," he says, shifting onto his back. "Come up here, baby. You ride me."
Yes. God, yes.
You crawl over him on shaky limbs—your knees are shot, thighs trembling—and Foggy's hands find your hips and guide you down. You sink down onto him and oh, oh— you always forget how thick he is until you're taking him from this angle, feeling yourself stretch and spread around the fat head of him.
"There you go," Foggy murmurs, stroking your sides lovingly. "You set the pace, okay? There you go, that's it. Take your time."
You don't though. With an impulsiveness you realize is more aligned with Matt, actually— you bottom out in one slow slide and Foggy groans beneath you, hands clamping down. You plant your palms on his chest and start to move.
The pace you set is filthy, almost punishing. You roll your hips and lift up until he almost slips out, before slamming back down. The two beds are definitely drifting apart beneath you, the gap at the seam widening with every bounce, and Foggy's hands are everywhere. Waist, your tits, your thighs.
"Fuck!" he says. "Fuck, baby, you feel so—"
Foggy's eyes are so dark they're almost black, and his hips start to rock up into you, hard.
You glance over your shoulder and find Matt where you left him—and he's got one hand wrapped around himself, working himself fast and rough. His lips are parted, brows drawn up, and he's making these soft little whimpers, as if he can't stand being excluded.
"Fog," he says, and his voice cracks.
So that's what Matt sounds like when he's desperate.
"Matt," Foggy says, not unkindly. Watching him.
Matt's hand drops from himself, shifting forward on his knees until he's pressing up against Foggy's leg, straddling it. Cock dragging against the sweaty muscle of Foggy's calf, and he starts to rut. Grinding himself into Foggy's leg like a dog, whining so reedily. You clench so hard around Foggy that he chokes.
"Jesus," Foggy breathes, watching Matt rub himself off on his leg. "Matt. Matt, hey, come here—"
"Wanna—" Matt's voice is barely there. He's flushed from his ears down to his strong stomach, and there's precome smeared all along Foggy's leg. "Foggy, I wanna—"
"I know you do, puppy. C'mere. Come up here."
Matt crawls up behind you again, and you feel his chest against your back. Bare and scorching skin. His cock presses into the curve of your ass, and he's so hard it must hurt. His mouth finds the crook of your neck and he whimpers against your pulse point.
And then he shifts, adjusting his angle. His cock slides down and nudges against where Foggy's already inside you.
You freeze.
"—Oh," you whimper.
"Mm," Matt mumbles against your throat, rubbing his cock along your entrance, right alongside Foggy's shaft.
"Matt, mm!"
"Please." It doesn't even sound like Matt anymore. "Please, I need—"
Foggy's looking up at you, and then past you, at Matt's face over your shoulder.
"Baby," he groans, "You could— You could let him in too."
Your heart's pounding in your chest. You can barely even think. "Both of— both of you?"
"Mm-hmm. Both of us."
"At the same... time...?"
"We'll—" Foggy's chest heaves. "We'll go slow. I promise. We'll go so slow, baby. What do you think?" He glances at Matt again. "I think you can take it. Can you take it for me, baby?"
You should say no. You're already stretched around Foggy and he's thick, and Matt isn't small—
"Yes," you say.
"Yeah?" His voice drops, so sweetly. "Okay?"
"Mm-hmm. Okay."
"Good girl." Foggy licks at his lips, and turns to Matt. "Okay, Matt. Slow, okay? You hear me? Slow and easy."
"I know, I know."
"She tells you to stop, stop."
"I'll stop. I'll stop." Matt's forehead drops to the back of your neck. You feel his breath shuddering out. "I promise, Foggy. I promise."
"Good boy."
Feeling him twitch hard against you, the blunt head of his cock nudges insistently at where you're already full. You breathe out. Trying to relax, to let yourself go soft— but it's hard. Every instinct's telling you there isn't room, there can't possibly.
Matt pushes in anyway.
Just the head, just the very tip of him. Pressing in alongside Foggy.
"Oh God—" Your nails dig into Foggy's shoulders. "Oh my God, oh fuck!"
"Breathe, baby. Breathe for me. It's a lot, huh?"
"Mmm..."
"Mmm. I know. I know it is, you're doing so good, huh? So brave."
Matt's hips push forward another inch and you cry out. Almost pained.
"Sorry, sorry—" Matt grits out, trembling against your back. You can feel the effort it takes him to not rut the way he was rutting before. "Sorry. I'll wait. I'm waiting."
You breathe. In, out, in, out. Foggy's still whispering to you, so good, Jesus, I'm so proud of you, baby—and you feel yourself softening. The stretch going from painfully full to something warm. You press your forehead against Foggy's collarbone and nod.
"Okay," you whisper. "Okay, I can take more."
Slowly, Matt slides all the way in, and all three of you stop breathing.
Full. You're so full it's like you can feel them everywhere. Foggy's cock and Matt's cock and the way they're pressed together inside you. Separated by nothing. Skin on skin through the slick squeezing of your body, feeling them against each other. They're so close together inside you that every movement's shared.
"Fog," Matt breathes into your shoulder. "Can feel you."
"I know, man. Can feel you too."
Matt presses a kiss into your cheek, more into your hair, really. "Can I move?"
You nod.
They don't coordinate, and they can't, you think—it feels too new and strange and overwhelmingly good. So what happens instead is a kind of stuttered rhythm. Matt pulls back and Foggy pushes up; Foggy drops, Matt thrusts forward—so that you're never empty. Never not full. One of them's always bottomed out inside you while the other slides against him.
The friction of them moving against each other in your cunt is—
You can't think anymore.
You're dripping. Around them, between them, all over Foggy's thighs. Every thrust pushes more out of you, slick and warm and running down your skin. They're both losing it. Foggy's hands bruise at your hips, pulling you down onto them both, and Matt's arms are locked around your waist from behind, his face buried in your hair.
"You're so good," Foggy pants up at you. This awful sticking melting heat's turned you fully stupid, and sweat is dripping from your chin onto Foggy's chest and he doesn't care. "You're so good, baby, you're taking both of us, you're perfect, you're—"
"Harder," you cry.
Matt answers; it seems he always answers when you tell him to be worse. His hips snap forward and Foggy's eyes fly wide because he can feel it—Matt's cock shoving alongside his own, the friction and the pressure doubling—and both of them groan in unison.
They find it, then. The rhythm. Not staggered anymore but together, both of them thrusting up into you at the same time, splitting you open on every upstroke, and you're not bouncing anymore, you're being fucked, held in place between their bodies and fucked open by two cocks that slide and press and rub against each other inside you with every stroke.
"Me too, buddy. Hold on. Baby—" Foggy grabs your chin and makes you look at him and his eyes are blown wide and desperate. "You close? Can you come for us?"
"Yeah—yes—please, Fog, please—"
"Come on, then. Let go for me. Let go."
So you do.
Like a wave. A wall. Like the floor dropping out from under you. It's these you feel, clenching so hard around both of them that Matt groans and Foggy's hips bow off the mattress as your cunt spasms around them, milking them, squeezing them together inside you.
"Fuck—fuck, baby, I'm—"
You can't tell anymore who comes first. At once, they're both pulsing inside you at almost the same time, filling you up from both sides. There's so much of it, and you sob against Foggy's chest and feel them throb as they empty into you.
And then it's very quiet after.
Quiet except for breathing.
Matt pulls out first, and you feel a rush of warmth follow him out. It drips down over Foggy where he's still inside you. Matt collapses beside you both like a marionette with its strings cut, spent arms splayed out, chest heaving.
"Holy shit," he pants to the ceiling.
Foggy lifts you gently, so gently and slips out of you himself, and another gush of warmth follows. It's running out of you in thick, lazy rivulets of white, pooling on the sheets and on Foggy's thighs.
"Oh my God," you mumble into the pillow. You genuinely can't move. Ruined and leaking cum onto the tragic beige sheet; you're never getting up again.
Maybe you were right; this is where they'll find your body after all.
Foggy tucks you against his side, his hand strokes up and down your arm. Your eyelids are already dragging shut.
"Hey, Matt?" Foggy says, after a minute. Matt lifts his head. "Wanna clean her up?"
There's a pause. A long one. Matt blinks, and wordlessly—he shifts down the bed.
You feel his hands on your thighs, parting them carefully. You shiver; you're so oversensitive you think a strong breeze could finish you off. He settles between your legs and you feel his hot breath ghost over you and you twitch.
"It's okay," Foggy murmurs into your hair. "Just let him. He's gonna take care of you."
Matt's mouth starts on you and you whimper. He's gentle this time, at least. There's none of the earlier show-off bravado, only slow, careful licks, cleaning you up, lapping at the mess of cum leaking out of your swollen, fucked-open cunt. His tongue dips inside you and you jerk, and Foggy's arm tightens around your shoulders. Holding you still.
"Good boy," Foggy says quietly, and it's directed at Matt.
You lie there and shake. Matt eats you out until there's nothing left to clean, and then he keeps going, just enough that a second orgasm catches you by surprise. It's just a soft, warming thing that barely makes you gasp, a slow tightening and release. Foggy presses a kiss to your forehead as you come down from it.
Matt crawls back up the mattress and collapses on Foggy's other side. He throws an arm across Foggy's chest and his fingertips brush your shoulder. The three of you lie there in the terrible heat, sweating and sticky and wrecked, breathing together.
"I can't believe," Foggy says slowly, staring at the ceiling, "that we just did that."
Matt grins, loose and lazy and entirely too pleased with himself, and you watch his hand find Foggy's on the mattress. Their fingers lace together. You drape your arm over Foggy's stomach and let your hand rest on top of theirs and nobody says anything about it.
"Hey, Matt," you say, drowsy.
"Hm."
"You're more than okay, you know."
A pause. Matt's fingers twitch against yours. He barks a laugh and says, "Yeah, you too."
a/n: average college dorm activities be like...
tagging ppl that have shown interest! @moth-murdock @sunshine-daydreams0809 @foxmurdock @lambmurdock @angelmurdock
and it doesn't even have to be a sexy one - sometimes it's just a bathroom selfie with messy bed hair, pj shorts, and an oversized sweatshirt with sleeves that go past your hands and you're just holding a cup of what he knows is overly sweet coffee and giving the camera a shy sleepy smile and frank has to literally rub his face and press his hips against the nearest surface so he doesn't pop a fucking boner in the middle of the goddamn pitt ...
... he barely makes it to the bathroom in time to snap a photo of the wet spot on his scrubs :(
... so that dunkin reader and dr shen right... the ones who accidentally share drinks.... what if they got really into spit kink without even realizing it...
you run into each other on a night off in some fun little bar your friends dragged you to. its busy, but its not a club; the music is low enough that you can easily listen to him talk.
"What are we drinking?" he jokes, gesturing to your cocktail.
"Chambord spritz." You hold the drink up for him, straws caught between two fingers
"I don't even know what that is." but Shen is already leaning down, taking the straw between his lips. When he drinks, they brush against your knuckles. "Strawberry?"
"Black raspberry," you say.
"Really? Let me try again." He takes another drink and this time his lips are pressed against your fingers purposefully.
"Don't drink it all!" The liquid is drained to the ice.
"Relax," Shen says. "You can have half of mine."
His drink doesn't have a straw, so he has to hold it up and tip it into your mouth. You get a good mouthful before he pulls it back. lipstick sticks to the glass.
"This is why people think we're fucking," you murmur.
"Yeah," his eyes flicker down to your lips as he runs his tongue over the lipstick stain. "It is."
Oh, you're way too many drinks in now. Dr. Shen -God, you're blanking on his first name right now and it's killing you- has his hand on your lower back, pulling you in much too close for coworkers. Every now and again, he runs his knuckles up to your open back as a casual touch and tease, always trailing back down to the same spot on your hips.
"The drink?" It's more crowded now; he has to lean in to hear you. His breath smells like Chambord. The two of you stopped ordering separate drinks three glasses ago, now just sipping from the same damn cup. "It's good."
"No," you shake your head. "You like that people think we're fucking."
"Oh. Well, yeah." He's not bothered in the slightest. He takes around sip of the drink, then turns the straw your way and you obediently drink. You're both trashed: his body is flushed red, from ears the chest, and his eyes are glazed over and wet. "Duh."
"Why?"
"Why do you think?" His forehead bonks against yours and you're 100% sure it was by mistake. "People think I'm fucking a hot nurse. What's not to like?"
Your mouth moves much faster than your brain. "You could just fuck me?'
His forehead hits yours again and, for some odd reason, it makes your pussy unreasonably wet.
"What? I can't hear you."
It's a chance to take it back, but you can't seem to shut up, not when your body is so needy-
"We could--" you stammer this time. "We could actually fuck."
Again, he leans closer, a grin creeping over his face. "What?"
"You should fuck-"
His mouth finds yours midsentence, catching you open mouthed and vocal. It's spitty and wet and fueled more with desperation than skill, but in a way that has you wet in the knees. You mean weak in your panties. Or--
Your brain is giving up on you. All you can do is kiss him back, hand clutching at his jaw, the other tugging at his shirt. You suck on his tongue like you're a teenager alone of the first time, not a grown woman in a bar-
And then there's voices around you.
There's multiple iterations of "She's too drunk!" and "She can't go home with you!"
Your dear, lovely friends, are pulling you away with nervous laughter. It takes you a second to realize what they're doing.
"No, it's okay, he's my Doctor!" you try to explain, but they're having none of it.
"It's okay-" he slurs. "I'm too drunk-"
The night gets blurry from there.
The next day, at work, you're incredibly hungover.
Judging from his face, Dr. Shen is too. The both of you spend the shift absolutely running (your only break was when you threw up in the women's bathroom because you smelled alcohol on a patient's breath). You try and avoid having him in the room with you, but there's a few overlaps where neither of you can meet each other's eyes.
Shen doesn't even acknowledge you until you're both walking out.
"It's weird now, isn't it?" he says out right.
"Yeah." You scuff your sneaker against the concrete ramp. "Can you imagine if we actually fucked?"
"Oh," he pops his lips. "I did."
You turn separate ways: him to his car, you towards the bus stop.
"What was that?"
"I did imagine fucking you."
"I can't hear you."
His eyes go wide when he realizes you're teasing him. Shen glances around, checking for coworkers or eavesdroppers, then turns back to you, tongue running over his canine.
"I've imagined fucking you into the mattress," he says with his full chest. "Every shift. For months."
summary: abbot offers up his house for a simple family bbq to help you out of a jam...unfortunately, neither of you are capable of keeping it simple.
warnings: smut! fingering, abbot jizzing in his pants, porn but with a lot of plot & build up, tension, inappropriate thoughts, masturbation implied & discussed, alcohol consumption, minor injury (small cut), petty abbot because he snatches r's phone, brat tamer abbot if you squint?? he likes to mock you okay???? slight angst at the end :)
wc: 9.5k
Now that you’re actually standing in front of it, it’s…offensively small.
You tilt your head like that might miraculously improve the situation, like there’s some hidden angle where this becomes a perfectly reasonable barbecue and not what looks like a prop from a dollhouse garden party. As if, with enough optimism and a slight squint, the laws of physics will rearrange themselves out of sheer pity.
Because your freezer currently sits enough food to cater a mid-sized wedding.
And your patio?
A grill that could maybe handle…four sausages. Five if they’re prepared to be very close.
You exhale slowly, hands on your hips as you realise you’ve made a catastrophic, deeply public planning error. There has to be a system. A rotation. A schedule. Some kind of… grilled meat tetris.
You glance back at the freezer like it might offer solutions. It does not. It sits there, smug and overstocked.
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “This is fine. This is workable. People love waiting for food…People expect to wait for food.”
Except your siblings are the least patient people you know.
And just to make matters worse, a knock sounds at the door. You know it’s Abbot because he generously offered to give you a hand with the grill after you mentioned hosting your family in passing, like he had absolutely nothing better to do on a Saturday night.
Now it’s feeling less like generosity on his behalf, and more like you accidentally inviting him to a very unfortunate comedy show.
You hover for a second, hoping if you wait long enough, he’ll go away.
He doesn’t. He just knocks again.
You smooth your hands down your shorts, the denim rough enough against your palms to remind you to breathe. It’ll be fine. Everyone can just mingle in your tiny garden while they wait approximately four hours for dinner. Great. This is exactly the way to show your family how firmly you have your life together.
You make your way to the front door and pull it open to find Abbot standing there, fingers hooked around a bag you assume has something useful in it—like tongs, or maybe the competence you seem to be lacking. You’d take two of those right now.
“Hey,” you greet in a tone that reeks of desperation.
“Hi.” There’s a slight raise in his brow, like he’s already caught on that something here is…off.
“Come in.” You move to the side, gesturing him in.
He nods and walks through. You close the door behind him, your back mounting to it as you watch him take the place in, realising this is the first time he’s ever been inside.
Momentarily, you feel like you’re under an imaginary microscope, like you’ve been set out in the sun, quietly examined and a little overexposed all at once. Except there’s no microscope, no audience.
Just Abbot.
And the glass of wine you indulged in earlier, which is currently doing a fantastic job of making you feel about three degrees warmer than necessary, and significantly more aware of your own existence than you’d like.
You’re not sure what he’s going to think of your home. It’s smaller than his, you know that much without asking. It’s cluttered but in a lived in kind of way, everything has a purpose or a memory attached to it. You’d love to tell him some of those stories, walk him through it properly, if you had the time…or if you were sure he wanted to hear them.
He probably doesn’t.
And you definitely don’t have time.
“Cute place.”
“Cute?” you repeat, a smile pulling at your lips. “Is that your way of dressing up the word small?”
“No.” His gaze drifts around once more, slower this time, like he’s actually taking it in rather than passing through. Then it settles back on you. “It’s cute. Very you.”
That annoyingly lands somewhere you weren’t prepared for.
You blow air from your nose, glancing away as if the console table requires your full attention. “Right. Well I’m glad my personality translates into…square footage.”
There’s the faintest hint of amusement in his expression. “That’s not what I said.”
“That’s what I heard.”
He watches you like could argue if he wanted to, but he doesn’t.
You clear your throat, deciding you need air. And to also rip the band-aid off already, because you’ve made Abbot clear his schedule to help you out, when in reality you won’t be needing his help at all.
Unless he’s particularly skilled at dialling for takeaway.
“Anyways,” you say briskly, turning to the back door. “Let me show you what we’re working with.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
You’re absolutely blaming the glass of wine for the effect those two words have on you, trying to desperately ignore the way your brain’s decided now’s a good time to develop new problems.
You step outside first, the warm air hitting your skin, and wait for him to come up beside you. When he does—close enough to be mildly distracting—you gesture flatly towards the root of all your issues. “There she is.”
He looks.
There’s a faint pause.
“She’s, um—”
“Cute?” you supply, nudging his arm with your elbow.
“I was going to say compact.”
“It’s second hand,” you reply, because that feels like important context. Of course you were going to buy a second hand grill. Why wouldn’t you? You’d much rather spend your money on something you’ll actually get use out of. This was supposed to be a practical, sensible, one-time summer purchase.
It is now very clearly the opposite of that.
“It looked bigger before I picked it up,” you add, because his silence is doing absolutely nothing for your need to stop explaining yourself. “Please say something before I finish the bottle of wine I started.”
“I’m thinking.”
“It’s not that big of a deal, right? I’ll just do, like, ten rounds of grilling and keep everything wrapped in foil to keep it warm. It’s hot as hell out so stuff would probably stay warm enough anyway?”
He finally meets your gaze.
“...No.”
You blink. “No?”
“No.”
You stare at him, cheek caught between your teeth. “Wow. Okay. That was…very immediate.”
“You’ll have people waiting too long between rounds,” he says calmly. “Half of it will go cold. The rest will be overcooked.”
“Great.” You throw your hands up. “Just kill me now, then. Put me out of my misery.”
There’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“I will never hear the end of this,” you continue, reaching for your empty wine glass and topping it up from the bottle beside it. “They don’t take me seriously enough as it is—” you take a quick sip, like it might soften the blow of what you’re about to admit, “—and they’re constantly expecting me to mess things up before I’ve even started. Perks of being the youngest, apparently. Comes with its own very specific set of stereotypes”
You glance at the grill, then back at him. “And this will absolutely prove them right.”
“Have it at my house,” he offers breezily and you almost drop your glass.
“Sorry?”
“It’ll be easier,” he explains, like he’s just suggesting you move a chair. “More space. Proper grill.”
“That would mean my entire family going to your house.”
“Yes.”
“And you being there.”
“I live there.”
You narrow your eyes. “I don’t think you realise what you’re suggesting. It’s not just my parents coming. Well, it was at first and then my siblings decided to invite themselves and I’m fairly certain their partners also got swept in without my consent.”
“And you couldn’t say no?”
You let out a disbelieving laugh. “No, absolutely not. But you can. Please say no to this.”
He doesn’t even look slightly concerned. “I’m not saying no.”
“Why not?”
“Because it solves your problem.”
“We’re not at work.” You set the wine glass down, like it might help you regain better control of the conversation and his absolute ludicrous idea. “You don’t have to solve my problems.”
He tilts his head like he’s considering that, then steps closer to the grill to give it another once-over. His fingers drag lightly over the metal bars, testing them, like there’s still a chance this thing might redeem itself under a second opinion.
It does not.
“Well,” he says, almost absently, “if it makes you feel any better, you’re rarely creating problems for me at work, so just let me give you a hand with this one.”
You stare at him, then gesture vaguely between him and the grill. “But don’t you think it’d be weird? What am I meant to say to them?”
“That we work together. That I’ve got the space and offered to host. That’s it.”
“You’re making this sound so simple,” you scoff, shaking your head.
“Because it is simple. I’m offering a solution. Take it. We’ll load up my truck with what you need and go.”
“And you don’t think they’ll assume things?” You almost cringe as the words leave your mouth, it sounds so juvenile, like something you should’ve outgrown years ago.
“Assume what?” he presses, and you don’t know if he’s genuinely not following or if the last several months have just been you reading into things he hasn’t seen nor reciprocated.
“Nothing!” you blurt out quickly, downing the rest of your wine like it might undo the last ten seconds. “I’m being stupid and I’m out of options so I guess we can have it at your house—if you’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Great. Amazing. Perfect.” You set the glass down again, and walk past him, heading into the kitchen, because if you stay in this conversation for even a second longer, you’re not entirely convinced you'll make it through this BBQ—or your next shift with Abbot—without saying something you absolutely cannot take back.
You had texted the family group chat about the change of plans, keeping the message short, light, casual, even if your brain has refused to get on board with that narrative.
Because there are, conservatively, about a hundred reasons as to why this is a terrible idea. Reasons that all seem to be shouting over each other the longer you think about it. Starting with the fact that if there is anyone capable of turning a harmless situation into something more layered and deeply inconvenient, it’s your family.
Who are now going to be meeting Abbot.
Your boss.
Who you might be slightly crushing on.
And your earlier exchange?
Yeah. That did an excellent job of confirming that’s very much a one sided situation.
“You’re sure you don’t need me to drop by the store first?” he asks.
You’re not sure if he’s looking at you because you angled your body away from him about ten minutes ago, in a very deliberate attempt to not be distracted.
It hasn’t been working.
If anything, it’s considerably worse, because you’re now hyperaware of everything you’re trying not to look at. The way his sun-warmed arms flex as he adjusts his grip on the wheel, the sleeve of his black shirt sitting snug around his bicep. The completely unbothered way he’s driving, like this is exactly what he had planned to do with his day off.
“No.” You risk a glance at him, only to find his eyes already on you before they flick back to the road. “I pretty much emptied my fridge into the back of your truck, so we should be sorted.”
He hums like that checks out. “Alright.”
“You still haven’t changed your mind?”
He glances at you again. “About?”
You stare at him.
You’re not sure if he’s doing this on purpose, but it feels like he is. Like he’s deliberately backing you into saying things out loud. Making you name them, lay them out clearly instead of hiding behind vague gestures and half-formed sentences.
It’s incredibly annoying.
Because it has your mind drifting to…other situations where he might take the same approach. You picture him for a brief second, between your legs, the way he’d look at you expectantly, waiting until you spelled it out for him.
Like he’d make you tell him exactly what you want.
Exactly how you want it.
And look at him while you do it.
“Oh my god,” you mutter out loud, the thought hitting you all at once. You shift in your seat, pressing your thighs together like that might physically cancel your brain.
“Everything okay?”
“No. No—” you shake your head quickly, turning to the window like the outside world has suddenly become fascinating. “I think we need to stop by the store.”
“You just said you had everything.”
“Why are you asking so many questions today?” You turn to face him, and you’re pretty sure you’re glaring now, because he is officially on your last damn nerve.
“That wasn’t a question.”
You inhale slowly and manifest restraint because he doesn’t deserve you snapping at him, but he’s also been the leading cause in your rapid mental decline today. “My mistake.” You tack on a smile that feels convincing for a second before it slips, the corners of your mouth dropping almost immediately. “I’m not sure I’ve got everything for the salad, so if you wouldn’t mind stopping by the store, that’d be great.”
He laughs under his breath, turning on the indicator. “I love the customer service voice.”
“I’m not doing a customer service voice.”
“You are. It’s very polite.”
You blink at him, lips parting like you’re about to argue it, then stopping when you realise there’s probably no winning this.
“Can you stop by the store or not?” you ask instead, folding your arms across your chest.
“Of course,” he answers easily. “You’re the boss today.”
You don’t dignify that with a response, mostly because you’re too busy being relieved when he finally pulls into the car park. You need to get out of his truck that smells exactly like him and into somewhere with actual air conditioning. Not that his truck doesn't have it—it does—but he seems to be absorbing all of its effects, leaving you to slowly overheat in his general vicinity.
You unclip and fling off your seatbelt, grab your purse but pause when you catch him doing the same out of the corner of your eye.
“What’re you doing?”
“Going to the store? What’s with all the questions?”
“No you’re not,” you reply, pointing at him. “You’re staying here.”
“Am I?
“Yes.”
“And why’s that?” he questions with a lazy smirk, and you can feel yourself inching closer to just smothering him with your bag for the sake of peace and quiet.
“Because I’m the boss today.” You give him a smug, entirely fake smile before climbing out of his vehicle and shutting the door with just a little more force than usual.
You power walk to the store and once inside, head straight for the freezer section. You pull open one of the large glass doors and just stand there for a minute, relishing in the cool air.
This is exactly what you get. A direct consequence of your own poor planning, which you don’t usually do. But today, of all days, everything seems to be going from bad to worse.
Starting with your brilliant idea to save money by buying a second hand grill without actually seeing it in person first. Then not having the heart to say no to the poor old woman selling it when it turned out to be…that. Then not saying no to the ever-expanding guest list. Then not saying no to hosting this entire disaster of a night at Abbot’s house.
And now, just to round things up nicely, you can’t even seem to keep a lid on your own feelings.
You can do this, you tell yourself. You handle crises everyday at work, actual ones, where people depend on you. This? This doesn’t even come close to being half as bad as your worst shift. This is just a barbecue. All you need to do is put on your big girl pants, get through the night, and never speak of it again.
With a deep breath in, you shut the freezer door, ignoring the judgemental look from one of the workers, and try to source the supposed salad ingredients you’re missing.
By the time you’re paying, you feel calmer, like your head has finally been screwed on right, and that there’s a small chance of you getting through this night without another existential breakdown.
You try to hang on to that same thought as you make your way back to Abbot’s car, digging out a pair of sunglasses to wear for the rest of the journey. Avoiding eye contact should be significantly easier with a barrier.
“Got everything?”
“Mhm.” You keep it short as you climb back into the passenger seat and place the bag between your feet like everything is perfectly normal.
When Abbot pulls into his driveway, you realise there are a lot of firsts happening today—you’ve never been to his house before either.
You take it in as the truck slows, your gaze dragging over the place in pieces, trying not to make it obvious. You'd been right in thinking it’ll be much bigger than yours, because from the outside it looks like your place could slot neatly into a corner of his and still leave plenty of room to spare.
The house is framed with tidy hedges and a curved driveway. It’s dipped in a warm golden wash from the late sun, the light catching on the windows and casting long shadows across the patio that actually looks used.
You can almost picture him out there in the evenings. On his own, or maybe with Robby. Something cold in his hand, leaning back like he’s got nowhere else to be.
You’re already a little too curious to see the garden. He lives far enough out that it feels quiet, tucked away from everything, and the front looks well kept that you’re almost certain the back will look even better.
That’s your dream one day. To have a big stretch of green out the back that you could look out over from your bedroom window in the mornings. You imagine stepping out barefoot, the grass still damp beneath you. You’d have a little table, with mismatched chairs you tell yourself you’d replace but never do. Maybe something growing, even if it’s just herbs you’d forget to use anyway.
You think about hosting without overthinking it. People just…spreading out, drinks in hand, no one hovering awkwardly because there isn’t enough room. The kind of evenings that go on a little longer because no one is in a rush to leave.
Or just to soak up the sun on days like this.
“Ready to go?”
Abbot's voice breaks you from your daydream, and you shift in your seat like you’ve ended up somewhere you weren’t supposed to go.
“Yeah,” you clear your throat, reaching up to remove your sunglasses. “Beautiful house.”
He glances at you briefly, then back at the front of the house like he’s seeing it through your eyes. “It does the job.”
“Does it very well.”
You step out into the warm air, a light breeze slipping past you, and your attention follows Abbot as he rounds the truck. And just like that, your mind does that thing again, wandering somewhere it absolutely shouldn’t.
You picture it a little too easily for your liking, a day like today, minus the chaos. What it’d feel like coming back home from a grocery run, a truck filled with nothing in particular. The domestic bliss of unpacking, then sitting in the garden, something simple on the grill.
You can see yourself curled into him on the patio, the air dropping a few degrees, a glass of wine somewhere nearby, his hand resting absentmindedly on your waist. Maybe you’d end up in his lap, talking about nothing, or everything, it doesn’t really matter because you’d be doing it with him.
These thoughts leave your stomach sinking because that’s all they are, just the results of chemical activity moving across the brain that you’ve inconveniently grown attached to. There’s nothing real or solid behind them.
“Where do you want everything?” you ask with a huff, grabbing the grocery bag from the front seat.
Abbot doesn’t answer straight away.
You feel it before you look up, the sense of being watched. When you glance over, he’s already looking at you like he’s trying to figure something out, like he’s somehow got your pathetic little fantasy down, and is rethinking every decision that’s led him here.
Your stomach continues to drop.
“Kitchen?” you add, because silence suddenly feels like the worst possible outcome here.
He looks at you a little longer before he nods, going back to unloading his truck. “Yeah. Through there.”
You return his nod and make way to the front door, shifting the grocery bag higher on your hip. Your hand finds the handle, the same moment you realise the door’s not even unlocked.
You turn to call for him only to end up bumping straight into his chest.
“Shit—” The word slips out as you stumble, your grip tightening on the shopping bag to keep everything from spilling.
“Got you,” he says, his hand settling at your waist, steadying you before you can lose your balance. It’s a simple gesture, except your mind has that deeply irritating habit of taking simple things and turning them into something they’re not.
“Sorry,” he adds as an afterthought. “Should’ve given you the keys.”
You nod even though the apology seems misplaced, your attention snagging somewhere else entirely. On the warmth of his hand. The way it hasn’t quite moved yet. How easily it could slip under your shirt so you could feel him on your skin. Properly.
“It’s fine.” Which is both true and very much not.
His hand drops then, his focus shifting to the door and getting it open. You move to the side to give him space trying to collect yourself all over again.
“Kitchen’s just straight ahead,” he tells you, gesturing you in once the door swings open.
Inside, the house is spacious, with dark wood floors and barn-like furniture. It’s less cluttered than yours, with only a few things slightly out of place. You step in slowly, taking everything in. You’re not sure when you’ll next ever get a chance to visit, so you selfishly take a little longer to wander through, noticing the few pictures and trinkets he has scattered around.
When you reach the kitchen you place the shopping bag and your purse on the marble counter, fully intending to head back out and give Abbot a hand with the other bags, but you stall once you get a view of the garden through the glass French doors leading out from the kitchen.
Well-kept grass stretches out for what looks like miles, the edges framed with low trees and shrubs. There’s even a small greenhouse tucked to one side. It looks too tidy to be in use, but you imagine how it might look filled anyway. Further back, there’s a perfectly sized outdoor kitchen, with a large grill and enough counter space to move around comfortably.
So this is where he disappears to when he’s not at work.
“Is it okay?”
You turn a little too quickly at the sound of Abbot’s voice, like he’s caught you doing something you shouldn’t. Your brows pull together, because you’re not entirely sure what he’s asking is okay.
“The house,” he clarifies, shifting the bags in his hands like he’s suddenly aware of how that sounded. “For tonight.”
“Oh.” You glance back at the garden, then around the kitchen. “Yeah. No, it’s—” you gesture vaguely, because there are too many ways to describe it and none of them feel casual enough, “—more than okay.”
He nods once, like that’s all he needed, and moves further into the kitchen to set the bags down beside yours before he’s going out again.
You’re almost finished with the salad when the knife decides your finger might be a better addition than the cherry tomatoes. It’s so quick it almost feels hypothetical, but then the sting registers and your finger flies straight to your mouth, like that’s the only medical training you’ve managed to retain.
There’s already a metallic taste spreading across your tongue, blood pooling faster than you’d like, making you wince.
“Oh, for the love of god,” you mutter, searching for the paper towels and your brain, which might be lounging on the kitchen counter somewhere, soaking up the sun streaming in through the windows, because clearly it’s not being put to any practical use.
And just so the universe could curse you some more, you hear Abbot walking back in.
Great.
You immediately turn your back to him because he doesn’t need any more reasons to think you’re incompetent.
“Everything okay?”
“Mhm,” you hum, because you still haven’t spotted the paper towels and are stuck sucking your finger like that’s a reasonable long-term solution.
“Grill’s coming along,” he continues and you can feel him moving behind you, followed by the rip of the said paper towels. “Got it up to temperature, just needs a few more minutes before I start putting anything else on. Should all be ready in time.”
“Mm, that’s good. Thank you.” You decide to face him, and immediately regret it because you hadn’t realised how close he was. “Could I have one of those?”
You reach for the roll but he doesn’t hand it over.
“You’ve cut yourself.”
“Yes. I’ve already added it to my list of incompetencies today. It’s fine. Very minor.”
“Give me your hand.”
You hesitate, because that feels like an escalation for something you’ve just described as very minor.
“It’s really no big—”
“Give me your hand,” he repeats, reaching for your wrist.
You exhale and let it happen, relaxing your hold as he draws your hand towards him, the crimson gathering along the cut in a way that suddenly looks far more dramatic under proper light.
He tosses his used paper towels on the counter and rips a few new sheets. “Here, hold that. I’ll get you a plaster,” he instructs, pressing them against your finger before turning and disappearing down the corridor.
You stand there, listening to the sound of a cupboard door opening and then closing, something unzipping and then zipping until his footsteps make their way back to you again.
You watch the quick and efficient way he frees the plaster of its wrapper and you’re instinctively holding out your finger, letting him wrap it neatly around the cut. His thumb runs along the edges, making sure it’s properly stuck down.
“Thank you.”
He meets your eyes. “You have—” he lifts his thumb to your chin, the pad of it brushing gently along your skin “—a little blood there.”
Your mouth parts, breath catching somewhere on the way out. You feel him move closer, his touch tracing up to the corner of your mouth carefully, like he’s not sure how far he’s allowed to go, but isn’t stopping himself from finding out.
It’s nothing. You were standing there with dried blood on your chin—he’s just being kind.
But your traitorous mind immediately offers up a list of alternatives for what he could be doing with that exact same touch, and you have to physically dig the heels of your feet into your sandals to stop yourself from leaning into it.
“There.” He retracts his hand, and once again you’re mourning the loss of contact.
You nod your thanks to him and turn back to the counter, picking up the knife again so you can finish your salad. “So, is the grill behaving?” you manage, which is frankly lousy small talk considering you couldn’t care less about the grill right now.
He clears his throat. “Yeah. Heat’s holding. I’ll start with the sausages, get a good sear on them, then move them over so they don’t dry out.”
“Love a man with a plan,” you mutter out loud, which was definitely supposed to be retained as an internal thought.
Silence fills the space and you freeze, knife hovering uselessly over the cutting board. You hear some shuffling behind you, maybe him binning the paper towels and the plaster wrapper, or maybe he’s just giving you a second to realise what you’ve said.
“Good to know.”
Your phone vibrates in your back pocket, followed by a ping, and you’ve never been more grateful for technology in your life. You wipe your hand on your shorts before pulling it out, unlocking it a little too quickly.
Dad: We’re running late, honey. Hotel’s messed up our rooms…long story. Still trying to sort it with reception. Will message you when we’re on our way…
“They’re running late,” you mumble, a welcome exhale slipping out.
“I’ll hold off on the sausages. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, just some mix up with the rooms at the hotel.” You tuck your phone away and dump the rest of the tomatoes in the bowl giving it a halfhearted stir.
“You’re putting them up in a hotel?”
“Well, yes. Should I let them pick a corner to sleep in at my house instead?”
He smiles at you and you feel some of the tension ease out of your shoulders, as though you've been waiting for permission to relax this entire time.
“I’m all done with the prep on my side, and since they’ll probably be a little while…would it be absurd if I used your shower?”
“Yes. It would be absolutely absurd.”
He’s mocking you. Funny.
“Right. I’ll just stand in your garden and hose myself down instead, shall I?”
“No complaints on my side.”
Now he’s…flirting?
“Sure. Let me just get out of these clothes—” You bring a hand down to your shorts, fingers hooking at the waistband because apparently two can play this game.
“Bathroom’s just down the hall,” he cuts in quickly.
You grin at him. “Thank you.”
“Spare towels are in the cabinet.” His hand comes up to drag across his mouth, thumb catching briefly against his stubble as he watches you bend and grab one of the tote bags on the floor with your clothes inside.
“Thanks,” you add again, more out of habit than anything else, before turning towards the hallway.
“Mm.”
The sound follows you as you walk away, and once again you’re stuck dissecting every interaction you’ve had with him today. It’s enough to give you whiplash. One minute he’s distant, the next he’s standing far too close to be friendly, touching your face like it’s nothing. You don’t know where you stand with him, and moments like this don’t exactly help.
You make your way down the hallway, your grip tightening on the tote bag as your thoughts spiral, circling the same questions with absolutely no answers.
What was that?
Does he even realise he’s doing it?
You push the bathroom door open, and step inside. For a second you just stand there, because that’s easier than thinking but that doesn’t seem to last long.
Dumping your tote bag on the counter, you turn to the shower. It’s walk-in, with enough space to move around freely, and a built-in seat tucked into one corner with handlebars nearby. There’s an overhead shower as well as a handheld one clipped to the side, which you’re immediately grateful for because you definitely don’t have time to deal with washing your hair.
After locating the towels, you strip out of your clothes and once you’re under the water, you realise you’re stuck using his shower products because you’d only planned for an outfit change, not a full reset.
Now you get to smell like him even when you’re not near him.
You’re hoping the shower washed away all your inappropriate Abbot-related thoughts along with the sweat and stress of the day. You don’t entirely trust that it has, but you dry off and get dressed regardless.
On cue, your phone pings with a message from your father to say everyone’s on their way. Just one more push and this whole shit show of an evening will be over. Easy. Completely manageable. Light work.
Before you even reach the kitchen, you can smell the grill, and when you do, you notice the dining table has already been set. Something in your chest dips a little at the sight. How he’s gone to all this effort for you and your family without questioning it twice.
You shake it off, physically, like that might dislodge the feeling before it can settle anywhere inconvenient, heading for the fridge instead. You grab two beers, popping them open against each other and follow the smell outside.
The humidity hasn’t let up. It's still the clinging type and you can already feel a new sheet of sweat forming on your skin the closer you get to the grill. Abbot has his back turned to you, one hand resting on his hip, while the other works the tongs with an ease that suggests he knows exactly what he’s doing.
He looks unfairly attractive just by doing the most mundane task—just by existing.
You slow your step without meaning to. Which is embarrassing.
You stop a few steps short, watching him, like your body’s decided this is worth savouring, and you hate that there’s something about him that manages to calm your nerves and make you feel like they’re running laps all at the same time.
There’s probably a scientific explanation for it. Some chemical imbalance, some misfiring signal in your brain that’s confused admiration with something far less convenient.
He turns to you, and you force your feet to move before you risk looking like a complete creep.
“Thought you could do with something cold,” you say, holding out the beer to him.
“Perfect timing,” he replies, reaching for it, his fingers brushing against yours. “How was the shower?”
“Necessary,” you quip, setting your beer and phone down on the counter so you can hoist yourself up onto it. It’s probably not the smartest place to settle, perched this close to the grill, but you do it anyway.
He watches as you shift into place, not even trying to be subtle about it either. His gaze dips, catching onto the strip of skin revealed by the slit of your sundress, then drags back up again like it’s something he has to consciously pull away from.
“You look nice,” is all he manages before shifting his focus back to the grill.
“Thank you. And thanks again for doing all of this. You’ve gone through so much trouble and I don’t even know where to begin in repaying you.”
He huffs at that, turning one of the sausages over with the tongs. “You don’t need to repay me.”
“Mm,” you hum, letting your foot swing idly against the cabinet, making no effort to cover up the exposed skin he was looking at earlier. “I’d like to.”
“Yeah?”
You tilt your head, watching him the way he’s been watching you, then reach for your beer and take a slow sip before answering. “Yeah.”
“You always like having the last word?”
You lower the bottle, meeting his eyes. “You asked a question, didn’t you?”
“Thought you had a problem with those today.”
You grin at him. “Think I’m over it now.”
“Is that so?”
You nod, taking another sip.
“Okay,” he drags out, setting his tongs down before ripping off a paper towel to wipe his hands with. “You want to tell me why you were acting weird in the car?”
“I can tell you exactly why I was acting weird in the car, but you’d have to tell me something first.” You’re not sure where all this bravery is coming from, certainly not the lukewarm beer acting as liquid courage.
He raises his brows with a small smile as he walks past you where you’re perched on the counter, and reaches into a cabinet beside you for a plate. “Go on. I did say you’re the boss today.”
“Why go through all this trouble?”
He opens his mouth to answer, but you stop him by lifting a finger just as he turns back towards you, a plate in hand. Your finger hovers somewhere between his chest and the idea of touching him, and his eyes drop again, predictably, to the stretch of bare skin where your thigh is exposed, right between where he’s standing.
“I don’t want the same answer as earlier,” you add, lowering your hand, your knees parting just a little wider without making it obvious. “Because it’s bullshit.”
For a moment he doesn’t respond, but you’re not panicking. It's probably because you can tell you’ve nudged something, pressed a spot he’d probably rather you didn’t find.
He takes a step closer.
You feel the plate before you register what he’s doing. The cold edge of it presses lightly against your thigh, a contrast that makes your breath catch before you can smooth it out. Your skin warms it up almost instantly, but that’s not what holds your attention.
It’s his hand. Still there. Still keeping the plate pressed to you.
“Bullshit?”
You swallow, which is annoying, because you hadn’t planned on that being noticeable. You gather what’s left of your composure and try again, aiming for even. Landing somewhere just adjacent. “Yeah.”
“Then ask properly.”
Your hands stay braced on the edge of the counter, your knees now parted enough to fit him in between them perfectly, the plate still pressed to your thigh.
You let out a slow breath, trying to unknot your fuzzy thoughts, but it’s harder than it should be with him this close.
“Ask properly,” he says again, softer this time, like he's not in a rush for you to answer.
You glance down at where the plate meets your thigh, and catch the way his other free hand comes to rest on your knee. You feel your whole body light up at his touch, something fluttering low in your stomach and spreading out from there before you can do anything about it.
“Why,” you start, your voice wavering, “are you doing all of this…for me?”
He removes the plate, setting it beside you, both of his hands coming to rest on your knees.
“You think I do things I don’t want to do?”
You swallow again, forcing yourself to hold his gaze. “No.”
“Then that’s your answer.”
“That’s not an answer,” you push, a little breathless now. “You can’t answer my question with a question.”
“You want me to answer it properly?”
You nod, because words have completely abandoned you at this point.
“I did it because I wanted you here.”
You don’t quite know where to file that information.
There’s no neat place for it to sit, no category your brain can quickly shove it into so you can move on and pretend this is all normal, because want is a dangerous word.
It’s not polite or distant or easily explained away. It doesn’t leave much room for interpretation, and that’s the problem. You’ve been working with interpretation all day, picking at glances and half-answers and things that could mean something or nothing depending on how brave you felt.
Your fingers press harder into the edge of the counter, and you look at him to check if he actually said it, because maybe you imagined it the same way you’ve been imagining everything else.
He’s still there, looking at you like there’s absolutely nothing for him to regret or take back.
“Not the answer you were hoping for?”
“No.” You shake your head, hands slipping from the counter to rest over his where they sit on your knees. Your fingers find his without much thought as you drag his hands up to your waist. “It’s exactly the answer I was hoping for.”
Abbot’s grip tightens, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip, but he doesn’t pull away. “This is a bad idea.”
“Yeah,” you murmur, not arguing it. “But I haven’t even told you what I was thinking of in the car.”
“Jesus,” he hisses under his breath. “You should go back inside. Your family could be turning up any minute.”
“You want me to leave? I thought you wanted me here?” you press smugly.
“I need you to go inside,” he replies, more firmly now. His hands don’t leave you right away, instead they slide leisurely from your waist, down along your hips, over your thighs, until his fingers briefly press into the skin just above your knees.
Then he lets go, taking a step back like that’s going to fix anything.
Before you can come up with something smart, your phone starts vibrating against the counter.
You grab it, clearing your throat before answering. “Hi, Dad.”
“We’re outside, honey.”
“Okay,” you say lightly, sliding off the counter, taking one last look at Abbot—more specifically at his very evident hard on—before you’re tuning away. “Now coming.”
“That went well, don’t you think?” Abbot’s voice sounds behind you as you finish rinsing the glasses.
He’s right. It did go well. Suspiciously well. And you’re not entirely sure whether you’re glad or irritated with how easily he seemed to slot into your family. Objectively, it’s a good thing. In practice, it’s…inconveniant. Especially considering the way you two left things before they came over.
You’re tempted to ask what he spent so long discussing with your father outside at one point. It had gone on long enough to make you nervous. You could’ve gone out there, hovered and earwigged—you’d even considered it for a full ten seconds before deciding to pour yourself another glass of wine.
Surprisingly, no one had thrown any inconvenient questions or accusations your way. They all left thinking that Abbot is just some cool guy you work with. A totally laid-back, easy going boss…that you’ve spent the entire night thinking about screwing.
You nod, switching the tap off. “Sorry for the mess.”
“Didn’t notice one.”
“That’s because I just spent the last half hour cleaning it up.”
You turn to reach for a towel at the exact same time he steps in to place something in the sink, and just like that, you’re back in that position you seem to keep finding yourselves in, like there’s some invisible thread pulling you into the same orbit whether you mean to or not.
You hesitate for a moment, then abandon the towel altogether and wipe your hands on your dress instead, gathering the fabric as you do, letting it ride up slightly before pulling it back down, just enough to expose your cleavage more so than before.
Whatever Abbot had dumped in the sink is forgotten instantly, his attention narrowing straight down to you.
“You didn’t have to.”
“Yeah, well,” you shrug casually, “it’s the least I can do. You’ll finally be able to have your place to yourself.” You turn to reach for your phone. “I’ll call myself an Uber and be out of your hair.”
There’s a pause, giving you enough time for you to open up the app.
“Out of my hair?”
His tone makes you pause and you glance back over your shoulder.
He seems…tense.
“Well, yes Abbot. I’m not planning to crash at your place, you’ve done enough for me today.”
“Right.” He nods, but there’s an edge to the word and it has you raising your brow.
“You told me to go inside, remember? Or is that not what you want anymore?” You tilt your head. “You know, for someone who was so adamant about me asking things properly, you seem to be struggling to do the same.”
He stays silent.
“What do you want?”
Nothing.
“Huh?”
Still nothing.
You shake your head, focusing back on your phone and booking that damn Uber, because you’ve just about had it with the events of today, and dealing with a manchild is not something you’re adding to the list.
You’re halfway through entering your details when the phone is suddenly snatched right out of your grip.
“What the hell?” You look up just as Abbot slides it straight into his back pocket.
“I can’t tell you what I want, because then I won’t be able to take it back.”
“Well, that sounds like a you problem,” you shoot back, stepping towards him, reaching for your phone.
He takes a step back.
“Give it back.”
“No.”
You roll your eyes. “You’re absolutely insane.”
“And you’re not listening to me.”
“Oh, I’m listening. Loud and clear. You don’t know what you want, you won’t say what you want, and apparently now I’m being held hostage because of it.”
“That’s not what’s happening.”
“Okay,” you scoff. “Well, enjoy whatever this is.” You gesture vaguely between the two of you. “I’ll just walk home.”
His expression shifts, like he doesn’t believe you, like you’ve just told him something mildly ridiculous…which you have…because there’s no chance in hell you’re actually walking back.
“You’re not walking.”
“Watch me.”
You turn away from him, but you don’t even make it half a step before his hand closes around your wrist. You barely get a second to react before he’s pulling you to him, your spine lining up flush against his front.
“Quit being such a brat,” he scolds, breath hot against your ear, his hands settling at your hips to keep you there, his groin pressed firmly against your ass.
You buck into him out of instinct. “I am not—”
One of his hands reaches for the slit of your dress, his bare fingers tracing up your thigh, slowly, like he’s giving you every chance to stop him.
You don’t. Obviously.
“You are,” he repeats, voice threading through you. “Threatening to walk out just to see if I’ll stop you.”
You let out a quiet breath, something halfway between a scoff and something far less convincing. “I don’t need you to stop me.”
His hand stills, high on your thigh now, thumb pressing in like he’s testing the truth of that. “No?”
“No.”
His grip tightens on your hip, enough to pull you back into him again, closer, if that’s even possible. “Then go.” His words don’t match what he’s doing.
You don’t move.
Not even an inch.
His thumb traces inward along your thigh absentmindedly, while your heart knocks behind your ribs.
“Funny. Could’ve sworn you were in a rush.”
You swallow, your fingers curling useless at your sides, like they’re waiting for instructions you’re not giving. “I was.”
“Yeah?” His nose brushes along your jaw. “What happened?”
“Y-you’re in the way.”
“Am I?” His hand drifts higher, the tops of his knuckles brushing along the damp spot of your panties.
Your head tips back before you can stop it.
“That doesn’t look like I’m in your way,” he murmurs, something faintly mocking tucked into it.
You exhale, shaky, annoyed at him, at yourself, at your entire nervous system. “You’re very confident for someone who didn’t even know what he wanted five minutes ago.”
“I know what I want,” he assures you. “I just don’t think we’d be able to go back from it.”
“So let’s not,” you argue weakly. You can hear it yourself, how desperate it sounds, how little conviction there is behind it. “This is just a one-off. We can pretend this never happened tomorrow.”
“Is that something you can do? Because I don’t think I can.”
“Yes, you can,” you breathe, pressing your ass into him. “I can,” you add quickly, which is actually just a bold-faced lie. You don’t think you can ever come back from this, not really—but you’d try, you would, if it meant his hand would keep inching higher instead of stopping where it is.
“Yeah?” he murmurs into your neck.
“Yes—please. I’ll even move to the day shift,” you say, half-delirious, as though that’s a completely normal bargaining chip to throw on the table. “We’ll never speak of this again.”
“Don’t do that,” he mutters, a hint of a smile in his voice now. “I need you on the night shift.” His hand finally shifts, thumb pressing against your clit through the fabric.
“Okay—okay, sorry—I’m sorry—” The words tumble out, rushed and barely coherent.
He presses a wet kiss just under your jaw, and a small, involuntary sound slips out of you in response.
“One off?” he asks in between the kisses, his voice humming against your skin.
“One off.”
His hand slips beneath the fabric, middle finger dragging through your folds, slow enough that you feel every inch of it. You can hear how wet you are—actually hear it—and feel it too, with how easily his thumb finds rhythm.
“Jesus, baby,” he breathes, the words half a laugh. “Have you been this worked up the whole day?”
You bite your lip down, unable to concentrate on anything other than the hot feeling pulling tighter in your stomach.
“I asked you a question.”
“Yes,” you hiss as he picks up the pace, making your knees buck, properly this time, your balance tipping forward before his other hand tightens at your hip, holding you in place like he anticipated it. The hard line of his cock presses into your ass, completely unignorable and more than enough to get drunk on.
“Whole day,” he repeats, like he’s piecing it all together. “Walking around like that…talking to me like nothing’s wrong. Is that why you needed that shower?”
You nod—once, then again, and again—your body answering for you, a little too eager to cooperate where your brain has checked out.
It gets worse the second he slips a finger in.
You’re that soaked that there's no resistance when he pumps it in and out of you, and you don’t manage to stop the strangled noise that slips out when he curls that same finger. Your breath doesn’t quite keep up. It stutters, trips over itself, your chest rising too fast, too shallow, like you’ve forgotten how to regulate something as basic as breathing.
Your back arches into him, your hand gripping his wrist out of desperation, and you feel it then—how saturated his wrist has gotten, slick with you, the mess of it not contained to just there but spread further down your thighs, probably all over your dress.
It's humiliating.
“Did you touch yourself in the shower?”
“N—” you start, which is ambitious of you, really, considering the circumstances.
“Liars don’t get to come,” he warns. “Did you touch yourself in there?”
“Yes.”
He tuts. “Dirty girl. I was out here trying to make sure everything was perfect for your family and you were getting yourself off in my shower.”
You want to argue with him. You really do. Something witty, something that would land clean and put you back on even ground. But there’s nothing. Nothing except your uneven breathing and pathetic whimpers you’re trying to swallow down.
“Did it feel as good as this?”
“No—fuck,” you bite out when he slips a second finger in, the stretch pulling the word straight from you. Your thighs press together out of the sheer intensity of him, but he doesn’t let that happen for long.
His foot comes in between yours, nudging them apart. “Don’t go shy on me now, baby. You still haven’t told me what you were thinking about in the car.”
Your walls clench around his fingers, pulling him in deeper, each curl pressing against that spongy spot that has you gasping for air. He thinks the fantasy in the car is the worst of it—or the shower—but he has no idea how many times you’ve thought about him like this. And feeling him get off on it too, the way his cock keeps chasing friction against you, is almost enough to tip you over on its own.
“Jack, please—” you beg, for what, you’re not sure.
“Say that again,” he breathes into your hair, voice catching slightly as he grinds into you again, pulling his fingers from inside you just to shift his attention to your swollen clit.
“Jack,” you mewl, and you hear the way he curses behind you, “I’m so c-close.”
“Yeah,” he pants, fingers picking up the pace. “Yeah, I can feel that.”
Your legs tremble, your whole body tightening, the pressure building too fast now, too much, your breath breaking completely as you clutch at him like that might hold you together. You feel his chest rise and fall against your back as he keeps bucking into you, steady in theory, less so in practise, his fingers falling into a messy pattern, too fucking slick with you to manage anything more coherent.
“M’gonna—fuck—Jack—”
“There you go. Just like that.”
He bites down on your neck and everything blurs, sound dropping out, thought following quickly behind it, your body trying to fold in on itself, like it doesn’t know where to put this feeling or how to contain it. Your thighs try to close again, tightening as your orgasm reaches its peak, your cunt pulsing through it, Abbot’s heavy breathing in your ear.
“Shit–” he exhales, his hand slowing against you, “—fuck.”
For a second, neither of you move.
Your body is still catching up, small aftershocks running through you, your grip on him loosening but not quite letting go, like you don’t trust your legs to do their job just yet.
“Shit.”
“Yes, you’ve already said that,” you whisper, leaning your head back against him as he caresses your thigh.
There’s a huff against your shoulder, an attempt at a laugh that clearly requires less energy than he actually has.
Neither of you really get the chance to come down though, because there’s a knock at the door.
You both still, unsure if either of you heard it right, until it sounds again.
“Who is that?” you ask, pulling yourself away from Abbot, your hands immediately going to your dress, smoothing it down.
“I don’t know—can you—” He pauses, shifting awkwardly behind you. “Can you get that?”
You turn to look at him, brows lifting. “Me?”
“Yes, you,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m not answering the door like this.”
“Like what?”
He just looks at you while you look down, lips pressing together like you’re trying very hard not to smile.
“…Right,” you concede, softer this time.
“Thank you,” he says, the sarcasm sitting heavy in it, as you tug your dress back into place and make your way towards the door.
You wipe at your forehead, still a little flushed, and swing the door open.
“Hey man—” the guy on the other side starts, stopping short when he realises who’s opened it. “Abbot around? My car won’t start and I’m late for my night shift—” he leans slightly past you, like he expects to see him.
“Uh yeah, he’s…”
You don’t even need to turn to know he’s there now.
“Yeah,” Abbot calls, voice steadier than it has any right to be. “What’s up?”
“Oh man—I didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” the guy says, glancing between the two of you, something faintly amused flickering across his face.
And only when Abbot steps up beside you, do you realise what the guy means.
He’s now shirtless, using the black skimpy t-shirt as a cover across his groin, like that somehow makes things less obvious.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Think the battery’s dead,” the guy explains, scratching the back of his neck. “It just won’t turn over.”
“Alright,” Abbot nods, dragging a hand through his hair before glancing down at himself, very briefly, like he’s just remembered. “Give me a second.”
“Yeah, yeah, no problem at all, dude. I’ll wait outside.”
You close the door, not fully, but enough to block your conversation from prying ears.
“...I’ll book that Uber now… if I can have my phone?” You hold your hand out expectantly.
There’s a pause.
“...Right.”
You raise your brows, just as he pulls your phone out from his back pocket, placing it in your palm slowly.
“You could stay,” he suggests hesitantly, because he knows better.
Your fingers close around the device. “That’s not what we agreed on, remember?” you reply, trying to keep your tone light. “It’s a one off.”
Something shifts in his expression, and you feel the slight drop in your stomach, like something’s been pulled out from under you just as quickly as it appeared.
“Yeah…One off.”
You nod like that’s the end of it, pretending you’re not feeling a little hollow. “Take your time,” you add, stepping back. “I’ll let myself out.”
He stays where he is for a moment, just watching you, before he finally reaches for the door, leaving you standing in his home, probably for the last time.
And you already hate this arrangement, this promise you both talked yourselves into, because it doesn’t feel like a ‘one off.’ Not when your body still feels like his hands are on it, not when you can still smell him on your skin, not when you’re still standing here in his space—thinking about how easily he asked you to stay.
summary: you assume jack likes you until the pitt starts betting on how long it'll take him and samira to get together; jack assumes you like him until you get called into work while on a date with your coworker. turns out, all it takes is a bad bet and an even worse date for you and jack to realize how in love the two of you are. (7k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!loser!reader, trinity santos, samira mohan, nick barker, mcvadi crumbs
contents: friends to lovers, idiots in love, implied age gap, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, jealousy, humor, so much flirting, cw for medical procedures, medical inaccuracies, and probably several hr violations
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
You make it halfway through your shift with a lighter wallet and a heavier heart than when you started it.
You can hear Princess shuffling through her stack of cash from the other side of the workstation, flaunting her winnings from a well-placed bet. You try and fail not to let it distract you as you scribble at the clipboard before you, with your heavy head propped on your clenched fist.
Charting was hard enough back when the computers were still running, back when it was easy — let alone when you have to make every single note by hand, and flit physically through a hundred different files just to cross-reference all the information.
“Is this what it was like back when you were a resident?” you’d asked Jack, when he dropped off an order slip by the filing cabinet, beside the bulky fax machine you were standing in front of and trying to tame.
He slid in beside you with a wide hand on your lower back, smelling like a dizzying mixture of sweat and musky cologne. He adjusted your labs in the tray without another word, turning it around and flipping it right-side up for you.
“Yeah, actually,” he’d nodded, dialing the proper number on the machine with his pointer finger, including the area code that you had forgotten to add. The corner of his lip flickered upward in a faint half-smirk as he joked with squinted eyes, “Back in the 1900s— when charting was done by candlelight.”
You felt your own mouth curling into a quiet smile despite yourself. “So this must feel really nostalgic for you then, huh?”
“Extremely,” he deadpanned.
“Well…” you sighed. “Got any tips for me then, old man?”
Jack exhaled a heavy breath and turned to face you while the heavy machine beeped and buzzed beside you. He tucked his hands into the front pockets of his camo pants and shrugged his broad shoulders. “Well, look at it this way— Today is gonna suck, but… That means every shift from now can’t possibly get worse than this one, right?”
“Yeah,” you scoffed. “That, or we just… keep descending into another circle of hell every day.”
Jack smiled wider at your cynicism, patting you softly on the shoulder before sauntering off the way he came. “That’s the spirit, kid.”
You still feel his hand on you even now, wide and warm over your thick black scrubs, while you trudge through the rest of your charting. You hate the effect he has on you; you hate how often he plagues your every thought. It takes a great amount of muscle memory, you find, not to accidentally jot his name down as your hand moves the pen on autopilot.
You don’t think it’d feel quite as pathetic if you thought that there might be an inkling he felt the same way about you. But now, all you are is an R4 with a stupid schoolgirl crush on her boss, and half a mental breakdown away from scribbling little hearts in her notes with his initials scrawled inside.
“You plan on getting in on this?” Santos asks in place of a greeting as she slides her swivel chair next to yours. She wears a faint smirk on her lips and a mischievous glint in her light eyes that gives you great pause.
Ink smudges on the inside of your wrist as you halt your scribbling to flash her a dubious look. “…On what?”
“Ahmad got bored after Princess won the last bet,” she tells you, reaching behind her to tighten the half-ponytail at the crown of her head. “Said the grid was too good to take down so soon, so… He started a new one.”
You scoff a dry laugh and turn away again.
“Yeah? What is it this time— Which one of us is gonna be the first to have a breakdown and quit? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure I’d win that one…”
“Close…” Trinity croons, leaning in like she’s about to tell you some sort of secret. Her eyes flit somewhere over your shoulder, in the vague direction of where Mohan stands with Jack across the room, before she confesses. “It’s about Abbot and Samira. I have it on good authority that they were getting pret-ty close in Central 4 together…”
“C-Close?” you echo on bated breath.
Your head whips over your shoulder to the other side of the workstation, where Jack and Samira exchange information about one of her patients. You hadn’t given their closeness a second thought before now. It’s like you blinked, and now the sight of them together makes you feel sick.
You hope Santos doesn’t see the hurt weighing down your features when you turn back to her. “What— What do you mean close?”
“I mean, Dr. Abbot was half naked while Samira was tending to his shoulder,” Trinity explains with a scoff and turns back to her own clipboard. “Honestly, I wouldn’t have thought anything about it until I heard her say, ‘It’s our little secret—’”
She mocks in a high-pitched voice, which sounds nothing like Samira’s, before laughing to herself.
“—Like, c’mon. You guys could at least try to be subtle about it.”
You know she expects you to start laughing with her, but you struggle to find the energy to do so now.
“Yeah…” you sigh instead, hardly audible as you struggle to speak through the sudden tightening in your chest. “Right…”
“You should go place a bet,” she tells you, half-distracted by the files before her. “You could win back the money you lost and then some.”
“With what?” you joke with a sad scoff. “The three dollars I have left to my name?”
She flashes you a deadpanned look. “If that’s all you have to lose, I think I’d take those odds.”
You figure Trinity’s right. You have nothing more to lose, in truth — not after the shit day you’ve already had, and the money you’ve already lost, and the teenage heart inside of you that’s already broken.
You finish up your charting, return the clipboard to the patient rack, and retrieve your wallet from the locker room. Because, as you see it, you’ll either leave this shift about a hundred dollars richer or with nothing at all; either totally vindicated or with a bank account just as empty as you feel on the inside.
You find Ahmad in the security room, and he flashes you a toothy grin as you slink through the doorway like a shy little storm cloud. He motions with the notepad he holds in a sun-kissed hand. “I knew you’d wanna get on the books, kid— What’d it take to convince you this time?”
“I don’t know,” you shrug with a mournful sigh. “I just… realized that I have nothing else to lose, I guess…”
Dr. Barker laughs from beside you.
“Well, that’s always the best reason to make a bet, in my experience,” he jokes with a pearly white smile, pushing the sleeves of his navy button-down up to his elbows to reveal the expanse of his tanned, scruffy forearms.
Nick Barker stands quite a few inches taller than you — which you hadn’t expected before now, since he’d spent most of his time in the E.R. sitting behind the portable radiology machine. He has to look down at you from the bridge of his broad nose from this angle, with eyes so dark they’re almost black.
He’s almost effortlessly handsome. Like, Disney prince sort of handsome. The kind of handsome that makes it impossible to look into his eyes without blushing like a schoolgirl.
“I’m normally a lot more responsible than this, but… I figured all things considered…” you trail off with a sheepish shrug.
“Yeah, you’re talkin’ to the girl who hasn’t taken a day off since I started here— Two years ago,” Ahmad scoffs. “I think you deserve to let loose every once in a while, Doc, all things considered.”
He taps you gently on the head with his notepad. You roll your eyes and reach into the pocket of your scrubs, cheeks burning under the weight of the sudden attention you’re getting.
“Just put me down for $10—” you say, but cut yourself off when Ahmad hisses through his teeth. “…What is it?”
“Minimum this time twenty,” he grimaces.
Your shoulders deflate with a sigh. “Seriously?”
“We had to up the ante this time, kid— Rules of the game.”
“Then I guess put me down for twenty…” you huff and pluck your wallet from your scrub pockets. “For… unrequited…”
“Unrequited by who?” Ahmad presses with his brows raised to his hairline.
“I don’t know. Samira, I guess,” you shrug, half-timid, ‘cause it’s not like you totally believe it either. You’re just trying to take a page out of Trinity’s book, really, and manifest something good for yourself for a change — pretending that Abbot isn’t into her in the hopes that it’ll make it somehow real.
“What?” Ahmad laughs like it’s funny. “You’re telling me you don’t believe in love?”
You flash him a solemn look in return. “I’ll start believing in something again when the systems come back up,” you answer in a monotone.
“Touche…” he nods slowly while Dr. Barker exhales a quiet laugh through his nose.
A familiar voice comes suddenly from the entrance:
“I think that is the single sanest answer I’ve heard all day,” Jack Abbot himself hums in a gritty deadpan.
You nearly break your neck with how fast your head whips over your shoulder, finding the man leaning against the doorway with his toned arms crossed over his chest and a smug smirk dancing on his lips.
Your skin prickles with a red-hot heat while your pounding heart drops to your stomach. If he wasn’t into you before, he certainly won’t be now — not with you making bets on his love life like a crazy person with nothing better to do. (Though, in many ways, that is exactly what you are.)
“Dr. Abbot…” Ahmad croons, trying to play casual despite knowing his secretive betting ring’s finally been found out. “That’s funny— We were just talking about you.”
“Robby may or may not have told me,” Jack confesses as he saunters slowly into the security room, boots heavy on the white linoleum. “Wanted me to tell him if there was something going on with Mohan and me, so he could recoup the money he lost in the last bet.”
“…Well, is there?” Nick wonders lowly.
“C’mon, Barker. Where’s the fun in that?” Jack scoffs a dry laugh, then goes strangely solemn again in a flicker. “Even though, as an attending, I think I have to say that I am very against this— I feel like this has H.R. violation written all over it.”
“Well, what Gloria doesn’t know, won’t hurt us, right?” Ahmad quips.
“I’ve been livin’ by those exact words for years, brother.”
Your hands are clammy and trembling for a reason you can’t name as you pull two crumpled bills from your wallet — a dingy, pastel Polly Pocket billfold you’ve had since you were twelve — as if you needed another reason to look any less cool in front of Jack. The pale pink interior is left glaringly empty, save for a few folded receipts and miscellaneous fortune-cookie slips.
“Wow…” you huff as you pass Ahmad the twenty. “That is all the cash I have to my name. I’m officially more broke than I was in med school— I didn’t even know that was possible.”
“I can take you out to dinner with my winnings, if you want,” Nick offers suddenly.
Your head snaps in his direction, and his eyes widen, as though surprised by his own forwardness. He swallows hard, pronounced adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, scruffy with a five o’clock shadow.
“You know, if you— if you wanna… let loose or whatever.”
Your lip flickers upward in a shy smile when Dr. Barker sighs and shakes his head to himself. A few rogue strands of dark hair fall from their gelled quaff and hang over his forehead until he pushes them back in place again.
“Sorry, that, uh…” He chuckles awkwardly at himself. “That came out weird.”
“I might be stuck in charting jail for the rest of the night, actually,” you say with an apologetic grimace, wringing your clammy fingers into knots. “Can I get back to you on that?”
“Yeah!” he blurts, a little quicker than he means to. He clears his throat and, in an octave lower, repeats himself. “Yeah. Totally. No worries.”
You dismiss yourself with a quiet smile and lack the courage to look Jack in the eye when you pass him on the way to the door. He watches you leave and waits for you to glance back at him with his heart in his throat. You never do.
Still, though, he can’t help but feel a little proud of himself; after watching you turn down the handsome radiologist every woman on this floor has been fawning over all day. He turns back around and hisses through his teeth, trying not to look as smug as he feels.
“Damn,” Jack deadpans. “That was cold, man…”
Nick’s dark eyes widen and flit wildly between the two men on either side of him. “Wait— Really?”
“Ice cold…” Ahmad affirms with a slow nod. “Girl said she’s broke, and you think she’s gonna say ‘no thanks’ to some free food? In this economy? Yeah… She’s not into you, man.”
Jack claps the solemn boy hard on the shoulder. “You win some, you lose some, kid… Don’t take it too hard.”
You forget all about the stupid bet and Nick’s offer some hours later, when Robby sticks you with Ogilvie and tells you to walk the MS4 through your canthotomy patient.
You talk aloud as you slice your scalpel through the young girl’s eye, where the socket is raging red and bulging from the pressure behind it. The boy doesn’t say a word the whole time, just holds the plastic cup where the bright crimson blood drains from the eye, and doesn’t move a muscle until it stops.
“I think that’s the closest I’ve come to puking since I started med school,” the boy confesses when it’s done, standing just over your shoulder while you fill out the patient’s med slip. “I didn’t even get that close during cadaver lab, when all of us started craving meat from the formaldehyde— I’m pretty sure five people dropped out that day alone…”
His voice trails off when Samira catches your eye, rushing by the desk with her wild curls falling from her claw clip. She wears the hard shift all over as she makes a beeline directly for Jack, planting herself ahead of the older man; so close she has to tilt her chin to meet his gaze.
Your hand freezes around the pen as you keep your eyes on the two of them, staring harder than you probably realize as you struggle to make out their conversation. Their words are drowned out by Ogilvie’s rambling, and the surrounding beep and chatter of the crowded E.R.
Mohan talks wildly with her hands and says something about “a letter,” while Jack nods along sympathetically and says something along the lines of “give me your number.”
Your chest flares with a white-hot feeling when you watch the man pass Samira his phone to plug her number into. It’s like the world has fallen out from under you and swallowed you whole, like you’re drowning in the fire of your own envy.
You’re barely seven hours on the job, and you’ve already lost all your cash — you’ll be doomed to the three-day-old leftovers in the fridge, if the newfound heartache hasn’t already snatched your appetite for the evening. That means you’ll be running on fumes tomorrow morning — still broke, still hungry, still heartbroken.
Then you remember Dr. Barker — Disney prince Dr. Barker — and his offer of dinner from earlier in the security room.
You make the terribly impulsive decision to take fate into your own hands and forget to properly dismiss yourself before dropping the finished order slip off across the room. Ogilivie is quick to follow close behind, lacking any real sense of personal space. He nearly trips over himself to keep from running into you when you freeze suddenly in place.
“You don’t have to follow me anymore,” you tell him.
“Oh… Well, then… What am I supposed to do?” the blonde boy shrugs.
“I don’t know. Do whatever you want…” you trail off and glance around the bustling work station. You spot Trinity standing at the chart rack and motion over to her. “Go help Dr. Santos with her next patient.”
The dark-haired girl turns at the sound of her name.
“Oh, please don’t—” She cuts herself off with a sigh when Ogilvie makes his way towards her anyway. “Fuck. Fine…”
You continue your trek to the other side of the crowded work station, where the portable radiology machine takes up the majority of the room. You can smell the man’s expensive, musky cologne before he ever comes into view.
“Hey, Nick…” you greet, then wince at how weird it sounds a second later. “I mean, Dr. Barker— Sorry—”
He glances up from his work at the sound of your voice. “Nick is fine,” he assures with a kind grin and a pair of chocolate-colored eyes.
You try to smile back, but your nervousness makes it look more like a grimace. “It’s not, like, totally too late for me to take you up on that offer for dinner, is it?”
“No!” he blurts with a shake of his head. “Of course not!”
“Great…” you say with a relieved sigh.
“Yeah, I’ll— I’ll text you the details later.”
“Oh. Well, you don’t…” You scrunch the bridge of your nose in a sheepish look. “You don’t have my number…”
His mouth falls softly agape with the realization. “Oh. Right. Duh.”
You smile wider despite yourself, ‘cause he’s almost as awkward as you are, which you didn’t think was possible before now — especially not for someone as pretty as he is.
You turn away and grab the nearest pen, clicking it on with your thumb before reaching for his arm. You scribble your number over the dark blue veins on his wrist with a newfound confidence — one that you never had before now, one spurred on by the man’s obvious shyness.
You feel Nick’s eyes on you when you look away, flitting wildly across your profile.
“This isn’t… This isn’t just because of the bet, is it?” he wonders with a waver in his voice.
Your brows furrow in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“You know, the whole thing you said about… losing all your money or whatever,” Dr. Barker explains with a sheepish laugh. “You’re not just going out with me for a free meal, are you?”
“Well, isn’t that kinda the point of going on dates? The free food?” you joke with a dry laugh, which fades instantly at the confused look Nick gives you in response. Your face floods with horror a second later. “I’m kidding! I’m totally kidding— Of course not.”
“Okay,…” Dr. Barker says with an awkward chuckle. “Good.”
“Good,” you echo with a sigh and rise to full height again.
“I’ll, uh— I’ll text you.”
“I’ll be waiting,” you chirp with a polite nod and a giddy grin, which ebbs the second you turn away from him. You shake your head as you slink back through the bustling emergency department, squeezing your eyes shut and murmuring under your breath in disgust, “I’ll be waiting—?”
You nearly trip over yourself when you ram suddenly into a firm body. Two calloused hands grasp gently at your elbows as you stumble backwards. You almost lose your breath when you find Jack Abbot towering over you.
“Shit… you huff. “Sorry, I— I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Where’ve you been hiding?” Jack squints. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Your shy smile fades into a disbelieving squint almost instantly; at the bitter reminder of Jack and Samira — of the seemingly intimate conversation they’d shared just minutes ago, and of the bet you know you’re bound to lose now.
“No, you weren’t,” you deadpan.
“I was,” he insists. “I feel like I always am, some way or another.”
Your chest warms at his words. You choke on the funny feeling when you force yourself to swallow it down. “I was just— walking one of the interns through a lateral canthotomy,” you stammer as you step back out of his hold.
“Gnarly,” Jack hums with a slow nod.
“Did you, uh… Did you need me for something?”
“Yeah, I have a patient over in Trauma 2— Sliced through his left hand with a circular saw,” Jack explains, staring down at you from the bridge of his nose as he crosses his strong arms over his chest. “But the crazy part is, he used his right hand to take the nail gun and—”
“Oh, my god,” you blurt before you mean to. “He tried to put his hand back on with the nail gun, didn’t he?”
“Close…” he hums with a knowing glint in his eyes. “He used the gun to fire two nails into his temple— Said he thought it would distract him from the pain in his hand. And the weird thing is, he’s walking and talking just fine.”
“Holy shit…” you mumble, wide-eyed. “Why do you always get the cool cases?”
“You can have it,” he assures you, with something soft swimming in his eyes. “That’s why I wanted to find you— so you could do it with me.”
Something about it feels way more intimate than being asked out for dinner.
You finish the rest of your shift as normal — feeling like a shell of your former self after hours of running on fumes; both excruciatingly tired and buzzing with white-hot adrenaline all at once.
The only real difference between today and every other day before this one is that, for the first time in a long, long time, you actually have plans outside of work — almost like a real human person with a social life would.
You return home after the long day, only for an hour or so, to shower and change out of your scrubs. You wash away the scent of blood, sweat, and antiseptic from your skin, and only cut your knee once when you shave your legs for the first time in weeks. You pull out a nice top, a short skirt, and a real bra from the depths of your closet. You go as far as to break out the expensive perfume that you’ve had for years, ‘cause you only use it on extra special occasions, which tend to be few and far between for you.
You feel like an entirely different person when you meet Dr. Barker at the address he’d sent you a few hours ago — a nice bar, just a few blocks down from your apartment building, that you’d been meaning to visit for years but found every excuse in the book to stay home instead. You find the man sitting alone in a far booth in the dimly lit room, sipping slowly at the beer he nurses in his hand, and feel a little like a fraud when you slide into the vinyl seat across from him.
Nick has only known you for the better part of a work shift, to be fair, not counting the handful of times you’d smiled politely in passing when you clocked out for the day. You know he’s got some version of you in his head already, like all men do — someone much cooler than you really are, someone much better at separating their work life from their personal life than you are.
You prove him wrong in record time, sharing a plate of loaded nachos between you and forgetting to eat any of it as you get too easily lost in your ramblings. You tell him of the long shift, and of the man you met with two nails in his skull, and fail to remember that not everyone can talk of blood and gore over a meal as easily as you can.
“—Honestly, I’m still surprised it didn’t hemorrhage! The X-Ray showed one of the nails was, like, half an inch away from nicking an artery,” you ramble with a giddy grin. “I pulled them out with some local anesthetic, and he was totally fine— Well, except for the hand, obviously. ‘Cause he did lose a few fingers, but… Dr. Abbot took care of that, so…”
“Did he?” Nick hums, hiding his smile behind the pint he brings to his mouth.
He thinks this must be the fifth or so time you’ve brought up the man’s name tonight alone — not that you seem to notice. He doesn’t know whether that’s supposed to make him feel better or worse.
“Yeah— I always tell him he would’ve been an amazing surgeon if he didn’t have the hand-eye coordination of, like… A half-blind sloth,” you say, then swallow hard at the playful look Nick gives you in response. “‘Cause, you know, sloths are really clumsy, and they… Sometimes mistake their own limbs for branches, so… They fall a lot…”
You trail off and reach for the glass of water at your side, becoming very suddenly self-aware of your inability to stop rambling.
“You talk about him a lot,” Nick observes with a kind smile, licking the sheen of alcohol from his lips.
“…Who?” you wonder with furrowed brows.
“Dr. Abbot.”
Your features flood with terror. “Do I?”
His broad nose scrunches with a breathy laugh. “A little bit, yeah.”
“Oh, god…” you groan and hide your face behind your hand. Nick’s laugh gets lost in the rock music playing overhead. “That’s so annoying. I’m sorry—”
Your phone glows to life as it buzzes against the wooden table it sits on. You reach over to flip it face down before you can read the message on the screen.
“I didn’t… I didn’t even notice… I’m so sorry.”
It vibrates again, twice more in quick succession.
Your stomach twists with the anticipation of what it might say.
“It’s whatever,” Dr. Barker shrugs, pushing the sleeves of his button-up to his elbows. “I get it. He’s your boss and everything, so…”
Your phone buzzes on the table once more, for longer this time, now with a phone call.
You tense, but make no move to answer it, for fear of making this more awkward than you already have — though your pretending not to hear it doesn’t make it any better.
The corner of Nick’s lip twitches into a sympathetic smile, ‘cause he can tell that you’re trying to be polite, even though you’re fidgeting at the thought of answering it. Because your friends usually only ever text you, so if someone’s calling, it’s bound to be important.
“You can get that if you need to—”
“Thank you,” you sigh before he’s properly gotten the words out, scrambling for your phone with anxious hands. “I’m so sorry. It’ll be quick, I swear. I’m sure it’s just… Fuck.”
The call ends before you can answer it.
Nick’s eyes widen at your reaction. “Everything okay?”
“It’s Parker…” you answer with your eyes trained on the blue-white screen. Your chest deflates with a heavy sigh beneath your skin-tight top. “And I know it’s serious because she despises double-texting and she just sent me four back to back, so…”
Your eyes are wet and preemptively apologetic when they dart to the man across the table, who meets the disaster of you with a tender grin.
“You gotta go back in, huh?” he squints.
“I do…” you sigh. “I’m so sorry—”
“Just make it up to me next time,” Nick shrugs, watching with kind eyes as you scramble for your phone and purse. “When I win that bet, I mean. I’ll take you out somewhere nice— We can do this for real. If you want.”
You slide out of the cracking vinyl booth with a grimace — equal parts unnerved at the idea of doing this a second time and half-surprised that Nick would even want to, after you did nothing but anxiously ramble before bailing on him out of nowhere.
“Yeah…” you waver anyway as you stand to full height again. “Yeah. Sure. Maybe.”
“Thank you again— I’d kiss you right now if I could,” Dr. Ellis tells you when you pass her in the ambulance bay, where she hurries out of the E.D. on long limbs. She calls over her shoulder, moments before she’s out of earshot. “You look hot, by the way!”
The passing reminder of what you’re showing up to work in hits you like a punch to the stomach.
The double doors of the PTMC part for you, and the air-conditioned emergency room wraps its cold fingers around every inch of your exposed skin — your shaven legs, arms, and collarbones; all of which are normally concealed by your dark scrubs and undershirts.
You can’t help but feel a bit like you’re doing the walk of shame as you race past the work station with your head bowed, barely noticing that the systems are up and running again as you go. You’re too busy trying to make yourself as small as possible on your way to the scrub dispenser down the hall.
Jack smells you before he sees you.
He gets a sudden whiff of something sweet and creamy, like whipped vanilla and fresh raspberries, something candied enough to eat. Then he looks over his shoulder, from where he’s stood at the front desk, and finds you rushing past him in a hurry. His neck nearly cracks with the strength of the double take he gives at the back of you — short skirt swishing around your thighs, tight shirt showing a sliver of your lower back. He feels a little like he’s in middle school again, going wild at the mere sight of a girl’s bare shoulder.
By the time his brain starts working again to greet you, you’ve already turned the corner.
“Whoa, gotta hot date tonight?” he hears Shen ask as you walk by.
“Just left one, more like,” you scoff.
“Damn. Poor guy,” the man quips, then laughs when you flip him off.
“…What the hell?” Jack mutters under his breath, with his eyes still trained on the empty hall you’d just disappeared down.
“What? You didn’t hear?” McKay wonders aloud, from where she’s hunched over the monitor across from him, still closing down for the day now that the ED isn’t in analog hell anymore. She peers up at him with tired blue eyes, half-hidden beneath her wild fringe. “Don’t tell Princess, but apparently, she went out with that Dr. Barker guy from radiology.”
“Oh, really?” Jack hums, nodding slowly to feign interest. He hopes the hurt flaring in his chest doesn’t show all over his face as he turns back to his computer. “Sounds fun…”
Javadi eyes him from behind McKay’s shoulder. Her dark, observant stare traces the edges of his face as she twirls the string of her lavender jacket with her pointer finger.
“Well, don’t look so upset about it, Dr. Abbot,” she jokes with a quiet laugh, half-dazed from the long day. “I have a lot riding on this bet about you and Mohan, you know—?”
Cassie flashes the younger girl a wordless look.
Victoria’s eyes go wide when they flit back to Jack’s.
“—Which I wasn’t supposed to mention in front of you…” she blurts and fakes an awkward laugh. “There is no bet, actually. I don’t know what you’re talking about…”
Jack doesn’t ease the tension by telling her that he already knows; that he has known all day. He just flashes her a half-smile and a pair of squinted eyes as he steps back from the monitor.
“Real smooth, kid…” he jokes before he walks away.
He leaves the work station and turns the corner to find you cradling a pair of black scrubs to your chest and making a beeline for the restroom nearest to the break room. He rushes on long legs to catch up with you, limping slightly from his prosthetic. You freeze at the sound of your name from his lips, echoing from down the long hall. Your skirt swishes around your thighs as you spin in place to face him.
“Hey…” Jack greets, only slightly out of breath when he towers finally over you.
Your brows lower in confusion at the sight of his flustered state, but you smile nonetheless. “Hey…?”
“How was the, uh… The date?”
“Date?” you scoff. “What date?”
“The one you had with Dr. Barker.”
His biceps strain against his scrubs when he crosses his arms over his chest, peering down at you from the bridge of his nose. Your cheeks flare instantly. You can’t help but feel like you’ve been caught, like he’s just found out you’ve been cheating on him or something — even though the two of you aren’t even together, even though it’s abundantly clear that he wants someone else.
“Well, it wasn’t— it wasn’t really a— a date,” you stammer and turn away. “It was just… dinner.”
“Right,” Jack scoffs and follows behind you the short distance to the bathroom. “Because the two of you weren’t flirting in the security room or anything.”
You huff an emotionless laugh and roll your eyes at him, even though you know he cannot see you. “Yeah, because you and Samira weren’t flirting in Central 4 this morning or anything…” you echo in a gritty monotone.
Jack catches the bathroom door before it can shut behind you. You glance over your shoulder when you hear it hit his palm. You find the man looming in the doorway with something mischievous glittering in his narrowed eyes.
“I’m trying to get changed,” you deadpan, despite the distant fluttering in your chest.
Jack passes through the threshold and lets the door shut behind him, leaving the two of you alone in the empty bathroom, where the white-blue fluorescent lights buzz overhead.
“Am I hearing things, or do you sound a little jealous?” the older man quips, glittering eyes trained on the back of you as you duck into the singular stall across the room.
It clicks shut behind you.
“Aren’t you the one who came chasing after me, Dr. Abbot?”
“Aren’t you the one who ran off from your date just to come back in?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” you laugh.
“C’mon,” Jack scoffs. “You know what.”
Your short skirt pools around your feet with a quiet thud. You step out of it and toe off your right shoe, sliding on the adjoining pant leg before slipping the sneaker back on again. You do the same for the left side, and Jack has to shake the visual of your half-naked body from his head.
“I thought we had… You know, I thought we had a thing going on…”
“A thing?” you repeat, half-muffled, as you slide your shirt over your head. You hang it over the stall before reaching for your scrub top. “I wouldn’t exactly consider flirty comments and lingering eye contact a thing.”
Jack catches a glimpse of your bare spine through the sliver in the door frame. He swallows hard and forces himself to look down at his feet.
“You say that like I don’t wish I could do more,” he tells you. “I’m an attending— I can’t just go around making moves on my residents. It’s not a good look.”
The stall door squeaks open again. You come into view, now dressed in your scrubs, and wearing a hardened scowl on your dolled-up face. “Well, that didn’t stop you from getting Samira’s number, did it?” you argue. “Or letting her patch you up this morning?”
“I gave her my number because she asked for a recommendation letter, and I told her I’d give her one,” Jack confesses, watching you with a glittering gaze as you storm past him with your clothes cradled to your chest. He makes room for you by the sink and fights back a grin while you scrub angrily at your hands. “And I was patching myself up, actually, until she walked in looking for her patient.”
“Well, how convenient…” you grumble.
Jack smiles wider. “You are jealous,” he croons.
“I am, actually,” you deadpan, with your eyes trained on the soap you suds between your fingers. Even still, you can see the man in your peripheral vision, standing in the mirror just behind you. You can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, and smell the cologne lingering on his clothes.
“So that’s why you went out with the Barker guy, huh?” Jack lilts. “You just wanted to make me jealous…”
“No, actually,” you tell him. “I went out with Nick because I figured I should probably stop chasing after a guy that obviously doesn’t want me.”
You turn off the faucet with your fist and reach for the paper towel dispenser at your side.
Jack follows your every move.
“Yeah?” he hums lowly. “And who said I didn’t want you?”
You turn around to glare at him despite the newfound heat swimming in the pit of your stomach.
“Well, I think you’ve made it pretty clear, Dr. Abbot,” you deadpan. “I don’t think the entire floor would be betting on you and Samira otherwise.”
Jack takes a daring step closer, until you have to tilt your chin to keep his gaze when he towers suddenly over you. With his hands crossed over his chest, he bows his head and tells you, “Well, I don’t want Mohan. And I don’t care about that stupid bet. Is that clear enough for you?”
Your chest warms with a familiar feeling. Your features crumple under the weight of it as you murmur sheepishly, “Okay. I’m not even trying to be funny right now, but if you’re trying to tell me that you do like me, you’re going to have to say that outright, or else my brain won’t—”
You feel his hands on you, wide and warm around the outsides of your elbows. You feel your feet stumbling on the tile, and your chest colliding with his, and then his mouth pressing against yours. You feel his chapped lips, his coarse scruff, and his exhaled breath from his nose as it fans warm over your skin.
You freeze against him, too stunned that he’s kissing you at all to remember to kiss him back.
Jack pulls away from you a dizzying second or more later. He peers down at you with a heavy gaze and smiles when he realizes you haven’t yet taken your eyes off him.
“I like you…” he tells you slowly, as though to make sure you’re really hearing him. “Are we clear now?”
You swallow hard and nod your head, licking at your kissed lips in a feeble attempt to taste him again.
“Crystal,” you quip drily.
You rise to the tips of your toes and wrench your free hand in his scrub top, with every intention of kissing him again — for real this time. You flinch in a fleeting panic when the bathroom door squeaks open a second later.
Samira slips inside, too distracted by the phone in her hand to see what she’s walking in on. You and Jack freeze against one another accordingly, as if being so still will somehow make you invisible.
The door closes behind her and muffles the never-ending chaos outside. Only when it clicks shut again does Samira look up from her phone, dark eyes wide as they flit wildly between the two of you.
“Holy shit…” she mumbles under her breath, almost as if she hadn’t meant to say it out loud at all.
You push the man away from you on instinct.
“We weren’t doing anything!” you blurt, hardly convincing in the matter.
Jack’s soft eyes cut over to you. “Real smooth,” he mumbles.
Samira’s look of shock ebbs into a giddy smile.
“I knew it!” she exclaims, voice ringing through the tiled restroom. “Ahmad looked at me like I was crazy when I put forty dollars on the two of you, but I knew I was right!”
Your brows furrow in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“The bet,” she shrugs with a smile. “I put mine on the two of you. Which means I just got a couple hundred dollars richer, at least.”
The realization hits you like a punch to the stomach.
“Which means I just lost all of my money…”
“Well, I’m pretty sure I can spare some of my winnings. I mean, it’s only right, right?” Samira says with a pretty laugh. “You guys can go out for drinks or something special. My treat.”
It becomes suddenly very difficult to imagine yourself from five minutes ago — back when you were overcome with jealousy just by the sight of her alone — knowing now that she had been rooting for you this whole time. Jack seems to know this, too, based on the smug smile he gives you.
“This real nice of you, Mohan,” he says. “But if I’m taking my girl out for drinks on a first date, I’m gonna be the one payin’ for ‘em— No offense.”
“None taken,” she shakes her head. “Means more money for me.”
You’re still catching your breath in the meanwhile, ‘cause the newfound title has all but punched the breath from your lungs. My girl, he’d said, and god, you wanted nothing more than to be his girl.
“We should, uh—” You clear your throat when the words get stuck there. “We should probably get out of here before the others think something weird is going on…”
“Something weird is happening— The entire E.D. is betting on my love life,” Jack scoffs as he follows you out of the bathroom, where the chaos of the E.R. finds you almost instantly. “Sorry you lost, by the way. The bet, I mean…”
He catches himself nearly reaching out for your hand. He balls his own into a fist instead to fight the urge. You can see the longing to glittering in his eyes, anyway, when you turn to flash him a sheepish look in response.
“Well, I didn’t lose completely,” you lilt with a lazy shrug.
“No?” Jack hums.
“No…” you grin. “I think I won where it mattered.”
