⭒ Jack Abbot ⭒ Part 02 ⭒ Part 03 ⭒ Part 04 ⭒ Part 05 ⭒ Part 06 ⭒ Part 07 ⭒ Part 08 ⭒ Part 09 ⭒ Part 10
⭒ Michael “Robby” Robinavitch ⭒ Part 02
⭒ Frank Langdon
⭒ Dennis Whitaker ⭒ Part 02 ⭒ Part 03
⭒ Brendan 'Shark' Park
𐙚 Multi/headcannons for multiple characters
⭒ Accidentally calling you his “Wife” | @therobbycuepitt
⭒ seeing reader wearing their scrubs | @lovebugism
⭒ 𝐎𝐡 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲, 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲 | @croigealai
𐙚 Dr. John Shen
Hospital Barbie | @wackapedia
When you were assigned to “oBsErVe OpErAtiOns” as part of a vaguely defined Strategic Initiatives role (read: nepotism), no one expects much, least of all, The Pitt’s freshest attending, Dr. John Shen, who’s too busy keeping patients alive and admins at bay.
Midnight Oil | @duskbornraven
You get hurt trying to check out the local hot doctor who visits your coffee shop. He winds up checking you out as well.
Work Crush, Pt. 2, Pt. 3 | @dontcurbyourenthusiasm
Let Her Know | @yougotthat-write
Does John Shen know how to deal with heartbreak?
Change Of Pace | @marvelous-slut
Meet The Father | @/marvelous-slut
Rest My Chemistry | @silens-oro
John really needs to keep his mouth shut on quiet nights
Foot In Mouth Disease | @popcornpoppypop
You come home after pulling a double on your period, excited for your day off. John unintentionally ruins it.
Sugar, Yes, Please | @imaginesofwonder
Jealous Shen | @starlord-s
Imagine | @/starlord-s
Flirting | @skymouth
Answering his phone | @justalittlepitt
𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 | @martyrmurdock
revelations are made when john shen walks into the pitt without his usual iced coffee
The Magical Glass Tumbler | @boiohboii
Imagine | @youvebeenlivingfictional
in retrospect | @/youvebeenlivingfictional
over the counter | @theunsanctionedgoth
The Shens | @eden031
Javadi and Whitaker meet a hot headed neuro resident only to find out that she is not just that.
Wife surprise | @/eden031
Shen is assaulted during his shift and the night shift meets his emergency contact.
Understanding misunderstandings | @/eden031
Shen watches his favourite resident talk to Robby before shift change, later he hears the nurses gossiping about her crush on an attending. He comes to the only logical conclusion: she has a crush on Robby.
helping hand | @shawnsarmfreckles
So Easy (To Fall In Love) | @peterpparkrr
The new Night Shift Attending and the Night Shift’s Nurse Practitioner are both idiots.
space, and the absence of it | @whimsywho
or the one where a bit of distance makes the heart grow fonder
𐙚 Trinity Santos
Loathing | @/inlovewithquestionablecharacters
Your fellow intern Santos hates you….or does she?
BLOODY MESS - PART 1, part 2 | @/dreamingofagoodfic
a bar fight leads to trinity to treat jack abbott’s bloody-faced daughter (and maybe falls for her too…)
i care a lot | @gorgeys
it only took getting assaulted for you to find out trinity’s love language is violent acts of service
fix you up | @criminalyapping
mistaken identity | @/criminalyapping
accidents happen | @auroracalisto
making a fruit tray for your girlfriend goes really well, up until the moment you slip up and hurt yourself. under the impression it wasn’t really that bad, you get to the emergency room and, well, it’s the pitt. you’re lucky they had a bed open.
Blurb | @/auroracalisto
Bad Idea Right, Part 2, Part 3 | @thedilfydoctorshow
How was Trinity supposed to know that the cute vet student that saved her cat's life was her bosses daughter???
Robby's daughter!reader x Trinity Santos
Broken hand | @marvelslut16
Reader breaks her hand and meets the prettiest knight in shining armor doctor she has ever seen.
Brendan gave tank his own little fridge for fresh pet and speciality food and treats didn’t he 😆😆
when I tell you that dog is treated like a human child…
(set before AND after vegas, baby!)
Okay, but Tank did not start his little girlie-pop spoiled life as Brendon’s dog!!
In fact, Brendon would tell anyone who commented on the fifteen-pound Frenchie puppy that had mysteriously appeared in his condo one day that Tank was his little sister’s dog. Not his. Definitely not his.
And in Brendon’s humble opinion, Frankie had absolutely no business getting a dog. As the twenty-five-year-old baby of the family, responsibility wasn’t exactly the first word that came to mind when he thought of his sister. So when she’d called asking if he could watch her new puppy while she spent a week at a hair show in Tucson, he’d reluctantly agreed. Mostly because saying no to Frankie usually turned into more work than just giving in.
It wasn’t even that Brendon disliked dogs. Quite the opposite, actually. He’d grown up with a pair of massive, endlessly patient Rottweilers that his father treated like additional children. Dottie and Ruby had spent years following the Park family around the house like oversized shadows, tolerating dress-up sessions, backyard football games, and every ounce of affection the kids could throw at them.
What nobody knew—and what Brendon would take to his grave—was that the famously cold orthopedic surgeon had sat in his USC dorm room and cried when both dogs had to be put down during the same week of his junior year. He’d loved those dogs so much it physically hurt. Dottie and Ruby had ruined dogs for him forever. No dog was ever going to compare to them, and he certainly wasn’t interested in finding out otherwise. Besides, the whole orthopedic surgeon thing let absolutely zero time in his life for an animal. A dog simply didn’t fit.
So when he pushed into his little sister’s aggressively decorated apartment—seriously, why did she have disco-ball tiles on everything? Who owned this many mugs? Was that a cowboy hat hanging from the ceiling fan?—he was already questioning the judgment of everyone involved.
Then the dog appeared.
A fat little bug-eyed French Bulldog puppy came waddling around the corner with all the grace and coordination of a potato on legs. His ears were too big for his head. His paws were too big for his body. His eyes seemed to be looking in two completely different directions. He snorted once, spotted Brendon standing in the doorway, and immediately changed course.
Brendon was instantly like nope.
The puppy was instantly like you’re my dad!!! boogie woogie woogie!!!
Because while Brendon was mentally calculating how many days he was going to have to keep this thing alive before Frankie came home, the puppy had apparently taken one look at him and made a life-altering decision.
The little gremlin waddled straight across the apartment, plopped himself down on Brendon’s shoes, and stared up at him with absolute certainty. Like somewhere inside that tiny smooth brain, a single thought was ricocheting around at full speed.
Also, his sister had originally named him Pickles, which was ridiculous. Brendon would not be calling him that, and he did not.
It took all of twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes of Not-Pickles following him around Frankie’s apartment like a particularly determined shadow before Brendon found himself walking out the front door with a dog tucked under one arm and a tote bag full of supplies he’d pieced together from his sister’s cabinets.
Not-Pickles seemed thrilled by this development. The puppy launched himself onto the center console of his Porsche before Brendon had even finished buckling his seatbelt, sprawling across the expensive leather like he paid the insurance on it. By the time they pulled out of the parking lot, the little menace was stretched across the space between the seats, nubby tail wagging furiously while he gnawed on Brendon’s fingers with tiny puppy teeth.
The dog was somehow chewing on him and falling asleep at the same time. Brendon had no idea how that worked. Every few minutes Not-Pickles would glance up at him with those ridiculous bug eyes, verify that his new favorite human was still present, then go right back to aggressively attacking his hand.
It should have been annoying. Objectively, it was annoying. Brendon was trying to drive.
Instead, he found himself absentmindedly scratching behind the puppy’s ears at red lights and shifting his arm whenever the dog decided his lap looked like a more comfortable place to nap. By the time they reached his condo, Not-Pickles had claimed the passenger seat, the center console, Brendon’s lap, and most of his dignity.
Not that he had any intention of keeping it.
Taking the dog home had simply been the practical choice.
Leaving a puppy alone in Frankie’s apartment for a week felt irresponsible, and unlike his youngest sister, Brendon actually possessed a functioning sense of responsibility. His condo had a small fenced yard. The dog could go outside. It could run around. It could be monitored by an adult with a medical degree and enough common sense not to leave a French Bulldog unattended long enough to accidentally kill itself.
Simple.
Entirely logical.
Nothing emotional about it whatsoever.
The same logic applied to the food situation.
Because there was absolutely no way he was feeding the dog the bargain-bin kibble Frankie had left on the counter.
The moment Not-Pickles had rolled onto his back and exposed his little pot belly for scratches, Brendon had spotted the angry, dry patches scattered across his skin. The dog was itchy. The dog was uncomfortable. The dog was almost certainly allergic to something.
Which meant changing his food was the responsible thing to do.
Obviously.
Except before changing his food, allergies needed to be identified.
And before identifying allergies, he needed to see a veterinarian.
And since Frankie wasn’t going to do that, Brendon would. Not because he cared. Just because somebody had to.
The same reasoning somehow extended to everything else.
The dog sleeping in his bed happened because French Bulldogs apparently had the survival instincts of damp tissue paper, and he didn’t trust the little idiot to make it through the night unsupervised.
The walks happened because exercise was important. For both of them, actually. Orthopedic surgery was demanding work, and getting outside after a fourteen-hour day was probably beneficial.
The toys happened because puppies needed enrichment.
The crate happened because puppies needed structure.
The vet appointments happened because puppies needed healthcare.
The custom food happened because puppies needed proper nutrition.
The chicken and rice happened because Brendon was already making chicken and rice anyway.
None of this meant he liked the dog. He explained this repeatedly.
To Frankie.
To his mother.
To his sisters.
To anyone unfortunate enough to ask why there was suddenly a French Bulldog in every photo he appeared in.
He didn’t like the dog. The dog was simply living with him. Temporarily. As evidenced by the fact that six weeks later, when the veterinarian referred to Not-Pickles as his dog, Brendon had immediately corrected her.
Then spent the next twenty minutes asking detailed questions about Not-Pickle’s allergy panel results, long-term dietary needs, and whether French Bulldogs benefited from fish oil supplements. And would the corrective BOAS surgery improve his quality of life long term, or should they readdress that after he’s neutered next month?
Purely professional curiosity, obviously.
Which was exactly why, when Frankie returned from Tucson and Not-Pickles was still living in Brendon’s condo six months later, everyone in the family found it absolutely hilarious.
Brendon, meanwhile, maintained that he was merely providing temporary housing. The problem was that the dog had made himself useful.
At first, it was little things. The way he’d greet Brendon at the door every evening, launching himself across the hardwood floors like he’d spent the entire day waiting for him to come home. The way he’d curl up beside him on the couch after a fourteen-hour surgery day and promptly pass out, snoring loud enough to drown out whatever was on the TV. The way he’d somehow always know when Brendon was having a bad day and would appear out of nowhere carrying one of his toys, determined to fix whatever was wrong.
Not because he loved Brendon. Obviously. The dog was just stupidly friendly.
Then came the sweatshirt incident. It had been raining for three straight days. Tank’s sweater was in the wash. The dog had spent the entire evening shivering dramatically despite the condo being a perfectly reasonable seventy-two degrees.
So Brendon had tucked him into the front of his hoodie while he cleaned up the kitchen. Purely practical. The little idiot had immediately sighed, closed his eyes, and fallen asleep with his head hanging out of the collar.
Brendon had left him there for nearly two hours, because it was practical. Nothing more. What was he supposed to do? Let the little idiot freeze? The fact that he’d taken a picture was irrelevant. The fact that he’d made it his phone background was nobody’s business.
And really, everything after that happened gradually.
The orthopedic memory-foam dog bed had been purchased because French Bulldogs were prone to joint issues. The custom food bowls were because the cheap plastic ones irritated Tank’s skin. The allergy-friendly food was because the dog deserved to be comfortable. The countless vet visits were because Frankie certainly wasn’t going to remember to schedule them. The new collar was just a logical choice; yes, the tag had Tank’s new name engraved on it. And yes, it also had Brendon’s phone number. But in Brendon’s defense, if the dog got loose, someone needed to know who to call.
Every decision had a logical explanation. Every single one. The issue was that somewhere between the allergy testing and the food trials and the walks and the nightly couch cuddles and letting it kiss him on the mouth, Brendon had stopped noticing where the justifications ended and affection began.
Sunshine, naturally, was no better.
Her affection just came faster.
And louder.
Brendon had spent months pretending Tank wasn’t his dog. Sunshine took approximately three seconds to decide the Frenchie was the greatest thing she’d ever seen. The second she stepped through the front door of his condo and Tank spotted her, it was over.
The little dog launched himself across the hardwood floors, nails clicking furiously as he raced toward her. Then, instead of jumping, he plopped his little butt directly in front of her feet and looked up expectantly with big, curious eyes.
Sunshine immediately gasped, and then she was on the floor. Not crouching. Not kneeling. Actually throwing herself flat onto the entryway rug before she’d even taken her shoes off. Tank climbed onto her like he’d discovered a new piece of furniture while she happily cooed, “Hi, baby! Hi, my baby!” over and over again.
Brendon had to physically step over both of them to shut the front door. The dog was wiggling so hard his entire body was practically vibrating. Sunshine was laughing, scratching his chest, kissing the top of his head, and cooing over him like she’d just discovered the world’s cutest baby. Tank, traitorous little bastard that he was, ate up every second of it.
Brendon should have been annoyed.
Instead, he found himself standing there watching them with a stupid grin pulling at the corner of his mouth while they rolled around on the floor together. Because Tank looked happy. And Sunshine looked happy. And somehow that made something warm settle in his chest.
The truly embarrassing part was that he’d spent the entire drive home anticipating something very different of their first night together. He’d had very specific plans for what he intended to do with her once he had her in his bed.
After all, the first night they’d spent apart after Vegas had lasted less than six hours before he’d shown up at her apartment after midnight unable to sleep. Unable to focus. Unable to convince himself that going home alone had been a good idea when they agreed to her keeping her apartment until they decided what the hell this was now that they were back in Pittsburgh. He’d practically begged her to come back with him. Not his finest moment, but she’d come. Ever since Vegas, sleeping without her beside him felt wrong in a way he couldn’t quite explain.
So when she’d finally arrived at his condo that night, he’d had certain expectations. None of them involved standing in his entryway for twenty minutes while his girl and dog became best friends.
Yet somehow that was exactly where he ended up. Watching Sunshine lie on the floor while Tank sprawled across her stomach, both of them completely content. And for the first time, Brendon had the uncomfortable realization that he might be in serious trouble.
Because he’d already been hopelessly gone for her, hence the wedding ring she was now regularly wearing. Now she was falling in love with his little man, too. And seeing the two of them together made him want things he hadn’t let himself think about in years. Things that looked suspiciously like forever.
Instead, he spent the night watching her cradle Tank against her chest like he was a newborn.
Sunshine had him tucked into her arms with an ease that suggested she had always done this, like the dog had not arrived in their lives by way of Frankie’s questionable judgment and Brendon’s even more questionable agreement. She rocked him slightly as she talked to him in a soft, amused voice, calling him a stinky fat baby.
Brendon only took mild offense to that part.
Because he was not stinky.
He’d been to the groomer just last week.
Tank, for his part, looked completely unbothered by the insult. If anything, he looked proud of it. Like being a stinky fat baby was a title he had earned through the hardship of wanting for absolutely fucking nothing.
Brendon told himself he was fine with all of this.
He absolutely was not.
He only felt a little betrayed when Tank started actively refusing him in favor of Sunshine.
When he tried to inch closer in bed, the dog pushed his hand away with an irritated little grunt, like Brendon was interrupting something important. When Brendon shifted to make room, Tank immediately took advantage of the opening and flopped down on Sunshine’s pillow instead of his side of the bed. Which was objectively disrespectful.
He definitely felt something he was not proud of when he woke up the next morning.
Sunshine was half-asleep, one of his sweatshirts hanging off her frame—stolen straight from his dresser without even attempting subtlety. The hood was pulled low over her eyes, her hair a mess against his pillow, and Tank was curled against her chest like he had always belonged there. She was absently petting him, fingers slow and steady, while the dog made himself even smaller, burrowing into her like she was the safest place in the world.
Then Brendon shifted. Just slightly. After all, it was his fucking bed—and his fucking wife that he should be allowed to touch without running it by the fuzzy little dictator shedding on his sheets first.
Tank lifted his head, locked eyes with him, and barked once, followed immediately by a very indignant harrumph as he tightened himself further against Sunshine like Brendon was a known threat to domestic peace.
“Hey,” she laughed softly, scratching behind Tank’s ears without looking up. “Don’t be grumpy with Daddy. He didn’t do anything wrong.”
Tank was almost immediately kicked out of the bedroom. Which meant, needless to say, Sunshine's defense of his innocence did not last long in the dog’s eyes.
Tank sat outside the closed door for a full twenty minutes, making occasional judgmental noises that suggested Brendon had personally ruined his life, before eventually relocating elsewhere to pout until they reemerged and he glared at Brendon like he’d fucked his mom. Which he had. But that was beside the point.
However, they did redeem themselves. Being the only dog of a childless orthopedic surgeon meant Tank had already been accustomed to a certain standard of living. Heated floors. Expensive food. A concerning number of orthopedic-approved toys. A level of attention most humans would consider excessive.
Then Sunshine happened, and everything escalated. Because now he wasn’t just the only dog of an orthopedic surgeon. He was the only dog of two orthopedic surgeons. And Sunshine treated him like he was, in fact, a fat stinky baby who required constant supervision, emotional support, and frequent adoration.
Brendon was fairly certain Tank’s feet hadn’t touched the ground once after she unofficially moved in. Not once. If Sunshine was home, Tank was being carried, or cuddled, or positioned on some piece of furniture like a decorative, mildly judgmental loaf.
It only got worse when she officially moved in. Brendon came home one summer afternoon to find Sunshine kneeling in the living room, carefully fitting Tank into little red booties. Tank looked deeply offended by the experience. One paw lifted uncertainly, ears flattened, expression caught somewhere between humiliation and resignation.
Brendon paused in the doorway. “What the fuck is that?”
Sunshine didn’t even look up. “It’s too hot outside for his feet.”
That was not what he meant, and she absolutely knew it. He wasn’t questioning the concept of dog footwear. Tank already owned a pair. Several, actually. And he did not like that brand.
New purchases had begun appearing in the condo with alarming frequency.
A dog life jacket complete with a shark fin before a long weekend at the lake—one she’d taken approximately a million pictures of him wearing. Among them was a photo of Brendon holding Tank on the boat they’d rented, which she’d promptly posted to Instagram with the caption, “my cutie boys!! 💙🦈”—a picture he may or may not have framed and put on his desk in his office afterward. A collection of seasonal sweaters that made Tank look like a disgruntled retail mascot. A stroller, which had arrived in time for an unsuspecting grandmother at the farmer’s market to lean over expecting to see a baby and instead be met with a panting, judgmental French Bulldog sprawled like a gargoyle.
Brendon had rolled his eyes so hard he’d nearly seen his own spine. Apparently, that had become a necessity after Tank had “huffed too much” during their previous family outing. Sunshine had declared him overheated and ordered the stroller.
Now, when they went out together, he rode like royalty while strangers cooed and Brendon pretended not to know them. Which was fine. Completely fine. Totally normal. Just a man, his wife, and their increasingly spoiled little dog.
His favorite purchase, though, was the sweatshirt.
It had been one of those shifts that made him question every career choice he’d ever made. A full spinal correction had eaten up practically his entire day. By the time he finally made it home, he was exhausted, starving, and operating on little more than caffeine and stubbornness.
He’d expected Tank to be waiting at the door. Usually the dog heard his car before he even made it up the walkway. By the time Brendon got the key in the lock, Tank was already on the other side, huffing and whining dramatically about the injustice of being forced to wait an extra thirty seconds for his evening walk. So when the entryway was empty, Brendon immediately frowned. Then he heard Sunshine singing.
Or rather, humming along terribly to whatever playlist she’d put on while she cooked. Brendon followed it and stopped dead in the doorway. Sunshine stood at the stove stirring something in a pot, wearing a bright pink sweatshirt he’d never seen before. More specifically, a bright pink sweatshirt with a giant pouch sewn into the front. A pouch currently occupied by a sleeping French Bulldog.
Tank was tucked against her chest, snoring softly while she absentmindedly rocked back and forth as she cooked dinner like she didn’t even realize she was doing it. Like he’d become such a permanent fixture in their lives that carrying him around while making pasta felt completely normal.
Brendon had stopped in the doorway and quietly snapped a picture, taking it all in; Sunshine’s messy bun. The pink sweatshirt. Tank’s squished little face hanging over the edge of the pouch. The evening sunlight spilling through the kitchen windows. It looked like home. The realization hit him hard enough that he immediately shoved it aside and focused on taking another picture.
Just in case.
That first photo became the background on his phone sometime later that night. Purely because it was a good picture. Obviously.
He’d pretended to be deeply offended when she told him that the one she ordered him was on the bed. Called it ridiculous, even though he’d practically ran to the bedroom. Asked her what kind of grown man walked around with a dog pouch attached to his chest. Then he’d stood perfectly still while she giggled and loaded Tank into it. The little dog had immediately settled down and fallen asleep. Brendon had worn the sweatshirt for the rest of the day.
Unfortunately, it turned out Sunshine had been right. It came in handy. Mostly because Frankie eventually arrived at their front door carrying another French Bulldog, asking them to dog sit while she went to Miami with her friends for three weeks. This one was slate gray. A tiny, cross-eyed little thing sporting the most catastrophically fucked-up underbite Brendon had ever seen.
Frankie had proudly announced her name was Casserole.
By the time Frankie left for her trip and handed over the leash, they’d already decided they preferred Mavis. So did Mavis.
notes from me – hi loves! a little chronological guide to my garrett graham x nursing student!reader fics because they're very much not posted in order and these two have lore now!
navigation – garrett graham masterlist | choose your reader masterlist
this is the recommended reading order if you want to read the fics chronologically!
⋆˚࿔ casual, obviously
01. questionable choices –
⤿ first meeting, first hook-up, and the mutual agreement that neither of them wants a relationship.
02. study buddy –
⤿ library studying, anatomy notes, forearm veins, and garrett being very normal about her touching him for science.
03. good practice –
⤿ a post-game hook-up turns into bruised-rib inspection, ibuprofen, antiseptic wipes, and the first real proof that this is more than either of them planned.
⋆˚࿔ not dating, except everyone has eyes
04. concussion protocol –
⤿ logan ends up in the ED, calls her garrett’s girlfriend in front of actual medical professionals, and garrett gets to see her in student nurse mode.
05. clinical observation –
⤿ black scrubs, early morning coffee, tucker needing wound advice, and garrett having a crisis in his own kitchen.
06. positive reinforcement –
⤿ head-to-toe assessment practice goes exactly as professionally as you’d expect with garrett graham as the patient.
07. study break –
⤿ clinical exam stress, cardiac meds, and garrett deciding the best way to get her out of her head is to be extremely, medically unhelpful.
08. medical supervision –
⤿ tucker burns his hand in the middle of the night and the boys summon her while she’s half-asleep in garrett’s bed.
⋆˚࿔ feelings, unfortunately
09. no funny business –
⤿ a bad placement day, no hook-up expectations, pizza, soft comfort, and garrett being a little too good at making room for her.
10. off the clock –
⤿ hospital pickup, late-night jeep kisses, and garrett being painfully domestic for a man who doesn't have a girlfriend.
11. doctor asshole –
⤿ garrett gets jealous of a med student, deploys the letterman jacket, and fools absolutely no one.
12. patient zero –
⤿ she’s sick, garrett shows up after two days of silence, and the girlfriend question finally slips out.
⋆˚࿔ heavy stuff
13. just this –
⤿ she wears garrett’s jacket at a game, accidentally meets phil, and garrett’s history with his dad comes into the light.
last updated: today!
more fics will be added as i write/post them
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Summary: you don’t tell him your last name. By the time Dean finds out, he’s too far gone to do anything but brace for impact. Falling for the ice-cold, vodka-drinking Russian freshman is one thing. Falling for Ilya Rozanov’s little sister is a death wish. Dean decides he doesn’t care
Warning: 18+ content
Read part one here
The last agonizing tremor of your climax finally fades, leaving your body entirely boneless against the tangled sheets of Dean’s bed.
You are staring blindly at the ceiling, your chest heaving as you drag oxygen back into your lungs. Your mind feels completely blank, blissfully scrubbed clean of everything except the heavy, throbbing ache between your thighs and the lingering heat of Dean’s mouth.
Dean shifts his weight at the foot of the bed. He pulls away from your wet center with a soft, indecent sound, resting his cheek against your inner thigh for a long second to catch his own breath. His blond hair is a messy, sweat-dampened halo, and his broad shoulders rise and fall rapidly.
Slowly, he pushes himself up, crawling up the length of the mattress until he is hovering over you.
He looks completely wrecked in the best possible way. His lips are slick and slightly swollen, his green eyes dark and blown wide. He drops down onto the mattress beside you, flopping heavily onto his back and letting out a long, exhausted groan.
He doesn’t give you any space. He immediately rolls onto his side, throwing one heavy arm across your stomach and pulling you flush against his warm, sweat-slicked chest. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder, tasting you on his own lips.
“Jesus,” Dean murmurs into the quiet room. “You taste so fucking good, Y/N.”
“You are …” you start, but your voice comes out as a weak, raspy croak. You clear your throat, trying to summon a shred of your usual dignity. “You are very enthusiastic.”
Dean chuckles, the sound vibrating against your ribcage. “Enthusiastic. That’s one word for it. I was going for ’life-changing,’ but I’ll take it.”
You let your eyes slip shut, resting your head against the pillow and enjoying the heavy, comforting weight of his body against yours. The room is quiet, the only sounds the faint hum of the heating vent and the synchronized rhythm of your breathing. It is peaceful. It is perfect.
Which is exactly why your instincts tell you to ruin it.
Ilya’s voice echoes in the back of your mind. Men like that, they get attached. They get possessive. You shift slightly, trying to put an inch of space between you so you can clear your head, but Dean’s arm immediately tightens like a vise around your waist, locking you in place.
“Don’t move,” Dean says quietly. The playful, post-coital banter is suddenly gone from his voice. It is replaced by a low, serious tone that makes your heart give a hard, erratic thump.
“I am sweating,” you complain, though you make no further effort to move. “Your body heat is excessive.”
“Tough. You’re staying right here.” Dean props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you. The dim light from the bedside lamp casts sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the firm, resolute set of his jaw. “We need to talk.”
Your stomach drops. You hate talking. Talking leads to feelings, and feelings lead to a loss of control.
“If this is about your performance on the ice yesterday,” you deflect smoothly, keeping your expression perfectly blank, “I already told you that your gap control was acceptable. Not great, but acceptable.”
“It’s not about hockey, Y/N,” Dean says, refusing to take the bait. He reaches up, brushing a damp strand of hair off your forehead. His touch is incredibly gentle, completely at odds with the intense, unwavering look in his eyes. “It’s about us.”
“There is no us, Di Laurentis,” you remind him, clinging to the rules you established on day one. “This is an arrangement. It is mutually beneficial. It is casual.”
“Right. Casual,” Dean repeats. He lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “I have a toothbrush in your bathroom. I know your coffee order by heart. You know my stats better than my head coach does. And I just spent the last twenty minutes making you scream my name in two different languages.”
He leans down, his face inches from yours. “Tell me again how casual this is.”
You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. “Those are just details.”
“Bullshit,” Dean fires back. He isn’t angry, but he is completely uncompromising. “It’s not casual for me. Not anymore. I’m not doing this halfway, Y/N. I want you.”
“You have me,” you point out, gesturing vaguely to your naked body trapped beneath his.
“You know what I mean,” Dean says, his voice dropping an octave, turning raw and gravelly. “I want all of you. I don’t want you going on dates with other guys. I don’t want you looking at anyone else. Hell, I barely want you looking at my teammates.”
“You are being ridiculous.” You push against his chest, finally managing to sit up slightly, though Dean simply shifts his weight to keep you pinned to the mattress. You pull the sheet up to cover your breasts, suddenly feeling incredibly exposed. “I do not go on dates with other men. I do not have the time or the patience.”
“But you could,” Dean presses, his green eyes locking onto yours. “You could walk out of here tomorrow and hook up with some finance bro from Harvard, and I wouldn’t have the right to say a damn thing about it.”
“And you could hook up with a sorority girl,” you counter, lifting your chin. “That is the point of being casual. We are both free to do as we please.”
“I haven’t even looked at another girl since the night you insulted my backhand,” Dean admits bluntly. The raw honesty in his voice actually makes you flinch. He doesn’t hide behind a smirk. He just lays his cards on the table, completely vulnerable. “I don’t want anyone else. I just want you. I want to be your boyfriend.”
The word hangs in the air between you, heavy and terrifying.
You stare at him, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You came to America to escape the suffocating control of the men in your family. You promised yourself you wouldn’t get tied down. You promised yourself you would always hold all the cards.
“Dean,” you say, your voice tight, your Russian accent slipping out heavily. “You do not want this. I am difficult. I am demanding. My brother is a literal psychopath who will probably put you in the hospital when he finds out.”
“I don’t give a fuck about Ilya,” Dean says instantly. “Let him try. I’ll take a beating if it means I get to keep you.”
“It is not just him,” you argue, shaking your head. Your chest aches. You hate how much you want to say yes. “We are entirely different. You are … you are Dean Di Laurentis. You are the party guy. You do not do commitment.”
“I do now,” Dean says simply.
“People do not change that fast.”
“Watch me.”
“I cannot do this,” you say, a genuine edge of panic creeping into your voice. You try to scramble backward against the headboard, desperate to put physical distance between you so you can think straight.
But Dean is faster.
He shifts forward, following you up the bed. Before you can retreat, his hands come up, gripping your wrists firmly but gently, pulling them away from the sheet you are clutching like a shield. He pins your hands flat against the mattress on either side of your head.
“Don’t run away from me,” Dean murmurs, his face hovering just above yours.
“I am not running,” you lie, your breathing turning shallow. “I am simply concluding this conversation.”
“The conversation isn’t over.”
Dean leans down, and instead of kissing your lips, he presses his open mouth against the pulse point just below your jaw.
You let out a sharp, involuntary gasp.
“Dean,” you warn him, though your voice lacks any real authority.
He ignores you. He traces the line of your jaw with his tongue, his breath hot against your skin. “You talk too much when you’re scared, Y/N.”
“I am not scared.”
“Yes, you are,” he whispers against your skin. He trails a line of soft, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, lingering on the sensitive spot right at the base of your throat. “You’re terrified. You like being in control, and right now, you realize you don’t have it. Because you want me just as much as I want you.”
“Arrogant,” you breathe, your eyes fluttering shut as his teeth lightly scrape against your collarbone. A violent shudder rips through your body.
“Honest,” he corrects.
He shifts his weight, sliding his knee securely between your thighs, forcing your legs apart. You are completely pinned beneath him, completely at his mercy, and the terrifying truth is that you don’t want to be anywhere else.
Dean releases one of your wrists, using his newly freed hand to slowly, deliberately trace a path down your stomach. His rough calluses drag against your soft skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He dips his fingers just below your navel, pressing lightly against your lower abdomen.
You arch your back instinctively, a soft moan escaping your lips. You are still so incredibly sensitive from your earlier climax, and his proximity is short-circuiting your brain.
“Tell me this is casual,” Dean challenges, his voice dark and raspy. He moves his mouth to the swell of your breast, his tongue swirling around the tight peak.
“Dean,” you gasp, your fingers curling into the sheets. “Stop playing fair.”
“I’m playing to win,” he mumbles against your skin, lightly sucking the sensitive flesh into his mouth.
You cry out, your hips bucking up against his thigh. Your defenses are crumbling. They are completely, utterly disintegrating under the sheer, focused intensity of his attention. He knows your body perfectly. He knows exactly how to dismantle you.
He slides his hand lower, his long fingers finding your wet, aching center. He doesn’t enter you. He just traces the slick folds, pressing firmly against your clit with his thumb.
“Look at me,” Dean commands softly.
You force your eyes open. The cocky, easygoing college boy is gone. The man hovering over you is lethal, focused, and entirely devoted to you. His green eyes are burning into yours, completely stripping away every wall you have ever built.
“Be mine,” Dean whispers, his thumb slowly, agonizingly circling your most sensitive spot. “Just mine, Y/N. Say yes.”
“If I say yes,” you grit out, your accent thick, your body trembling under his touch, “you are going to regret it. I will ruin your life.”
Dean smiles. It is a devastating, triumphant smile.
“Ruin it, then,” he says. “But you’re doing it as my girlfriend.”
He presses his thumb down harder, and you shatter.
“Fine!” You gasp out, the word tearing from your throat as pleasure spikes sharply in your core. “Fine, yes. I am yours. We are exclusive.”
Dean stops moving his hand. He freezes, staring down at you, his chest heaving. The triumph in his eyes is so bright it’s almost blinding.
“Say it again,” he breathes.
“Do not push your luck, Di Laurentis,” you groan, turning your head against the pillow to hide the flush creeping up your cheeks.
Dean laughs, a sound of pure joy. He releases your other wrist, using both hands to cup your face, forcing you to look at him. He kisses you — hard, deep, and impossibly sweet. It isn’t a demanding kiss. It is a promise. It tastes like victory and relief.
“My girl,” Dean murmurs against your lips. “God, I love the sound of that.”
“Do not get used to it,” you warn him weakly, though you kiss him back, your hands tangling in his thick blond hair. “If you do anything to annoy me, I am breaking up with you.”
“You can try,” Dean grins, pulling back slightly to look down at you. His eyes darken, the playful energy suddenly shifting back into something entirely carnal. He looks at your flushed skin, your bruised lips, your dark hair spread wildly across his pillows.
“And now,” Dean says, his voice dropping into a rough, gravelly purr that makes your stomach clench. “For being such a good girl and finally admitting the truth, I think you deserve a reward.”
You raise an eyebrow, trying to summon your haughty persona, but it’s completely ruined by the way your chest is heaving. “A reward? You think you are training a dog?”
“I think,” Dean says, sliding his hand down your stomach to grip your hip firmly, “I’m going to fuck you so hard you forget how to speak entirely.”
Your breath hitches.
Dean doesn’t hesitate. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing a foil packet. He rips it open with his teeth, his eyes never leaving yours, and rolls it on with quick, practiced efficiency.
When he settles back over you, the air in the room feels thick enough to cut with a knife. He hooks his hands under your knees, dragging your legs up high and hooking them over his broad shoulders. The position completely opens you up to him, leaving you entirely exposed and deeply vulnerable.
“Dean,” you whisper, your eyes widening slightly at the intense, predatory look on his face.
“I’ve got you,” he promises softly.
He aligns his hips with yours, the thick, blunt head of his length resting against your slick opening. He doesn’t thrust right away. He just lets you feel the size of him, the heavy, pulsing heat waiting at your entrance.
“Tell me who you belong to,” Dean demands, his voice a low, rough rumble.
“I belong to myself,” you fire back stubbornly, even as your hips instinctively tilt up, silently begging him to enter you.
Dean chuckles darkly. He pushes forward just an inch, stretching your tight entrance, and then pulls back.
You let out a frustrated whine, your hands gripping the sheets. “Dean. Please.”
“Say it,” he insists, repeating the agonizingly slow, teasing motion. “Who are you exclusive with, Y/N?”
“You,” you gasp, your resistance completely snapping. “You. Just you.”
“That’s right.”
Dean grips your hips tight enough to leave bruises and drives forward in one long, brutal thrust, burying himself inside you to the hilt.
You scream, your head throwing back against the mattress. The feeling of him filling you completely, stretching you so deeply, is overwhelming. It is painful and pleasurable and incredibly intense. You are so wet from his mouth earlier that he glides in smoothly, but the sheer size of him makes you completely breathless.
Dean groans, his jaw clenching as he forces himself to hold still for a second, letting your body adjust. His chest is heaving, a sheen of sweat coating his skin.
“Fuck,” he grates out, his eyes squeezed shut. “You are so perfect. So tight.”
“Do not stop,” you beg, your accent thick and heavy. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his chest down flush against yours. You need the friction. You need him.
Dean opens his eyes, looking down at you with a gaze that is pure, unfiltered fire. “I’m not stopping until the sun comes up.”
He starts to move.
The first few thrusts are slow and incredibly deep. He pulls almost all the way out, letting the sensitive head drag against your entrance, before slamming his hips forward and burying himself inside you again. The skin-on-skin slap of his body meeting yours echoes loudly in the quiet room.
You sob out a breath, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Dean … oh my god.”
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice tight with his own strain.
You open your eyes, meeting his intense green gaze. He wants you to see this. He wants you to see exactly what he is doing to you, exactly who is making you feel like this.
He speeds up, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, and more punishing. The angle is devastating. With your legs hooked over his shoulders, every single stroke hits deep, striking that bundle of nerves that sends blinding sparks behind your eyelids.
The room spins. The only things anchoring you to reality are the heavy weight of Dean’s body, the burning heat inside you, and the relentless, driving rhythm of his hips.
“Are you mine?” Dean asks, his voice harsh as he pounds into you.
“Yes,” you gasp, entirely broken down.
“Just mine?” He thrusts harder, the head of the bed frame banging rhythmically against the wall.
“Yes!” You cry out.
“Good.” Dean shifts his grip, sliding one hand under your lower back to angle your hips even higher. The penetration becomes impossibly deeper. “Because I am completely fucking obsessed with you.”
The dirty, possessive words act like a match to a powder keg.
Your entire body goes rigid. The pleasure spikes so sharply it steals your vision. You feel the climax building in the pit of your stomach, tightening like a coiled spring, hot and frantic.
“Dean,” you sob, the syllables fracturing. You try to push back against him, chasing the friction, completely desperate.
“I know,” he rasps, reading your body perfectly. He leans down, capturing your lips in a messy, bruising kiss, swallowing your moans as he increases his pace to a frantic, relentless sprint.
He is relentless. He doesn’t give you a single second to catch your breath. He just keeps driving into you, deep and hard, pushing you higher and higher until you are completely teetering on the edge.
“Pozhaluysta,” you beg wildly against his mouth.
“Come for me, Y/N,” Dean growls, tearing his mouth away to look at your face. “Let it go.”
You shatter.
Your climax rips through you with violent force, a massive, overwhelming wave of pure ecstasy. You scream his name into the quiet room, your inner walls clamping down hard and fast around his thick length.
Dean shouts, a raw, guttural sound of triumph. He drives his hips forward two more times, impossibly deep, and completely falls apart with you. He empties himself inside the condom with heavy, shuddering groans, his entire body trembling as he collapses against you.
He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his weight crushing you into the mattress. His chest heaves against yours, his heart hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm directly over your own.
For a very long time, neither of you moves. The only sound in the room is the ragged, desperate panting of two people completely wrecked by each other.
Slowly, the adrenaline begins to fade, replaced by a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion.
Dean stirs first. He pulls out of you with a soft sound, disposing of the condom before crawling right back into bed beside you. He doesn’t give you a chance to retreat to your side of the mattress. He wraps his arms around you, pulling your back flush against his chest, and tangles his legs with yours.
He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your neck.
“Mine,” Dean whispers into the dark room, his voice completely satisfied.
You let out a soft sigh, too tired to argue, too happy to care. You close your eyes, letting the warmth of his body envelop you. You know you are going to have to deal with Ilya eventually. You know your perfectly controlled life is completely off the rails.
But as Dean’s hand rests heavily over your heart, keeping you grounded, you smile into the darkness.
Let the game begin.
***
The arena is absolutely deafening on a Friday night in early December.
You are sitting in your usual spot in the lower bowl, your heavy winter coat unzipped, the collar of your dark sweater pulled up against the chill of the rink. The air smells exactly the same as it always does — cold ice, stale popcorn, and the sharp, metallic tang of sweat and adrenaline.
Down on the ice, game is tied 2-2 in the middle of the second period against a viciously aggressive opponent. The play is fast, sloppy, and heavily physical.
“I still don’t understand icing,” Morgan says loudly, leaning close to your ear to be heard over the roar of the student section behind you. She is clutching a massive pretzel and shivering, despite wearing three layers. “Like, why can’t they just hit it to the other side?”
“Because it slows down the pace of the game and rewards lazy defensive zone breakouts,” you explain automatically, your eyes tracking the puck as it cycles behind the Briar net. “It forces the team to skate the puck over the red line before dumping it.”
“Right. Obviously.” Morgan takes a bite of her pretzel. “Are you going to Dean’s house after this?”
You don’t look away from the ice. “Maybe.”
“That means yes,” Morgan singsongs. “You guys are, like, practically married now. It’s actually kind of gross how obsessed he is with you.”
You finally tear your gaze away from the game, shooting your roommate a flat, unimpressed look. “We are not married. We have been exclusive for exactly one month. And he is not obsessed.”
“He literally brought you a coffee in the middle of a blizzard on Wednesday just because you texted him that the dining hall espresso machine was broken,” Morgan points out dryly. “He treats you like a queen.”
“I am a queen,” you say smoothly, turning back to the game. “He is simply acting accordingly.”
Before Morgan can argue, a sudden, massive shadow falls over your row.
The overhead arena lights are blocked out. The people sitting in the row behind you suddenly go dead silent. You feel a distinct, heavy shift in the air, followed by the undeniable scent of expensive Tom Ford cologne and a hint of winter frost.
“Move over,” a deep, booming voice commands in heavily accented English.
Morgan jumps, her eyes going completely wide. She scrambles to the left, practically throwing herself into the empty seat beside her to clear the space.
You turn your head slowly.
Dropping down into the newly vacated plastic seat next to you, completely unannounced and looking like a mob boss, is your older brother.
Ilya stretches his long, powerful legs out, resting his forearms on his knees as he peers down at the ice. He is wearing a dark, tailored wool peacoat over a black turtleneck, a dark beanie pulled low over his forehead. He looks entirely out of place in the sea of drunk college students wearing cheap synthetic jerseys, and yet, he looks like he owns the entire building.
“Ilya?” You ask, your voice dropping perfectly into Russian. “What are you doing here?”
“The Bruins have a home stand,” Ilya replies in Russian, not taking his eyes off the ice. “We played last night. We play again on Sunday. I was bored. And you were not answering your texts.”
“I am watching a hockey game.”
“You are watching boys chase a piece of rubber like blind dogs,” Ilya corrects, gesturing vaguely toward the ice as the opposing team fumbles a pass. “Look at this. The neutral zone is completely wide open. It is a tragedy.”
You sigh, rubbing your temples. “You cannot just show up to my university unannounced, Ilya. You are going to cause a riot.”
It’s true. Whispers are already breaking out in the surrounding rows. People are pointing. The Briar student section is heavily populated by hockey fans, and the Boston Bruins’ star center sitting casually in Section 104 is not going unnoticed.
“Let them riot,” Ilya says dismissively, switching back to English for Morgan’s benefit, shooting her a devastating, perfectly charming smile that makes her blush furiously. “Hello, Morgan. Are you learning about hockey?”
“H-hi, Ilya,” Morgan stammers, completely starstruck. “Yes. I mean, Y/N is trying to teach me.”
“Good luck,” Ilya snorts. He leans forward, resting his chin on his fist. His eyes narrow as he begins to analyze the play with ruthless, surgical precision. “Look at this power play. It is pathetic. The umbrella formation is too flat. The center is not moving his feet.”
You cross your arms, sinking slightly lower in your seat. “They are college students, Ilya. Not professionals.”
“They are pretending to be hockey players,” Ilya grumbles. “Ah, look. Number … sixty-six.”
Your breath hitches slightly.
Down on the ice, Dean receives a pass at the point. He looks incredibly sharp tonight, his skating fluid and effortless. He drags the puck along the blue line, walking it away from a diving defender, and snaps a crisp, perfect pass right into the slot for a waiting forward.
“Number sixty-six,” Ilya repeats, his eyes tracking Dean’s movement. “He is fast. I will give him that. Good edge work. But he is arrogant.”
“You are calling someone arrogant?” You ask dryly. “That is rich.”
“I am arrogant because I am the best,” Ilya states, entirely serious. “This boy, he plays with a chip on his shoulder. Look at his gap control. It is … acceptable.”
Coming from Ilya, the word ‘acceptable’ is essentially a glowing endorsement. It takes everything in your power not to smile.
“He is the leading scoring defenseman in the conference,” you point out casually, playing devil’s advocate.
“Because he plays against children,” Ilya counters immediately. “But he has good hands. And he hits hard.”
As if on cue, an opposing forward tries to enter the Briar zone with his head down. Dean steps up, dropping his shoulder, and delivers a clean, crushing open-ice hit that sends the forward flying into the boards.
The crowd erupts into cheers. You offer a small, proud clap.
Ilya nods slowly, a grudging look of respect crossing his face. “Okay. That was not terrible. He has decent timing.”
You turn your head to hide your smirk. Ilya is literally analyzing your boyfriend, completely unaware that the “acceptable” defenseman currently dominating the ice is the exact same boy who has been leaving bruises on your hips for the last month.
For the rest of the game, Ilya provides a running, highly critical commentary. He complains about the coaching. He complains about the referees. He loudly predicts every single play before it happens, much to the awe of the frat boys sitting three rows back who are currently taking notes.
When the final buzzer sounds, securing a 4-2 victory for Briar, the arena explodes with noise.
“Finally,” Ilya sighs, standing up and stretching his massive frame. “I was beginning to lose brain cells.”
“You only have three left to lose,” you tease, grabbing your purse. You look up at him. “So, are you taking me to dinner? Or did you just come here to complain?”
“I am taking you to dinner,” Ilya confirms, wrapping a heavy arm around your shoulders and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “But first, I want to see the locker room. I want to see where these boys pretend to be athletes.”
Your stomach drops. “You want to go to the locker room?”
“Why not?” Ilya smirks, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. “I am Ilya Rozanov. I go where I want.”
You look at Morgan, who gives you a wide-eyed, terrified look. You promised to wait for Dean outside the locker room after the game. It’s part of your routine. Dean comes out, fresh from the shower, pulls you into a dark corner, kisses you senseless, and then drags you to his car.
Now, you are going to be waiting outside the locker room with the most overprotective, terrifying player in the NHL.
The game is officially up.
“Fine,” you say, your voice perfectly calm despite the frantic hammering of your heart. “Let us go.”
***
The hallway outside the locker room is usually heavily guarded, restricted to team personnel and family. But when a six-foot-four Russian tank with a multi-million dollar NHL contract walks down the corridor, the security guards practically stumble over themselves to hold the doors open.
You stand with your back against the cinderblock wall, arms crossed, trying to look completely unbothered. Ilya stands next to you, taking up half the hallway, looking around with a deeply unimpressed expression.
“It smells like wet dog,” Ilya observes loudly.
“It is a hockey locker room, Ilya,” you remind him.
The heavy double doors swing open.
The first person to walk out is Garrett. The Briar captain is dressed in a sharp suit, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, chatting over his shoulder to Logan.
Garrett steps out into the hallway, turns his head, and freezes.
He stops so abruptly that Logan literally crashes into his back.
“What the hell, G?” Logan complains, rubbing his shoulder. “Keep walking-”
Logan looks up. He sees you. Then, his eyes track to the right, and he sees the massive, brooding figure standing next to you.
Logan’s mouth drops open.
Garrett looks like he is going to faint. He is staring at Ilya with the wide, terrified, awestruck expression of a man who has just met God.
“Holy shit,” Garrett whispers.
Ilya raises an eyebrow. He looks Garrett up and down, his gaze heavily calculating. “You are the captain. Graham. Yes?”
“Y-yes,” Garrett stammers. His voice actually cracks. The captain of the Briar hockey team, the guy who fights defensemen twice his size on the ice without blinking, is currently sweating through his suit jacket. “Yes, sir. Garrett Graham.”
“I have seen your tapes,” Ilya says casually, though his tone is terrifyingly flat. “Your face-off percentage is acceptable. But you rely too much on your wingers to dig the puck out of the corners. You need to use your body more.”
“I will,” Garrett says immediately, nodding so fast he looks like a bobblehead. “I’ll do that. Thank you, Mr. Rozanov. Sir.”
“Do not call me sir,” Ilya grunts. “You make me sound old.”
Tucker walks out next, stops dead in his tracks, and slowly backs away until he is pressed against the opposite wall, trying to make himself entirely invisible.
And then, the doors swing open one last time.
Dean steps out into the hallway.
His blonde hair is damp from the shower, pushed back in a messy, effortless style. He is wearing a tailored grey suit jacket with the collar open, no tie, looking entirely too cocky for his own good. He is laughing at something one of the assistant coaches said inside.
He turns the corner, his green eyes scanning the hallway. They find you instantly.
A massive, devastatingly handsome smile breaks across his face. He takes a step toward you, his entire body language softening, lighting up with that intense, focused devotion he saves entirely for you.
“Hey, beautiful,” Dean says, closing the distance. “Sorry I took so long, I had to-”
Dean stops.
He is exactly three feet away from you. He finally realizes that the massive, dark-coated wall of muscle standing right next to you is not a security guard.
Dean’s eyes slowly travel up from the expensive black combat boots, over the tailored peacoat, and finally lock onto the dark, lethal face of Ilya Rozanov.
The silence in the hallway is absolute.
Garrett is holding his breath. Logan is slowly inching toward the exit, ready to call an ambulance. Tucker has closed his eyes, preparing for the gore.
You stand perfectly still. You look at Dean, and then you look at your brother.
“Ilya,” you say, your voice ringing clearly in the dead-silent corridor. “This is Dean Di Laurentis. Dean, this is my brother, Ilya.”
Ilya slowly turns his head to look at Dean. The casual, slightly bored older-brother aura completely vanishes. His posture straightens, his shoulders expanding, taking up every inch of available space. He looks down at Dean with eyes so dark and cold they could freeze the Charles River.
“Ah,” Ilya says softly. The Russian accent is suddenly much, much thicker. “Number sixty-six.”
Dean swallows. You can literally see the Adam’s apple bob in his throat. But to his absolute credit, he doesn’t take a step back.
He squares his own shoulders. He pulls himself up to his full height, refusing to cower. He meets Ilya’s terrifying gaze head-on, the cocky, playful college boy completely melting away, replaced by the stubborn, unyielding defenseman who refuses to give up his blue line.
“It’s an honor to meet you,” Dean says, his voice steady, offering his hand.
Ilya looks at Dean’s outstretched hand for a long, agonizing five seconds. He does not take it.
Dean slowly lowers his hand, entirely unbothered, tucking it into the pocket of his slacks. He holds Ilya’s stare.
“You are dating my sister,” Ilya states. It is not a question. It is an accusation, heavy with the promise of violence.
“Yes,” Dean says simply. “I am.”
“She is nineteen years old,” Ilya says, taking a single, slow step closer to Dean. He is invading his space, using his size to intimidate. “She is brilliant. She is perfect. And she is the only family I have that matters.”
“I know,” Dean replies, his jaw tightening slightly. “She talks about you all the time.”
“Then she has told you what I do to people who cross me,” Ilya murmurs, his voice dropping so low it’s almost a growl. “She has told you that I do not play games, Di Laurentis. I end them.”
“She mentioned it,” Dean agrees, his green eyes flashing with a sudden, dark challenge.
“Let me make this very clear,” Ilya says, leaning down slightly so he is perfectly eye-level with Dean. “If you make her cry, you will not have to worry about a career in the NHL. Because they will not find enough of you to bury in a matchbox. Do you understand me?”
Garrett actually whimpers.
You cross your arms tighter, watching Dean closely. Most men would apologize. Most men would stammer, back away, and promise to be perfect.
Dean just stares right back into the eyes of the most dangerous man in hockey.
“If I make her cry,” Dean says, his voice low, steady, and vibrating with absolute certainty, “you can have a free shot. You can break both my legs. But it won’t happen.”
Ilya’s eyes narrow to slits.
“Because I’m not going to hurt her,” Dean continues, leaning in a fraction of an inch himself, refusing to back down. “I’m keeping her.”
The tension is so thick you could carve it with a steak knife. The two men stare at each other, neither blinking, neither giving an inch. It is an absolute standoff of alpha male ego and fierce, unyielding protectiveness.
And then, suddenly, the ice breaks.
Ilya lets out a sharp, barking laugh.
He lifts his massive hand and claps Dean on the shoulder. The force of the hit is so hard it actually makes Dean stumble half a step, but Ilya grips his shoulder tightly, hauling him back up.
“I like this one!” Ilya booms, turning to look at you, his eyes sparkling with genuine amusement. “He has spine! He is stupid, but he has spine!”
The collective exhale from Garrett, Logan, and Tucker sounds like a punctured tire.
Dean blinks, totally caught off guard by the sudden shift in energy, but a slow, cocky smirk immediately begins to form on his lips. “I prefer the term confident, but I’ll take stupid if it means you aren’t going to murder me.”
“Oh, I might still murder you,” Ilya says cheerfully, releasing Dean’s shoulder. “We will see how the season goes. Your backhand is still weak.”
“It’s getting better,” Dean fires back effortlessly, leaning casually against the wall. The fear is completely gone, replaced by his usual, charming swagger. “Y/N runs drills with me. She’s a brutal coach.”
“She learned from me,” Ilya points out, puffing out his chest slightly. “The Russian system is superior.”
“I don’t know,” Dean argues playfully, crossing his arms. “The North American system focuses more on creativity. Let the players make plays.”
“Creativity is an excuse for a lack of discipline,” Ilya scoffs, waving a hand dismissively.
“Discipline doesn’t score the game-winner in overtime.”
“I scored the game-winner in overtime last night!”
As you watch them argue, a strange, creeping realization begins to settle over the hallway.
You watch Dean lean against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, a completely arrogant, completely self-assured smirk on his face. He is talking with his hands, completely relaxed, verbally sparring just for the fun of it.
Then, you look at Ilya. He is leaning against the opposite wall, one ankle crossed over the other, wearing the exact same arrogant, self-assured smirk. He is talking with his hands, arguing just to hear his own voice, completely thriving on the friction.
They have the exact same posture.
They have the exact same cocky, infuriating grin.
They radiate the exact same possessive, fiercely loyal energy hidden beneath layers of playboy swagger and ego.
You look over at Garrett, Logan, and Tucker.
The three Briar players are staring at Dean and Ilya with wide, horrified eyes. Logan slowly turns his head, making eye contact with you.
“Do you see this?” Logan whispers, his voice trembling slightly. He points a shaking finger between the two men. “They are … they are the exact same person.”
“It’s like looking at a multiverse variant,” Tucker mutters, completely disturbed. “Same font, different languages.”
“She’s dating the American version of her brother,” Garrett says, looking like he might actually throw up. “This is a psychological nightmare. Freud would have a field day with this.”
“Shut up, Garrett,” you hiss, your cheeks flushing violently.
But as you look back at them, you can’t deny it. Dean laughs at something Ilya says, throwing his head back in that rich, booming way that echoes down the hall. Ilya claps him on the shoulder again, offering a sharp, sarcastic insult that Dean immediately deflects with a perfectly timed chirp.
They are getting along flawlessly. They are practically speaking their own language — a language built entirely on hockey stats, trash talk, and massive egos.
And the scariest part? Neither of them seems to realize it.
“So,” Ilya says, pulling a sleek black card case out of his coat pocket. “You boys are hungry? I am buying dinner. The steaks in this town are acceptable. Come, Di Laurentis. You will sit next to me and explain why your power play is so predictable.”
“It’s not predictable,” Dean argues, pushing off the wall and falling into step beside Ilya as they start walking down the hall. “We run a one-three-one. It’s designed to open up the half-wall.”
“It is designed for lazy wingers,” Ilya corrects loudly.
They walk down the corridor together, completely ignoring the rest of you, deeply engrossed in an argument about special teams tactics.
You stand in the hallway, watching them go.
“Well,” you sigh, rubbing your temples again. “That went better than expected.”
Garrett slowly walks up next to you, his eyes still glued to Ilya’s retreating back. “Y/N.”
“Yes, Garrett?”
“Can you ask your brother to sign my chest at dinner?”
You close your eyes. “I am going to pretend you did not just ask me that.”
“Please,” Garrett begs, sounding entirely pathetic. “I have a sharpie in my bag.”
“We are leaving,” you announce, grabbing Garrett by the sleeve of his expensive suit and dragging him down the hall after Dean and Ilya. Logan and Tucker follow silently behind, both looking like they are still trying to process the sheer psychological horror of what they just witnessed.
As you catch up to them, Dean glances over his shoulder. He spots you, stops walking for a second, and waits for you to reach his side.
When you do, he doesn’t say a word. He just reaches out, sliding his large, warm hand around your waist and pulling you flush against his side. He presses a soft kiss to your temple, right in front of your brother.
Ilya stops talking. He looks at Dean’s arm around your waist. He looks at the way you lean into Dean’s side, completely relaxed.
For a second, the dangerous, protective older brother flares up in Ilya’s eyes.
But then, he looks at Dean’s face. He sees the absolute devotion there. He sees the way Dean looks at you like you are the only thing in the entire arena that matters.
Ilya huffs a soft breath, shaking his head. He turns around, shoving his hands into the pockets of his peacoat.
“Come on, children,” Ilya calls out, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips. “Dinner is on me. And Di Laurentis?”
“Yeah?” Dean asks.
“If you order your steak well-done,” Ilya warns over his shoulder, “I will revoke my approval.”
Dean laughs, pulling you a little tighter against his side.
“Don’t worry, old man,” Dean calls back playfully. “I like it raw.”
You let out a long, exasperated sigh, hiding a smile against Dean’s shoulder as you all walk out into the freezing Boston night.
One arrogant, hockey-obsessed idiot was hard enough to manage. Now, you officially have two of them.
You really are going to need more deadbolts.
***
The Ottawa winter is absolutely brutal, the kind of biting, deep-freeze cold that makes your lungs ache the second you step outside.
“I don’t understand how people survive here,” Dean complains, his teeth actually chattering as he parks his sleek SUV in the sprawling, snow-covered driveway of the massive luxury estate. “It’s negative twelve degrees, Y/N. Negative twelve. The air hurts my face.”
“You play a sport that takes place entirely on a sheet of frozen water,” you point out dryly, unbuckling your seatbelt. “You should be used to the cold.”
“Arena cold is different from Canadian tundra cold,” Dean argues. He kills the engine and turns to look at you.
The dashboard lights cast a soft glow across his face. He is older now, his jawline sharper, his shoulders broader from years of NHL conditioning. He has a tiny, faded scar above his left eyebrow from a high stick three seasons ago, but he is still, undeniably, the most devastatingly handsome man you have ever seen. And the heavy platinum band resting on his left ring finger — matching the diamond currently sparkling on your own — is still the best decision you have ever made.
“Besides,” Dean says, reaching across the center console to cup your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “Your brother chose to sign with Ottawa just to punish me. I know it. He wants me to freeze to death during the holidays.”
“Ilya did not sign a massive, eight-year contract with the Senators to punish you,” you laugh, leaning into his touch. “He signed it to be closer to Shane.”
Dean smiles, a soft, incredibly fond expression that he saves entirely for you. “Yeah, yeah. The greatest love story in the NHL. Come on, Mrs. Di Laurentis. Let’s go freeze.”
You brave the frigid air together, jogging up the salted stone steps to the massive mahogany front door. Before Dean can even ring the bell, the door swings open.
Shane stands in the entryway, wearing a soft grey cashmere sweater and looking every bit the golden boy of the NHL. He holds a can of ginger ale in one hand, his wedding band flashing in the warm foyer light.
“Y/N! Dean! Get in here before you let all the heat out,” Shane laughs, stepping back to let you both inside.
“Shane,” you smile, stepping into the sprawling, gorgeously decorated house and pulling him into a warm hug. “It is good to see you. Smells incredible in here.”
“Ilya’s making my mother’s brisket,” Shane says, rolling his eyes fondly as he claps Dean on the shoulder. “Good to see you, man. Rough game against Tampa on Thursday.”
“Don’t remind me,” Dean groans, shrugging out of his heavy wool coat. “Our penalty kill is a disaster right now.”
“Whose penalty kill is a disaster?” A booming, heavy Russian accent echoes from down the hall.
A second later, Ilya rounds the corner. He is wearing a dark apron over a black t-shirt, a wooden spoon in one hand, and a massive grin on his face. Years of professional hockey have only made him wider and more intimidating, but the sheer joy on his face when he looks at Shane, and then at you, softens his entire demeanor.
“Little bird!” Ilya drops the wooden spoon on a side table and crosses the foyer in three massive strides, scooping you up into a bone-crushing hug. He spins you around once before setting you back on your feet, kissing the top of your head. “You look beautiful. Marriage is treating you well.”
“I am managing,” you reply in Russian, smiling up at him.
Ilya turns his attention to Dean. He looks his brother-in-law up and down, his eyes narrowing in that familiar, hyper-critical way.
“Di Laurentis,” Ilya greets, his voice dropping into a flat, unimpressed drawl. “Your plus-minus this month is embarrassing. You are pinching too high in the offensive zone. Have you forgotten everything I taught you?”
“I play top-pairing minutes for a Cup-contending team, old man,” Dean fires back without missing a beat, a cocky smirk instantly appearing on his face as he shakes Ilya’s hand. “I can afford to take risks. Some of us actually have a reliable defensive partner to cover for us. Not all of us are busy staring at our own husbands across the ice.”
Ilya lets out a sharp, barking laugh, pulling Dean into a rough, one-armed hug. “You are an idiot. Come into the kitchen. The team is here. They want to meet the American liability.”
You follow the boys down the wide hallway, the sound of loud, overlapping voices and clinking glasses growing louder. Ilya and Shane’s house is an architectural masterpiece, completely open-concept, and right now, the massive kitchen and attached living room are overflowing with professional hockey players.
Half the Ottawa Senators roster seems to be lounging around the kitchen island, drinking beers and eating appetizers. When you and Dean walk in, the conversation stutters to a halt.
“Boys,” Ilya announces loudly, gesturing with his wine glass. “This is my little sister, Y/N. And her husband, Dean Di Laurentis. If any of you hit him on the ice next month when we play them, I will buy you a Rolex.”
A chorus of laughter breaks out. You recognize a few of the younger players staring at Dean with wide eyes.
Dean isn’t just a college player anymore. He is a bona fide NHL star, known for his lethal backhand, his punishing hits, and his absolute refusal to back down from a fight. To the young Ottawa players, seeing Dean standing casually in their captain’s kitchen is a surreal experience.
“Nice to meet you guys,” Dean says, leaning against the marble counter and effortlessly sliding into his charismatic, playboy-turned-superstar persona. “Don’t listen to Ilya. If you hit me, he’ll actually cry. He loves me.”
“I tolerate you because my sister likes your face,” Ilya corrects loudly, handing you a glass of white wine.
“Sure you do,” Shane murmurs, stepping up behind Ilya and wrapping his arms casually around his husband’s waist. Ilya immediately leans back against Shane’s chest, the massive, terrifying Russian practically melting into the Canadian. It’s a sight that the hockey world is finally used to — the league’s first openly queer, married power couple — but it still warms your heart every time you see it.
“So, Di Laurentis,” LaPointe asks nervously, holding a beer. “Is it true you guys run a completely fluid neutral zone trap in Boston? Because our coach showed us tape of your game against Florida, and your transition speed is insane.”
Dean’s eyes light up. Hockey is his second favorite topic in the world, right after you.
“It’s not entirely fluid,” Dean says, gesturing with his hands as he launches into a highly technical breakdown of his team’s defensive systems.
You stand back, sipping your wine, and watch the room.
Ilya naturally jumps into the conversation, loudly arguing with Dean about the merits of aggressive forechecking versus positional defense. They are standing mirroring each other — both holding their drinks in their left hands, both gesturing wildly with their right, both wearing identical, arrogant, infuriatingly handsome smirks.
“They are exactly the same,” a voice whispers next to you.
You turn your head to see Haas, the young forward, watching Ilya and Dean with a look of absolute awe and mild terror. He doesn’t realize he spoke out loud until you raise an eyebrow at him.
“Sorry! I mean, ma’am—Y/N—sorry,” Haas stammers, his face flushing bright red. “It’s just they’re both so … intense.”
“You can say cocky, Luca,” Shane laughs, joining you on the outskirts of the hockey debate. “We all know they’re cocky.”
“They’re assholes,” Boodram chimes in from the other side of the counter, keeping his voice low so his captain doesn’t hear. “But, like, in a good way? Like, they know they’re the best players in the room, and they want everyone else to know it too. It’s crazy.”
“It is a carefully cultivated brand,” you say dryly, taking another sip of wine.
“You disagree?” Ilya suddenly calls out, spinning around to point an accusing finger at Dean. “You think a drop pass on the power play entry is a good idea? It is a coward’s move! It slows the momentum!”
“It creates space, Ilya!” Dean argues back, his competitive streak fully ignited. He starts pacing back and forth in front of the island. “If you drop the puck to the trailer, you force the defense to step up, which opens the wings! It’s basic geometry!”
“It is basic stupidity!” Ilya roars, throwing his hands in the air. He turns to the Ottawa rookies. “Do you hear this? This is why the American system is flawed. They rely on tricks instead of brute force.”
The Ottawa players look terrified to be brought into the crossfire.
Shane sighs, setting his empty wine glass on the counter. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t yell. He simply looks at his massive, raging husband and says, very calmly, “Babe. Inside voice. And pass the salad.”
The transformation is instantaneous.
Ilya stops shouting mid-sentence. His chest heaves once, his eyes completely dial back from murderous enforcer to devoted husband.
“Yes, malysh,” Ilya murmurs softly. He picks up the salad bowl and hands it to Shane, the argument completely forgotten.
Across the kitchen, Dean is still pacing, completely fired up. “I’m telling you, the drop pass is statistically proven to increase zone entries by forty percent! It’s not a trick, it’s-”
“Dean,” you say.
Your voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the noise of the kitchen with absolute, undeniable authority.
Dean stops pacing instantly. His head snaps toward you, his green eyes wide and completely focused on you.
“Yes, sweetheart?” He asks, his entire posture softening.
“Stop waving your hands around,” you tell him smoothly. “You are making me dizzy. Come here and eat your protein.”
You slide a small plate of sliced brisket across the marble island.
Dean doesn’t hesitate for a single second. The superstar defenseman, the cocky, arrogant NHL playboy, obediently walks over to you, wraps an arm around your waist, presses a kiss to your temple, and spears a piece of meat.
“Sorry, Y/N,” Dean murmurs against your hair. “Got carried away.”
“You always do,” you reply fondly, running a hand through his blond hair.
You look across the island.
LaPointe and Haas are staring at you, and then at Shane, and then back to the two massive, highly dangerous hockey players happily eating their respective bread and carrots.
LaPointe leans over to Haaa, his voice a barely audible whisper of pure disbelief.
“They walk them like dogs,” LaPointe breathes. “It’s insane.”
“Terrifying,” Haas agrees in a hushed, reverent tone. “I want a marriage exactly like that.”
You catch Shane’s eye across the kitchen. The Canadian raises his ginger ale toward you in a silent, perfectly synchronized toast. You raise your wine glass back. The rookies are right, of course, but neither you nor Shane would ever admit it out loud.
***
Dinner is a loud, chaotic, incredibly warm affair.
Ilya’s brisket is perfect, the wine flows freely, and the dining room echoes with laughter, old hockey stories, and ruthless chirping. Dean fits in flawlessly with the Ottawa players, trading insults with Ilya that sound vicious to an outsider but are actually layered with deep mutual respect.
It wasn’t always easy. Those first few years after college were a brutal adjustment. Dean getting signed, the long-distance strains, Ilya’s terrifying protective streak flaring up every time Dean’s name was in the tabloids. But Dean proved him wrong. Every single time, Dean proved that his devotion to you wasn’t just a college phase, it was the defining anchor of his life.
By the time the Ottawa players finally clear out around midnight, retreating into the freezing snow to head home, the massive house is finally quiet.
You, Dean, Ilya, and Shane migrate to the sprawling living room. A fire is cracking in the massive stone fireplace, casting a warm, flickering glow over the leather furniture.
Shane is curled up on the sofa, his head resting in Ilya’s lap. Ilya is absently running his large, calloused fingers through Shane’s hair, looking completely at peace.
You are sitting on the oversized loveseat, your legs draped across Dean’s lap. He is gently massaging your calves through the fabric of your jeans, his thumb pressing into the muscles with practiced ease.
“Good dinner, old man,” Dean says quietly, staring into the flames.
“Yuna’s recipe,” Ilya replies softly, his eyes closed. “It is foolproof. Even you could not ruin it.”
Dean chuckles. He leans his head back against the sofa, his green eyes catching the firelight. For a moment, he is quiet, a rare, reflective look crossing his face.
“You know,” Dean says, his voice losing all its usual sarcastic armor. “Dykstra was asking me earlier about how I got signed m. About how I climbed the undrafted free agent projections.”
Ilya opens one eye, looking at Dean across the room. “You fixed your gap control.”
“Yeah. I did.” Dean’s hand rests heavily on your knee, his thumb stroking your skin. He looks at Ilya, the tension between them completely replaced by a deep, unspoken brotherhood. “But that’s not what got me there. I told him the truth.”
“Which is?” Shane asks gently.
“I wouldn’t be playing in this league if it wasn’t for you guys,” Dean says. He looks down at you, his eyes incredibly soft, and then back to Ilya. “If Y/N hadn’t torn my game apart that night in the lobby … if Ilya hadn’t spent that entire summer in Boston physically beating my ass on the ice … I would have coasted. I would have been a good college player, and then maybe played beer league.”
You feel a tight, warm ache in your chest. You reach out, lacing your fingers through Dean’s.
“You did the work, Dean,” you tell him softly. “We just pointed out your flaws.”
“You pointed them out very aggressively,” Dean grins, though the emotion in his eyes is entirely genuine. He looks at Ilya. “Seriously. Thank you. Both of you. For not letting me settle.”
“You are a good man, Di Laurentis,” Ilya says, his voice thick and sincere. “You are arrogant, and you talk too much, but you take care of my sister. And you are a hell of a defenseman. You earned your spot.”
Dean swallows hard, his jaw tightening as he nods. Coming from Ilya Rozanov, there is no higher praise on earth.
“But don’t think this means I’m not going to put you in the boards next month,” Ilya adds quickly, the gruffness returning to his voice. “If you try that drop pass in my zone, I will end your career.”
“I look forward to seeing you try, grandpa,” Dean fires back instantly, the cocky grin returning in full force.
Shane laughs, sitting up and stretching. “Alright, that’s my cue. If you two start drawing up plays on napkins, I’m going to bed. Goodnight, kids.”
“Goodnight, Shane,” you smile as Ilya stands up, pulling his husband to his feet.
“Sleep well, little bird,” Ilya says, pressing a final kiss to your forehead. He points two fingers at Dean, pointing them back at his own eyes in an I’m watching you gesture, before following Shane down the hallway toward the master suite.
The living room falls quiet again, save for the crackle of the fire.
Dean turns his attention entirely to you. He slides his hands up your thighs, gripping your hips, and pulls you effortlessly across the sofa until you are straddling his lap.
“Hi,” Dean murmurs, his hands resting warmly on the small of your back.
“Hi,” you reply, resting your forearms on his broad shoulders. “You are feeling very sentimental tonight.”
“Can you blame me?” Dean asks, his eyes tracing the line of your jaw, down your neck, and back up to your eyes. “I’m sitting in a mansion in Ottawa, playing in the NHL, holding the most incredible, terrifying, beautiful woman in the world. I’m a lucky guy.”
“You are,” you agree, completely unabashed. “But you earned it.”
Dean smiles, that devastating, million-dollar smile that still makes your heart skip a beat all these years later. He leans in, capturing your lips in a slow, incredibly deep kiss. It tastes like expensive wine, woodsmoke, and years of absolute devotion.
You kiss him back just as fiercely, your fingers tangling in his thick blonde hair. The heat between you flares instantly, burning just as bright and desperate as it did in that tiny college bedroom years ago.
Dean breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead against yours, his breathing slightly elevated.
“You know,” Dean whispers, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs. “The guest room is all the way on the other side of the house. Soundproof walls, too. I checked.”
You raise an eyebrow, your old, haughty confidence returning in full force. “You checked the acoustics of my brother’s guest room?”
“A good player always scouts the arena before the game,” Dean murmurs, his voice dropping into that rough, gravelly register that completely short-circuits your brain. He kisses the sensitive skin just below your ear. “What do you say, Mrs. Di Laurentis? Ready for puck drop?”
You let out a soft, helpless laugh, leaning your head back as his lips trail down your neck.
Some things never change. He is still arrogant, he is still incredibly demanding, and he is still, without a doubt, exactly the game you want to play for the rest of your life.
“Take me upstairs, Di Laurentis,” you whisper into the quiet room.
Dean doesn’t hesitate. He stands up effortlessly, carrying you in his arms as he walks toward the hallway, a triumphant, wicked smirk on his face.
You rest your head against his shoulder, entirely safe, entirely loved, and completely in control.
The Ottawa winter rages outside, but inside, you have never been warmer.
Don’t know if you’re interested, but can we get a beau x reader x dean work?
The wood experiment ²
Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x fem!reader x Beau Maxwell
⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-66
Summary: After years of disappointing experiences with toys that never quite satisfied you, you take a bold risk with two friendly strangers during a camping trip to finally test whether the problem was you or simply the wrong dildos.
Classification: Smut +18 | Threesome (MFM), first-time vaginal penetration, dry humping, fingering, double genital stimulation, creampie, cum play, spanking, edging, orgasm control, dirty talk, praise kink, mild dominance, no-strings-attached sex, light impact play, crude humor and mention of sex toys.
Word count: 4,8k
Divider by me ;)
You didn’t know where you stood on the spectrum of sexuality and sensuality. You had never felt the touch of a man, yet you were no saint. You owned toys, you read erotica and watched porn when the mood struck. Most of all, you liked the part of yourself that refused to wait for a man to drop out of the sky before you could feel pleasure.
Your friends had plenty of experience with men and you were happy for them but you simply preferred to stay in control of your own.
For a long time that had been more than enough. You could take care of your own needs in under five minutes with the cheapest vibrator on the market or with your fingers in ten if you were worked up enough. Dildos had never done it for you, no matter the material, the shape, the length or the width, they left you feeling little and never brought you to orgasm. That fact had left you uneasy about the idea of sex with a man. You hoped that when it finally happened, penetration would feel good, you'd make sure of it, but a quiet fear lingered. Were you numb?
Still, you felt no rush to enter a relationship just to test the theory. You had watched enough friends tumble into messy entanglements and then ignore every piece of advice you gave them.
Why would they listen to you, right? But after all, coaches never played…until tonight.
You sat around the crackling fire, thoughts drifting. You had come camping for a few nights to get some distance from your usual life and step down from your unpaid role as couple’s therapist to your friends. The first evening, Dean and Beau had set up camp near yours. They were university students like you, barely a year older, friendly and easy to talk to.
You had fallen into hiking and kayaking together with surprising comfort and now the three of you sat around their fire, the night air cool against your skin while the flames threw warm light across your faces. Since this whole trip was an experiment and a chance to push your own limits…why stop at flirting?
“Are you two…?” Your question trailed off as you gestured between them. You sat in the middle, each of you in your own camp chair.
Dean chuckled and shook his head. “Best friends…Not that he isn’t a good-looking guy.” He motioned toward Beau. “Look at him.”
Your gaze slid to Beau. He smiled, a little shy and sweet, clearly less bold than Dean. Still, the firelight traced the strong line of his jaw and the breadth of his shoulders.
“He’s right,” you said quietly.
Beau nodded, cheeks warming. “Uh, thank you.” He took a sip from his soda can. “Only one of us is Six Flags, though.” He grinned and Dean laughed.
You looked between them, lips curving despite yourself. “Six Flags? What does that mean?”
“He’s a ladies’ man,” Beau explained. “They come for the ride and then leave.”
“And I’m okay with that,” Dean added, raising a finger as if to make the statement sound more sincere.
You nodded slowly, eyes returning to Beau. You lifted your half-empty soda can in his direction. “And what kind of ride do you offer, handsome?”
Both of them turned their full attention to you, lips parting.
“Offer?” Beau repeated, voice low.
You hummed in confirmation, letting the moment stretch. The fire popped softly as crickets filled the silence between your words. “Just seeing if I could get two-for-one access tonight.”
Dean’s eyebrows rose as a slow, interested smirk tugged at his mouth. Beau’s gaze darkened as he set his can down on the ground beside his chair. The easy conversation from earlier fell away, replaced by something heavier and charged.
Dean leaned forward, elbows on his knees, firelight dancing in his eyes. “That’s a bold ask, sweetheart.”
You held his stare, pulse quickening. “Think of it as an experiment…I figured the woods were a good place for it.”
Beau glanced at Dean and immediately caught the eager look on his face. Dean looked about two seconds away from saying yes on the spot. Before he could, Beau cleared his throat.
“Hey, man. Can we… talk for a minute?” He asked, the last part tilting up as he motioned away with his head.
Dean blinked, then shrugged as he stood. “Sure.” Before he took a step, he turned and flashed you a quick smile.
Beau stood next and walked a short distance away from the fire as Dean followed, far enough for a private conversation but still in your line of sight. You kept your eyes on them, heart beating faster. You did not know what you were thinking, but you wanted this to happen. You wanted the overwhelming feeling of several hands on your body at once. The idea of sex without commitments felt like the perfect answer to your questions tonight. You wanted to try the real thing and the mere thought of being greedy enough to take both of them was making you awfully wet.
Beau crossed his arms. “Did I understand her right? She actually wants both of us? Like…at the same time?”
Dean grinned, nodding eagerly with his hands on his hips. “Sounded pretty clear to me.”
“What if she asks us to kiss?” Beau pressed, voice low but urgent.
Dean turned his head and looked straight at you. Your eyes were locked on them, curious and steady. Beau followed his gaze, then dropped his eyes lower. Dean was already visibly hard, the outline clear against his pants. Spending the past few days with you had been fun, and you were undeniably pretty.
Beau smacked him right on the cock with the back of his hand.
Dean doubled over with a groan, hands flying to cover himself. “Fuck, dude! The fuck was that for?”
“Can you focus for a second?” Beau hissed, eyes returning to Dean’s folded-over posture.
Dean straightened up slowly, still wincing but laughing under his breath. “One of us clearly is. Come on, isn’t this what we came here for? You wanted spontaneity. This is as spontaneous as it gets out in the woods.”
Beau rubbed the back of his neck, glancing back toward you. “We take this to the grave, right? No matter what happens. And if it gets too weird, we can always take turns instead of… everything at once. It’ll be her choice. I’m big on communication.”
“So am I,” Dean said easily. “But I’m not worried about ‘weird’. I have no issue seeing your dick, man. I’m a hockey player. I shower in rooms full of them and I can tell you that eventually your eyes start to wander.” He reached over and gave Beau a firm pat on the shoulder. “It’s not ‘if,’ it’s ‘when’… and that time comes pretty soon.” He nodded, eyes tracing Beau’s worried face.
Beau looked down at himself. He was getting hard too, though it was not nearly as obvious as Dean’s situation. Still, a flicker of doubt crossed his face as he wondered if size would be an issue once things got started.
Dean caught the look instantly. “Comparison is the thief of joy, my friend.”
Beau let out a short laugh despite himself, the tension easing a little. Dean’s grin returned, cocky and sure.
“I can show you a nude right now so there’s no surprises,” Dean added, his grin spreading wider.
Beau groaned. “Size isn’t all there is. It’s how you use it.”
Dean chuckled, nodding. “That’s my boy.”
During the conversation they had not noticed you stand and walk closer. When their eyes finally left each other and found you, you were only a couple of steps away.
“Don’t worry, guys. I don’t think we’ll hit max capacity of my tent tonight.” You smiled as you walked toward your tent without looking back. Both of their gazes followed your steps, matching smiles spreading across their faces.
“I think I just came in my pants,” Dean sighed.
“I’ll go first then,” Beau said, patting Dean’s chest. “You should start getting used to coming second…or even third.” He started walking after you. A second later, Dean followed.
The air inside the tent was thick with the scent of nylon and the musk of three bodies humming with anticipation. You sat there, trembling slightly, heart hammering against your ribs.
You hadn't told Beau or Dean that this was your first time, that the dildos you’d tried in private had left you feeling cold and empty, leaving you with a nagging, terrifying fear that you were somehow broken. You didn't know if you could actually feel pleasure but as you looked at them, the desperation to find out outweighed the fear.
The clothes had been discarded in a frantic heap, leaving you all in just your underwear. The space was cramped, which only added to the intensity, forcing your skin to brush against theirs at every turn.
Beau, always the sweeter of the two, had laid back first. He looked up at you with soft, wanting eyes as you climbed over him. You straddled his hips, settling your weight down so your core pressed firmly against the hard line of his cock, separated only by the thin fabric of his boxers and your own underwear. When you started grinding against him, you gasped, eyes widening slightly. He was warm and pulsing beneath you, the thick ridge of his erection rubbing right against your clit with every roll of your hips.
You began to rock yourself on him, moving in a slow, experimental rhythm. The friction of his clothed cock sliding against you sent sparks through your nerves, a sensation so vivid it almost made you cry out.
Dean was right behind you, kneeling and straddling Beau’s thighs to get closer. He was a wall of heat against your back, his confidence radiating off him in waves. His large hands reached around, sliding up to capture your clothed breasts. He squeezed and massaged them firmly, his fingers kneading your flesh while he leaned in to bury his face in the crook of your neck. He nipped at your skin, teeth grazing your pulse point, sending shivers racing down your spine.
Your hands rested on Beau’s chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath your palms as you moved while his hands locked onto your hips, fingers digging in to help guide them, pushing you down harder onto him with every roll.
Whenever Dean got close enough, pressing his front to your back eagerly, you could feel the hard, thick length of his cock pressing firmly against your ass, a promise of what was coming.
The feeling of being sandwiched between two men, the weight of them and the heat of their breath created an overwhelming sensation. You weren't close to coming yet but the tension was already building, in a new coil of heat tightening in your lower belly that you had never experienced before.
Dean’s hands moved, fingers hooking into the strap of your bra. With a swift, confident motion, he flicked the clasp and peeled the fabric away, exposing your breasts to the dim light of the tent.
Beau let out a low groan at the sight of your breasts spilling free, hips bucking upward instinctively. He looked up at your chest, eyes glazed with lust and breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Fuck," Beau choked out, his voice strained. "You're so beautiful...It’s gonna make me cum."
He tightened his grip on your hips, pulling you closer as you ground down against him. He held back, fighting the urge to come in his underwear while the two of you moved in a desperate, sweaty rhythm.
Dean stayed pressed behind you, mouth hot on your neck and shoulder, kissing and biting softly as his hand slipped around your waist and slid slowly beneath the waistband of your panties.
His fingers found your slick folds and immediately began drawing slow but firm circles over your clit, the sudden direct touch making you moan loudly into the space.
Meanwhile, his other hand stayed cupped around your breast, thumb brushing across your nipple in time with the movement of his fingers, forcing pleasure to surge through you from both angles.
Your hips lifted on instinct. Breathing hard, you reached down between your bodies, slipped your hand into the waistband of his boxers and wrapped your fingers around his thick, heated length. You pulled him free, stroking him once from base to tip as his breath hitched sharply.
You then hooked a finger into the side of your soaked panties and tugged them roughly aside, exposing your dripping pussy completely to him.
Dean chuckled low against your neck. "Taking initiative, I love that…Beau here likes spontaneity."
Holding Beau’s cock steady, you lined him up at your entrance and slowly sank down onto him.
The stretch was immediate and intense. A broken moan and gasp escaped your lips as his warm, bare cock pushed inside you, filling you inch by inch. It truly was nothing like your toys, he felt alive, hot and so much fuller than you had imagined. You kept sinking until you were fully seated in his lap, walls fluttering and clenching around him then releasing in ways no toy had ever made them do. "Holy fuck," you breathed.
"Nothing holy about this," Beau answered, voice rough. "Get to riding."
You laughed shakily as Dean’s laugh vibrated against your skin. "And here she thought you were the sweeter one."
"Please," Beau added, smiling up at you and the word made your lips part around another curse.
Dean’s hand left your breast and slid up to the back of your neck, pressing you forward firmly until your chest was flush against Beau’s, nipples brushing his warm skin with every breath. The new angle pushed you deeper onto Beau’s cock, drawing a shared moan from both of you.
Behind you, Dean rolled his hips, grinding the hard, clothed length of his cock between your ass cheeks. The thick ridge of his erection, still trapped in his boxers, dragged slowly, applying steady pressure against your most sensitive area. He matched every roll and lift of your hips as you rode Beau, thrusting in perfect sync so that every time you sank down onto Beau’s cock, Dean’s pressed firmly against your ass.
His fingers never stopped their steady circles over your swollen clit, slick and fast now, pushing you higher with every stroke. The sensation of being filled by Beau while Dean ground against you from behind left you trembling between them, caught in a rhythm that grew steadily more desperate.
"Tell her again," Dean said, grinning. "I’m pretty sure her pussy will thank you for your manners."
Beau’s hands settled on your waist, guiding your drags up and down his length. "Ride me, sweetheart. Nice and slow so you can feel every inch."
You kept moving and each time you rose, Dean’s dry thrusts pushed you forward again, the fabric of his boxers catching and dragging against sensitive, wet skin. The tent felt smaller with every breath and shift of bodies while your knees slid over your sleeping bag as you found a rhythm, Beau’s cock stretching you as Dean’s fingers kept your clit puffy and throbbing.
Beau’s grip tightened as he grabbed handfuls of ass. "Fuck, you feel so good…so tight around me."
"She’s dripping down your cock already. Keep talking to her, Beau…she likes it." Dean grinned.
Beau’s voice stayed soft even as his hips failed to lift to meet you halfway. "You’re doing so well…taking me so deep. That’s it, let Dean play with that pretty clit while you fuck yourself on me."
Dean’s fingers pressed firmer, faster and your moans broke into something higher. The combined sensation from Beau filling you and Dean’s cock grinding against your ass while his fingers worked your clit, made your thighs shake. You rocked harder, chasing the feeling you’d never found with silicone.
"That’s right," Dean murmured. "Use us. Show us how you want it."
Beau’s hands slid up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. "You can go faster if you need to, it’s all yours to take."
You did. The wet sounds of your pussy taking him fully grew louder inside the small tent. Dean’s dry thrusts grew more insistent, the head of his cock catching on the thin fabric of your panties with every roll of his hips as your clit pulsed under his fingers, every circle sending sparks up your spine.
Beau’s breathing turned ragged, eyes fluttering shut. "You’re squeezing me so tight…Fuck, don’t stop."
Dean’s hand pressed firmly on the delicious curve of your spine…Fuck, he wanted to lick along it. "She won’t…not until she comes all over your cock. Right, beautiful?"
The words hit you harder than you expected. Your hips stuttered for a moment, then resumed their frantic rhythm, chasing the edge that had always stayed just out of reach with your toys.
Beau’s hands gripped your waist, steadying you as you rode him and Dean’s fingers never faltered on your clit, circling with relentless pressure. The three of you moved together in the cramped tent, bodies sliding against each other, hot breaths mingling in the thick air while the quiet night outside faded completely.
Beau pulled you into a deep, searing kiss, his tongue sliding against yours as he met every desperate roll of your hips, which you were greedy for. You rode him harder, walls clamping down tightly around his thick shaft with every downward plunge. The wet, filthy sound of your bodies meeting filled the small space as the tension coiled tighter and tighter in your core, centered beneath Dean’s skilled fingers.
Your orgasm crashed over you without warning, violent and overwhelming. Your back arched sharply, pressing your chest harder against Beau’s as your hardened nipples dragged across his heated skin. The kiss broke with a wet gasp as a loud, broken moan tore from your throat.
Your pussy spasmed hard around Beau’s cock, milking him in powerful, rhythmic pulses while pleasure tore through every nerve in your body.
You were so drenched that your juices coated his length and dripped down onto his balls, the slickness becoming too much. With one final, shaking shudder, Beau’s cock slipped out of you with a loud and obscene wet pop. You slumped forward against his chest, gasping for air, your empty pussy visibly twitching and pulsing in the open air between your spread cheeks.
Dean, who had been watching the entire spectacle with dark, predatory hunger, let out a low hiss. Seeing your walls contract and flutter had pushed him past the point of restraint. He snatched his hand away from your clit, the sudden loss making you whimper in protest and in one fluid motion, he shoved the front of his boxers down, freeing his thick, rigid cock.
He leaned forward, lined the swollen head against your soaked entrance and began pushing in.
You let out a loud, shocked moan against Beau’s lips, your eyes widening at the sudden heavy intrusion. Beau had been long and smooth, gliding easily along your walls, Dean was thicker and the wait had made him even harder. He was ridged and pressed firmly against every sensitive spot as he moved. He stretched you to your absolute limit, forcing your walls to open around his girth as he sank deeper.
Beau reached down with both hands and gripped your ass cheeks. He spread them wide, fully exposing your dripping pussy to Dean’s relentless push, the new position leaving you completely open between them.
Dean gave a few slow, careful thrusts at first, testing how your body responded while it was still vibrating from your orgasm. The waves hadn’t faded, instead, they continued pulsing around his cock with every shallow stroke, drawing a deep groan from his chest.
You whined, a high and needy sound escaping your throat. Dean rested his forehead against the back of your neck for a moment, breathing hard, before he straightened up again on his knees.
“Fucking glorious, right? So warm,” Beau murmured, his voice thick with lust.
Dean chuckled, the sound vibrating through your spine. “She’s still cumming from your cock, dude.” He paused, his voice softening even as it stayed dominant. “I’m not hurting you, am I, sweetheart?”
You shook your head gently, breath coming in short, jagged gasps. A powerful wave of relief washed over you. You weren’t broken or numb, you could feel everything, every ridge, vein and throb of their cocks inside you. The sheer intensity proved you were more than capable of this kind of pleasure.
Dean’s arm wrapped around your waist and hauled you upright, pulling you off Beau’s chest and holding you tight against him in a firm bear hug, your back flush to his front. Your skin burned where it pressed against his.
“Do me a favor and wrap that pretty hand around Beau’s cock,” he whispered hotly against your ear.
He began to thrust in earnest, each powerful stroke driving deep and pushing fresh wetness out around his thick shaft. You melted back into him, head falling against his shoulder as a full-body shudder ran through you.
“Come on, be a good girl,” Dean murmured, voice rough with passion.
He looked down at Beau’s cock lying hard and twitching against his stomach, shiny and dripping with your juices. The swollen head glistened under the low light while a thin string of your slick stretched from your pussy to Beau’s skin every time Dean pulled back and slammed in again.
Your hand reached down on instinct, fingers wrapping around Beau’s slick, hot length, feeling it pulse strongly in your palm. You stroked him slowly at first, spreading the wetness up and down his shaft while Dean fucked you steadily from behind, the three of you locked together in the cramped tent.
You guided the broad head of Beau’s cock firmly against your swollen clit and the drenched opening of your pussy. Every time Dean slammed his hips forward, driving his cock deep into you, the force pressed your pelvis down onto Beau’s shaft. The friction was electric, a constant, slippery grind that sent sparks of pleasure shooting through your nerves. You whimpered, head tossing back against Dean’s shoulder anew as pre-cum and your own slick lubricated the filthy contact.
Beau’s chest tensed beneath you, his muscles rippling as he fought for control. “Ugh, fuck,” he moaned, the sound vibrating through your thighs. You let out a breathless chuckle between your moans, fingers digging into his skin to keep his cock pressed tight against your throbbing clit.
“You guys…do this often?” you gasped, voice trembling as Dean’s thrusts grew more urgent, hitting your cervix with blunt, satisfying thuds.
“We can, if you call us,” Beau answered instantly.
Dean let out a low, rumbling laugh that vibrated against your back. “Took the words right out of my mouth,” he said, teeth grazing the shell of your ear before he gripped your waist tighter and pulled you back harder onto his cock.
The pace changed, becoming a relentless, kinky assault on your senses. Dean began to rotate his hips, grinding his cock deep inside you while you continued sliding against Beau’s tip. The wet, slapping sound of skin meeting skin filled the tent, mixed with the heavy, intoxicating scent of sex and musk. You were drowning in it as pleasure built into a towering wave that stripped away your ability to speak. You could no longer form words, all that left your lips were high, needy moans and broken whimpers.
As you lost the ability to talk, the men took over. Their voices became low and praising as they talked about you like a prize, describing exactly how your tight walls squeezed Dean and how your clit pulsed against Beau.
“Look at her,” Dean groaned, his breath hot on your neck. “So fucking wet for us. I can feel her twitching around me, trying to suck me dry.”
“She’s perfect,” Beau rasped, his eyes locked on your blissed-out face.
Suddenly, Beau sat up, his movement fluid and hungry. He lunged forward and wrapped his mouth around one of your stiff nipples, sucking hard while his tongue swirled around the sensitive peak. At the same time, his hand reached up to massage your other breast, kneading the soft flesh with a firm grip. The combination of Dean’s deep pounding from behind, the constant friction on your clit and Beau’s hungry mouth on your breasts pushed you right to the edge.
Your back arched sharply, toes curling. “Fuck…I’m gonna cum,” you wailed, your internal muscles clamping down violently around Dean.
“Hold it,” they both commanded in unison.
The sudden order snapped you out of your haze for a split second. They didn’t stop moving, if anything, Dean slowed to a torturous, shallow grind, teasing the entrance of your womb, while Beau kept his cock pressed firmly against your clit. They went right back to their seductive murmurs against your skin, praising how your body trembled and how desperately you were leaking for them. They kept you hovering right on the precipice, denying your release and stretching the tension until your entire body hummed like a live wire, trapped in agonizing, wet ecstasy.
The friction continued, a relentless, slippery torture. The sheer amount of lubrication, a hot cocktail of your soaking wetness and their pre-cum, made every movement smooth and loud.
As you ground desperately against Beau, the slickness became so intense that his cock suddenly slid from your clit and glided effortlessly toward your entrance.
You gasped, eyes widening in shock as you felt the broad, blunt head of his cock press firmly against your opening, right beside where Dean’s thick shaft was sliding in and out. He didn’t push inside but the overwhelming pressure of two cocks fighting for the same tight space was too much and the dam broke.
You screamed, body convulsing in a violent, crashing orgasm. Your walls clamped down hard on Dean in rhythmic, desperate pulses, milking him with every spasm. You whined and moaned, voice breaking as wave after wave of pleasure ripped through you, leaving you shaking and breathless.
The intensity of your climax triggered both men. Beau, feeling the frantic pulsing of your pussy against his sensitive head, let out a raspy moan into your nipple. His body stiffened as he erupted, thick ropes of hot cum shooting across your drenched pussy and mixing with the mess already coating your inner thighs.
At the same moment, the crushing grip of your orgasm pulled Dean over the edge. He let out a low, animalistic growl and buried himself as deep as possible, filling your womb with heavy, pulsing loads of cum. He kept thrusting slowly and heavily, pumping every last drop deep inside you while your body continued to shake between them.
Eventually, Dean slowed and pulled out with a wet, suctioning sound. The sudden emptiness left you feeling sensitive and open.
You collapsed forward onto Beau’s chest as he lay back down, breathing hard against the crook of his neck.
Your skin was warm and glistening with sweat and seed…And just as you started to relax, Beau reached down and delivered a sharp, loud smack to your ass.
You whined, the sting sending a fresh spark through your exhausted nerves while Dean groaned, voice thick with lingering lust as he stared at the sight of you.
“How’s it looking?” Beau asked, glancing at Dean, who seemed completely mesmerized by your lower body.
Dean leaned in, eyes tracking the way their mixed cum and your wetness dripped from your swollen and still pulsing folds. “Like an overfilled twinkie,” he muttered.
The absurd comment shattered the tension and all three of you dissolved into tired, breathless laughter. You propped yourself up slightly, lifting just enough to capture Beau’s lips in a deep, lingering kiss. Your fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer as you tasted the salt and heat of everything you had just done.
“You might not be Six Flags,” you whispered against his lips, a playful glint in your eyes, “but they should make you employee of the month.”
Beau grinned triumphantly and surged up to reclaim your mouth, his hand sliding down to squeeze your ass firmly, kneading the flesh.
“Hey…how come I got no kiss?” Dean’s voice drifted from behind you, mock-offended.
You didn’t bother to look back, too focused on Beau’s tongue sliding against yours but you had to pull back. “You came inside me,” you murmured breathlessly. “Don’t be greedy.”
You sank back into the kiss, feeling Beau’s chest rumble with a chuckle.
“Few more minutes and I’ll come on it too,” Dean whispered, voice low and promising as you felt Beau grin against your lips.
You had never seen men as the answer to much of anything, least of all your pleasure. So maybe the next thing you would acquire wouldn’t be a boyfriend, but a nice, realistic, warming and throbbing dildo to add to your collection… and perhaps a couple of phone numbers to call on those nights when your toys needed charging.
a/n: Comments, likes and reblogs really do mean the world and help more than you know! More stories will be added to the archive soon, so stay tuned for new content. Thank you so much for reading! 🤍
Summery: Abbot has been exhibiting behavior that could only be described as chipper.
Or Five POVs from the ED + Bonus scene!
an: This was a fun pause. honestly I've been feeling a bit down, and nothing was coming to me plot-wise, but I always enjoy a bit of outsider!povs. Happy reading!
Jack Abbot is up to something.
He'd been on his phone during shift, going upstairs and back, and talking to the university liaison for some reason. Dana and Lena shared their notes about it, and both found it very strange. If there was an issue, he's have to handle it within administrative staff's hours. He didn't seem frustrated like one naturally would with admin, didn't seem hurried or rejected. The charge nurses sharp eyes were curious.
There's more, once Robby got into the circle, because Abbot has been exhibiting behavior that could only be described as chipper. According to Robby, who has spent the most time with the man, and Ellis, with whom Jack spends the most time during night shifts, Abbot had always been at ease. Not relaxed, as he was always ready for action, but not tense or high-strung either. The night shift attending always spared time to check on his residents, learn about the nurses, and support all staff under him. They loved him for that.
But they hadn't seen him smile more than a subtle curled lip and a thumbs-up. They receive his approval and know how to recognize it, but they've never seen Abbot bounce his knee, or sigh deeply. They've never seen the crows-feet around his eyes appear just from talking on the phone and leaning on the Hub counter.
"What is wrong with you?"
Ellis asked this quick and quiet, like she wasn't judging as much as she was curious. Abbot turned to her, soft frown on his brows, as he leaned his back against the counter. She walked to him, placing a tablet in it's station, and folded her arms over her chest.
"A lot, I think," he shrugged.
"Not that," Parker shook her head, "You're smiling a lot lately, I was gonna let it go but, man, it's been a week."
"I smile all the time, Dr Ellis," Jack scoffed, turning back to face the ambulance bay.
"You lie all the time too," she quipped.
He tipped his head towards the ceiling and sighed, a smile trying not to show at the corner of his lips.
"Com' on, Abbot," Parker stepped closer and whispered, "I need fuel."
He snorted and looked at her for a moment, "what do you know about neural regeneration using stem cells?"
"Huh?" she blinked twice, just in case this shift fucked with her senses, "you got a science kink or something?"
Abbot chuckled loudly, belly deep and mirthful, and the sound turned multiple heads around them. Heads that don't usually flinch even for ambulance sirens or pulse ox alarms.
"78 year old male, Brenden Cazna, chest pain followed by syncope and head strike. Alert and diaphoretic."
EMT Emanuel rattled out as he pushed the gurney through the bay doors while Abbot and Robby were in the middle of hand-off, making both snap into action.
"Blood thinners?" Robby asked.
"Wife reported apixaban," EMT responded, "Gave him Aspirin IV, pain gone from 8 to 5."
They wheeled the man through to Trauma 1 while the attendings arranged for ECG and vitals. Just as Robby began to order a 12-lead after speaking to the patient, he saw Abbot pick off his gloves and step out.
"Abbot," Robby stepped out behind him, "you not staying for this?"
"No, I'm late," Jack muttered, picking up his backpack from behind hub counter, then gave hin a nod, "he's in good hands."
Robby blinked for a bit, like something glitched, because he'd never heard Jack say that about anything outside of work. "Late for-"
"I'll see you tonight, brother."
Abbot stepped backwards with a thumbs-up, then turned to walk out through the ambulance bay. Robby's head cocked to the side and he tapped the counter with his hand to alert Lena, who was picking up her Jacket off the chair.
"Since when does Jack keep his bag here instead of the lockers?"
Lena huffed, a tired smile visible under her low glasses, "for the last two hours of shift, every shift, for a few months now, I think."
Robby shook his head, and headed back to Trauma 1. It may have seemed like completely normal behavior had it not been Jack that was exhibiting it. He stays for trauma of every degree, that was just what he does. Something has change that, taken priority, and Robby knew for a fact it wasn't a SWAT gig.
"You know you're charming, Abbot," Dana spoke softly, voice laced with sass, "you'll be fine."
"I'm charming on a surface level with strangers," He muttered at her side, "not sisters whose opinion is …"
Jack folded his arms over his chest, and looked up. The ambulance bay was orange with the coming evening, and a chill in the air hinted at the approaching holiday season. White puffs swirled above Dana's head as she pulled in another drag of her cigarette.
"Detrimental to your happiness?" she rasped, brow sharply raised.
Jack grimaced and shrugged one shoulder.
"Possibly your doom?" Dana teased.
"Ok-"
"Potential disgrace?"
"Dana," Jack laughed, interrupting before it got out of hand, "it's not that bad."
"See?" she hummed, throwing the butt of her cigarette near her shoes, "you said it yourself, It'll go fine. She'd be able to see how much you love her sister very clearly."
"I hope so," he nodded, "I'm usually great with family, but it's her older sister."
Dana's head snapped to him, "Oldest?"
Jack nodded.
Her blonde head tipped back as she laughed sharply before turning to walk out to her car, "then you're doomed."
Dr John Shen's Iced double shot was not as "double" as it was supposed to be. He needed to kickstart his caffeine as well as his sweet-tooth, so he headed to the lounge to pour more coffee into his cup. Nearing the door, John went to push it open but paused when he saw Dr Abbot slouched on the couch, prosthetic leg up on the coffee table, and holding his phone up to his neck. Beyond the fact that it was rare to see Abbot talking on the phone at all, an even rarer grin sat on his lips. More rare? is rarer even a word-
"-I have a wheelie chair though," Shen overheard him through the crack in the door.
"That's not-" A feminine voice sounded out of the speaker, sounding frustrated, "you are a desk chair adrenaline junkie twirling through the ground floor because you won't let yourself have a wheelchair."
"Oh? do tell me how you really feel, Sweet," Jack voice giggled lightly.
A soft laugh came out the phone as the woman chuckled with him.
"I really feel like you forget the relaxing part of sitting down, Jack," The voice said, calming down but still smiley.
"Sweet, I didn't know it bothers you," Shen heard him say quietly. Inching closed to the door window, he saw Jack's head tilt towards the door.
"I'm just worried-" Abbot cut off the speaker and placed the phone on his ear just as John walked in.
He slowed his pace, mouthed a sorry, and ducked his head while walking to the coffee machine. He felt guilty to interrupt, but John being stuck at the door waiting for coffee and Abbot resting inside won't last long. Someone will call for an attending soon, and Shen had to fix his drink.
A scrape sounded off the coffee table as Abbot removed his leg and steadied it on the floor. He hummed into the phone, the response now only audible to him, and stood to leave.
"I gotta go, not ignoring this though. Sorry you had to get frustrated for me to hear you, I do-" Abbot muttered into his phone as he walked out, voice fading behind the closing door of the lounge.
Mel King was for once, clocking out on time. She stood on the sidewalk outside PTMC's main drop-off, bouncing on her heels excitedly as she checked the closing time of her and Becca's favorite all-day breakfast spots on her phone. The next bus would be over in five minutes, so she decided leisurely to the bus stop.
It had been over a week since the last time Mel had afternoon hours out of the ED, and sunset was sorely missed. Stopping to look to the horizon as it shifted in yellows and oranges, Mel noticed a car stopping a half a block from the ambulance bay, a few feet away from blocking the driveway.
She blinked for a moment and as she went to look away, the passenger side door opened and Dr Abbot stepped out. Mel blinked again, and Abbot picked up his backpack of medical wonders while smiling like the conversation from inside the car was still going. Mel felt a matching smile tug at her lips. He did seem lighter recently, she had noted at some point in the past month, but she hadn't given much energy to curiosity. There was a shine in his eyes and an ease in his smile that were happening more often. Even though they don't work the same shift, Mel could tell the difference between a man with sharp eyes frantically looking for the next task, and a man emanating contentment from within. Jack looked well-rested as Mel watched him walk around to the driver's window and lean a hand on it.
Specifically because she likes to witness soft moments and happiness and definitely not because she was curious, Mel moved her headphone off one ear and from her spot across the street, she overheard Dr Abbot's deep laugh for the first time.
"It's your fault," a woman's voice sounded out of the driver's window.
"What is?"
"You fucked up my sleep schedule," She whined.
"No," Abbot leaned closed into the window, "you saw mine was upside down and you decided to join me."
Sweater-covered arms folded over the edge of the open window, and Mel saw a beautiful woman with a bright smile and eyes only on Abbot. A girlfriend?
"I wanna spend time with you," you said it like you're complaining, "even when you're asleep. Because what if we can share dreams at some point?"
Abbot titled his head with a laugh, "Is that your scientific hypothesis?"
"A hypothesis needs to be testable, Jack."
The attending's head moved all the way into the window as the woman's hands unfolded to cradle his face. Mel looked away to the side, moving towards the bus stop, a soft smile still at her cheeks.
+
"So when do I get to meet her?"
Robby stood beside Abbot behind the railing of the rooftop, silent for a long time in respect for the difficult night he'd had, until Robby just couldn't hold the question back anymore. Abbot had spent five years either abstinent or completely silent about one-night stands, as far as Robby is aware, there was no opening for a relationship until now. That alone called for questioning.
Jack sighed deeply, a small smile lit up his face against the evening light. He turned to his friend, seeing. his cocked head and curious eyes.
"I'll bring it up soon," Jack nodded then turned back to the view with a chuckle, "Honestly, man, I've only just met her brothers last week and the verdict is still vague."
"Brothers Plural?"
"Twin younger brothers," Jack hummed, "they're a fun time."
"You know you're considered really cool according to the young ED crew," Robby teased.
A snort escaped the veteran and he leaned his folded arms on the metal railing, "I'm not dating their siblings, though."
"Got a a point there."
Abbot revealed how out of practice he was at meeting family of a romantic partner. He didn't exactly know if he was scared or excited. On the one hand, they could refuse him, or say he's too old, on the other hand, he could finally feel something close to a family. Something he hadn't felt since his last uncle died two years ago.
He thought about the ache that infected him when his patient's heart gave up right before their loved ones arrived to the ED. Their echoing sobs rang around his ear still.
"I gotta go," Jack sighed, then blinked, "no, I- I want to go home, actually."
Robby's eyes met his, widening slightly with surprise. Jack huffed, like he surprised himself and knew exactly what Robby just realized.
The taller man placed his hand upon his shoulder, silently acknowledging the development. He couldn't wait to meet the woman who makes Jack Abbot so eager to go home.
"Shut up, Robby."
an: Thank you for reading! if you have any suggestions for me my inbox is open!
You guys might get annoyed with me for this but i literally dgaf. Im living my controversial truth thinking about older bf!Jack Abbot buying you backstage passes to WWE so you can meet Cm Punk omfggg i need them bof so badddd.
Jack finds humor in the whole thing — you having a crush on a WWE star and all — cos he remembers watching those first few showings with all the greats. 'Heartbreak kid' Shawn Michaels, The Undertaker, hell, even Batista and the Rock. He even tells you he remembers when Punk made his debut when he comes home one morning after a shift to see you watching clips of Punk's early matches on YouTube.
Jack starts teasing you a little bit about it cos its so obvious you have a crush and he thinks its cute. Totally you to be crushing on some other guy younger than him but still old enough to enter the taboo 'is that her boyfriend or her dad' territory.
You dont admit to anything but you get more comfortable putting your hyperfixation on display. Opting to play the short clipped matches and kafabe on the TV in the den rather than your phone which you'd gotten into the habit of quickly shutting off as soon as Jack entered the room.
He doesnt really understand why you get so shy and flustered about it but he doesnt press to make you watch your little WWE champ with him around, just makes quirked comments here and there. One time he caught you mid-shoving your phone under the pillows and said "y'watchin' your boyfriend again?"
You get a little bit more comfortable after that. He thinks you just might need the reassurance that you're not in trouble for having some cute schoolgirl crush on some wrestling star.
That is, until he makes some off hand comment about you leaving him for Punk while you're watching one of his matches on the TV and you tease back a little, saying "I'll marry that man one of these days."
"Yeah," Jack scoffs, "over my dead body."
He doesn't even remember how he ends up buying tickets for the next available showing for WWE in Pittsburgh but he makes damn sure you've got backstage passes and front row seats. You will be seeing your fake boyfriend one way or another.
Its so cute how excited you are when he surprises you with the tickets. Nearly bouncing off the walls and already planning your outfit for the show.
And God you're so fucking sweet when you guys go to the show. He's taking picture of you the whole time while you're sitting there just completely immersed in the show and the theater of it all. He's never seen you so enthralled and it makes his heart swell.
When Punk comes out, you're smiling ear to ear, giggling along with the theatrics and covering your face, tucking yourself into Jack's hold whenever Punk gets close to your spot outside of the ring. He's still set in character but makes a point to engage with the audience here and there when he knows the cameras aren't on him. He happens to smile down at you when hes making his way back towards the ramp to backstage, passing by you at the corner of the barricade.
Once the show ends and youre both brought backstage, Punk's there dressed down a bit from his match, face flushed and dark short hairs stick to his forehead in little curls.
"So you a fan or what?" he teases as soon as youre in view, wrapping a big arm around you and tucking you into the warmth of him.
The whole thing is overwhelming.
Punk's skin warm against yours, the weight of his arm over your shoulder, bulging tattooed muscle pressed up against the back of your neck, the way he tucks himself down a bit to reach your shy eyes.
You hum a sheepish yes.
Punk giggles when you shy yourself away, covering your face with your hand, "That right, sweetheart?"
You nod against him again and Punk says something to Jack.
"She's a big fan," you hear Jack tease and pinch your arm teasingly, making you pull away from Punk.
"Oh, yeah? How big we talkin' here?"
Jack says something you dont quite catch but Punk squeezes your shoulder comfortingly and you can feel the vibrations of his laugh rumble into you.
Punk jostles you a bit, trying to encourage you to break out of where you've hidden yourself away in his hold.
When you do, you break away to see Jack holding your camera and smiling warmly at you, "c'mon— there she is, smile, baby."
You wipe away at your eyes with your sleeve, standing a bit straighter as Punk tucks you closer to him, dropping his arm from your shoulders to the dip of your back, making soft comforting circles as you smile at the camera.
You pull away from Punk after Jack puts your phone away, thanking him and telling him how talented he is.
Punk watches you, nodding and humming 'thank you's back, his smile soft and warm as he nods down at you. He gives you one last hug as he tells you its time for him to head off but as you give your last 'thank you' he nods and leans down to press a peck to your temple, saying "you're so welcome, sweetheart," before he heads off with the rest of his team.
As soon as they're out of ear shot, you practically throw yourself into Jack's arms, chanting "thank you, thank you, thank you," all the while Jack's laughing and rocking you from side to side in his hold.
"Course, baby," he smoothes a hand over your hair, tucking loose pieces behind your ears, "you have fun? Everything you'd hoped and dreamed?"
You nod, "and more."
Jack chuckles amusedly and weaves your hand with his, leading the two of you towards the exit.
"Maybe we can come back again?"
Jack scoffs and holds the door open for you, "yeah dont get any ideas."
jack x awkward shy reader! || this is part of my new series: meet cutes with jack x reader!! feel free to send in requests.. also open for pope and sammy xx
—
the hot and prickly june sun beamed down onto the pickleball courts turning them into shimmering patches of green and blue.
she tugged nervously at the hem of her bubblegum pink tennis skirt for what had to be the hundredth time.
"you’d tell me if you can see my ass, right?”
her best friend rolled her eyes playfully. she asked that question about four times since they got out of the car.
“yes, babe!” she dragged. “you look hot. stop pulling it down."
"yeah you look sexy as hell," the other giggled, smoothing out her matching pink visor.
"we kinda look like a girl band." she laughed out as they walked in sync.
"a pickleball girl band." her friend sang.
"exactly."
the three of them checked in at the front desk before making their way toward the courts.
"wait." she frowned. "we only have three. is that.. like, okay?" she blinked.
"yeah! but we can see if someone will join just to even us out" her friend chirped.
the three girls looked around the busy courts. there were couples, families, groups of friends. but then they spotted man on the court beside them. he caught a ball one handed before casually serving it back.
he had big broad and brooding shoulders, grey athletic shorts that revealed his prosthetic and and a faded navy t-shirt that clung to him in all the dangerously right places.
she looked away almost immediately.
"oh my god, he's cute," one of her friends whispered.
the other was already waving.
"hey! excuse me!"
her eyes widened.
"w— what are you doing?" she panicked, thinking that they’d bother him for even asking. they’d never played the game before and he looked.. experienced.
the man turned around, paddle tucked under one muscled and tan arm.
"yeah?"
“my friends and i only have three people. would you wanna play with us?" her friend said, resting her hand on her hip as she looked up at him.
she wanted the ground to swallow her whole. she mentally cursed as she kicked at her tennis shoe expecting him to politely decline.
“he’s gonna say no.” she said under her breath.
her friend ignored her completely.
"it's just for fun! we haven’t played before and you look like you know what your doing.” she told him honestly.
"i can do that." the beautiful stranger said happily.
he walked over, flashing an easy smile.
“i’m jack."
the girls all introduced themselves one by one and when it finally came to her, she smiled politely and shook his outstretched hand.
"hi."
jack waited, his brow cocked. a curious smile plastered across his lips as he peered down at her.
she said her name as she shielded her eyes with her paddle from the sun as she looked up at him, craning her neck.
"nice to meet you." he smiled.
she nodded once. “you too.” she let out as her ponytail swayed behind her.
and that was that.
her two friends glanced at one another, giving each other the knowing look. smiles itched into their features as they watched her and jack interact.
—
it became painfully obvious she had never played pickleball before. for some reason she wasn’t as good as her friends were as first timers, but she took it in stride.
she completely missed the ball, she swung too early or swung too late and when they first started, she accidentally hit the ball straight into the fence.
she told herself it was mainly because her friends pushed her onto his side of the court. how could they did this to her? she’d never know.
"oh my gosh," she groaned, covering her face. "i’m so sorry."
jack couldn't help but smiling.
"hey, you’re good.”
"no, i’m literally the reason we're losing."
"we're losing because apparently we’re playing against your two shark friends."
"yeah,” she chuckled. “they’re kinda competitive."
one of them yelled from across the net, waving her paddle violently, “aye! i heard that!”
jack let out a deep laugh making her smile without meaning to.
—
when she finally managed to return on of the serves the ball barely floated over the net. it really wasn't impressive but it landed and her eyes went wide as she felt how smooth the ball flew.
"ha!! i did it!” she yelled, jumping up and down.
she caught him looking at her with a smirk causing her to immediately clap both hands over her mouth, embarrassed she'd gotten so excited.
"nah, be excited. you absolutely did." he tutted.
she looked down, trying to hide her smile. "it was kind of a lucky shot."
"a point's a point." he pressed.
—
after another game, everyone agreed to take a water beak and she wandered over to the benches, unscrewing her water bottle.
"you don't have to keep apologizing." jack suddenly said, taking a swing from his water bottle.
she looked up as she watched him sit beside her, his legs subconsciously spreading out making her throat go dry. he was so big.
"...i know."
"yeah?” he chucked, “you've been apologized to me.. what,” he pretended to count on his fingers.
"like seven times?"
"it was at least seven." he blushed.
"i just—“ she shrugged, "obviously i'm not very good."
"you've never played before." he bumped his shoulder into hers.
"i— i know."
"so why are you expecting yourself to be good?" he wanted to know.
"i guess i never thought about it like that." she blinked.
he smiled, "well you smiled every time you hit the ball."
"even when it went out?"
"especially when it went out." he laughed making her join him.
he leaned back on the bench.
"I liked watching you smile." he said suddenly making her heart do a tiny flip.
"...oh." she said, her eyes diverting to the non existent camera to see if anyone caught that.
across the court, both of her friends exchanged identical looks.
"he's flirting." she smiled, smacking her friends shoulder.
"she's oblivious." the other swooned.
—
when they finished playing nearly two hours later, everyone was sweaty, sun-kissed, and laughing after the grueling last match.
she bent down to zip her tennis bag as jack huffed out around them, "well,” he rubbed the back of his neck. “i had fun."
she smiled as she stood back up.
"me too."
one of her friends cleared her throat dramatically from a few feet away.
“so..”
but neither of them looked over.
"so..." jack repeated, “if you ever need a fourth player again.."
she nodded.
"okay." she cut him off making her friends look at her in surprise. both biting the inside of their cheeks to keep from giggling at how cute they were.
"you should probably exchange numbers," one of her friends blurted out loudly so they could hear her.
she nearly dropped her water bottle as jack hummed
"i was actually gonna ask." he said.
she looked anywhere but at him.
"oh.. um— yeah.. yeah okay." she blabbed as she reached for her phone with shaky hands.
"great." he smiled as she handed him her phone.
he typed his number in before handing it back.
"there." he said lowly, rubbing his hand over his scruff as she looked down at the new contact.
Jack :)
a smile tugged at her lips before she could stop it.
"thank you."
he slung his bag over his shoulder. “i'll be waiting for my rematch." he pointed.
she tilted her head, her pretty eyes locking onto his as she spoke, "you think you'll win next time? against these two?”
"i think you'll stop apologizing next time."
she laughed, ducking her head. "no promises."
jack watched her walk away toward her friends. her pink skirt swaying with every step as it hugged her curves in every way that made him want to bite his finger to stop from groaning.
one of the girls immediately grabbed her arm, whispering something that made her hide her face in her hands.
he smiled to himself because he'd only known her for two hours but somehow the shy girl in the pink tennis skirt had already made a mark on him after a random summer afternoon.
summary: A routine appointment becomes an emergency when your blood pressure spikes at 38 weeks, landing you admitted to the hospital for an induction the same afternoon. The night is long and frightening, and just when you think you’re through the worst of it, the monitor alarms.
content/warnings: angst, complications in pregnancy, high blood pressure, implied age gap, married Jack and reader, inaccurate medical procedures, light fluff, soft and worried Jack, preeclampsia, mentions of past miscarriage.
word count: 2k
previous - next
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Chapter Five
The appointment was supposed to take 20 minutes.
You’d done this twice a week for four weeks — blood pressure check, urine dip, fetal monitoring, a quick scan to confirm fluid levels. You knew the routine so well you could have run it yourself. You’d started bringing a book to pass the time.
Jack had even stopped coming to the monitoring appointments after the first two weeks because his shifts couldn’t always accommodate it and you’d both agreed there was no point in both of you rearranging everything for something that had, so far, been entirely uneventful.
That was the thing about a Tuesday that looked exactly like every other Tuesday. You didn’t see it coming. But you should have. Because the trend was now Tuesdays.
You were thirty-eight weeks and two days when the number on the cuff made the attending pause.
Not long. Just a fraction of a second… the kind of pause that a non-medical person would never catch. But you caught it, because you’d done it yourself, in that same chair, on the other side of this exact equation.
“Let’s give it a few minutes and try again,” she said, her voice perfectly level. She’s pretending to be calm, I know that tone. You put your book face-down on your lap and didn’t pick it up again.
The second reading was worse. Your heart starts beating fast. 171 over 112. She was already reaching for the door before you’d fully processed the number. “I’m going to get Dr. Al-Hashimi.”
The room felt very small suddenly. You looked down at your stomach and at the monitor strapped across it, the steady line of her heartbeat scrolling across the screen, fast and even and completely unbothered. You caught your reflection in the window and pressed your hand flat against the side of your belly.
“Okay,” you said quietly, to both of you. “Okay. We’re okay, baby.”
Dr. Al-Hashimi came in four minutes later with the kind of calm that told you she’d already reviewed the chart on her way down the hall.
She sat across from you, which is what you did when the conversation required it, and you felt the floor shift slightly beneath you even though you were sitting perfectly still.
“Your levels have been trending up over the last ten days,” she said. “Today’s reading, combined with the labs from Thursday — the protein levels in particular — means we’ve crossed the threshold for severe range.” She held your gaze. “We’re not sending you home today.”
You nodded. You’d known, somewhere in the back of your mind, since the first reading. You know the next steps. “Induction?”
“We’re going to get you admitted and start the process this afternoon. Thirty-eight weeks is a strong position to be in. She’s essentially full term and monitoring after delivery will be routine.”
All the right facts. All the right reassurances. You’d said every single one of these sentences yourself.
“Can I call Jack?” You took a deep breath.
“Of course.” She put her hand briefly over yours. “I’ll give you a few minutes.”
Jack picked up on the second ring.
“Hey, how did it—”
“I need you to come. I’m still here and—” Your voice came out steadier than you expected. “They’re admitting me. My numbers spiked. They want to induce today.”
Silence. One beat, two.
“I’m on my way.” No questions, no reassurances, no wasted words. Just that. “Don’t move.”
“I’m literally about to be admitted to the hospital, Jack, where am I going to—”
But he’d already hung up.
He arrived two minutes later and came through the door of the room they’d moved you to and stopped for just a second when he saw you — propped up against the hospital pillows, IV already in, the fetal monitor strapped across your middle, the blood pressure cuff cycling automatically every fifteen minutes.
His eyes moved across all of it quickly and professionally and then landed on your face, and whatever the professional assessment had told him, it was your face that made something in his own briefly come undone.
Jack crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed and pulled you in without saying anything, and you felt him breathe — one long, deliberate inhale — against the top of your head. God, he smelled good.
“I’m okay,” you said into his shoulder.
“I know,” he said, in the voice that meant he was still deciding whether to believe it.
“She’s okay. Her heart rate has been perfect all morning.”
“I know.” His hand moved to your stomach, spread wide and warm. “I saw the strip on the way in.”
Of course he had.
You pulled back to look at him. The carefully maintained composure was all there. His jaw set, eyes clear, the particular stillness of a man who had spent twenty years learning to be the calm in other people’s storms and he had become yours. But you knew his face better than you knew anything, and underneath all of it he was terrified. You were too. You knew by experience how fast these situations could go sideways.
“Hey,” you said quietly.
He looked at you.
“We’re ahead of it. You said so yourself.”
Something flickered across his face. “I did say that.”
“And you’re never wrong.”
The corner of his mouth moved slightly. “Let’s not overstate it.”
You leaned your head back against his shoulder, and he kept his hand where it was, and for a few minutes you just listened to the sound of your daughter’s heartbeat on the monitor. Steady, insistent, completely indifferent to the fear in the room.
The induction began at 2:17 in the afternoon.
By evening, things were progressing slowly in the way that first inductions often did — which the nurses explained cheerfully and which you already knew and which did not make the waiting any easier. Your blood pressure was being checked every thirty minutes. The medication was doing what it was supposed to do. Everything was, technically, going according to plan.
Jack hadn’t left the room once.
He’d called his parents and yours from the chair beside your bed, keeping his voice low and steady, giving the same careful update to each: “she’s stable, baby’s doing well, we’re in good hands, we’ll call when there’s something to tell you.” He did the same with all your friends who were currently working downstairs: Robby, Trinity, Mel, Cassie, and the rest of our hospital family.
You watched him hang up the last call and sit for a moment in the quiet, his elbows on his knees and his head slightly bowed, and you thought about how much energy it took to hold yourself together for everyone else.
“Jack.” He looked up. “Come here.”
He moved back to the bed and you shifted over as much as the monitor and the IV line would allow, and he sat beside you, close enough that his arm was against yours.
“You’re allowed to be scared,” you said. “You don’t have to do the voice.”
He was quiet for a moment. “What voice?”
“The calm one. The one you use for patients. You don’t have to use it with me.”
He exhaled slowly through his nose. Outside the room, the maternity ward carried on — footsteps, a distant phone, the soft rhythm of a hospital at night.
“If I stop using the voice,” he said carefully, “I’m not sure what’s underneath it right now.”
You reached for his hand.
“I know what’s underneath it,” you said. “And it’s okay. We can be scared together.”
He turned his hand over and held yours tightly, and for the first time all day the composure slipped just slightly… not much, barely visible, just a tightening around his eyes and a single slow exhale that carried more weight than anything he’d said.
“I keep thinking about last time,” he admitted quietly. “I know this is different. I know that logically. But I keep—”
“Me too,” you said. “Every day.”
He looked at you.
“Every single day of this pregnancy,” you said. “I’ve just been living there. And I think maybe that’s okay. I think that’s just what this is and will be until she’s an adult… being terrified and doing it anyway because she’s worth it.”
“Even when she’s an adult I’m going to be worried.” Jack added and chuckled lightly. He brought your hand to his lips and held it there.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
At 9:46pm, the monitor alarmed.
Not the slow, cycling alarm of a routine alert — the sharp, insistent kind that brought a nurse through the door in under thirty seconds, eyes already on the strip.
Her heart rate had dropped. Not catastrophically, not yet, but enough… a deceleration that sat at the bottom of the screen like a held breath, and didn’t come back up the way it should have.
You felt Jack go absolutely still beside you.
The nurse called for the midwife, her voice professionally calm, and within ninety seconds the room had filled in the quiet, efficient way that medical rooms fill when something requires immediate attention — another nurse, the midwife, and then our friend Dr. Al-Hashimi herself moved through the door, coming straight from the ER with her eyes already on the monitor.
“Talk to me,” she said to the nurse, and they exchanged information in the shorthand of people who had done this many times, and Jack was standing now, on the other side of your bed, his hand on your shoulder, and you were watching the strip and watching Dr. Al-Hashimi’s face and trying to remember how to breathe and all your medical training.
The heart rate came back up.
Slowly, and then all at once, the line climbed back to where it should be and the monitor settled, and the room took a collective breath.
“There she is,” the midwife said, almost to herself.
You put both hands on your belly and felt the tears come before you could stop them — not from sadness, just from the sudden release of ten seconds of pure terror, the kind that left your whole body shaking slightly in its aftermath. Your daughter was so loved and wanted. She had to be okay.
“Hey.” Jack was at your side immediately, both hands on your face. “Hey. She’s okay, sweetheart. Look at the strip — she’s okay.”
“I know,” you said, lips trembling. “I know, I’m not — I’m fine, I just—”
“I know,” he said, and his voice finally cracked, just slightly, on the second word.
You looked at each other.
Dr. Al-Hashimi was speaking and explaining the deceleration, what had likely caused it, the adjustment she was making to your positioning and the IV line, what they’d be watching for over the next hour. You heard all of it and registered all of it.
But mostly you were looking at Jack, and he was looking at you, and the fear that had been living quietly in the corner of the room since you miscarried the first time was still right there between you now, out in the open, and somehow that was better than pretending it wasn’t.
“One more night,” Dr. Al-Hashimi said, from somewhere nearby. “And then tomorrow we meet her.”
Jack pressed his forehead against yours.
“Tomorrow,” he said softly.
You closed your eyes and nodded and held on to him. Tomorrow you’ll meet your daughter.
—
I promise the angst will be ending soon. Not just yet, but soon. Thanks for reading and for all your support. I’m touched that this story resonates with you. I love Jack so much. See you next chapter! (if you want to be added to the taglist let me know). <3
[Jack Abbot x Female Reader] [Jack Abbot x You]
Doctor Jack Abbot had survived grief, war and the daily violence of the Pitt by learning how to keep himself separate from the things he wanted.
Then you transferred to nights with your careless hands and your impossible warmth, touching him like it meant nothing while looking at him like it might.
He told himself that a man like him had no business wanting someone like you.
But restraint is only useful until it breaks.
OR:
When Jack’s carefully held control slips, you know you’re in for a ride
A/N: Well, here it is, chapter 2 FINALLY - the bad news? I had to split it up because it's almost 30k. I got carried away so badly. So there'll be another chapter with all the smut then.
At least it's almost done, and I just gotta prove read it!
ALSO: The new content we got the past few days were scrumdiddlyumptious.
The next few hours before the shift ended passed in a blur as the Pitt just opened its mouth and swallowed you both again.
The hospital and its chaos did not stop. It didn’t care that Jack’s mouth had been on yours and that you could still feel the shape of his hand at your waist, the stubble beneath your palm. And yet under everything, the unbreakable awareness of each other remained.
You caught Jack constantly looking at you. Not the way he had before, with restraint and shame painted across his features, but rather hungry now. Hungry in a way that made your hands unsteady as you taped an IV line.
And you looked for him as well, and you always found him already watching, not darting away anymore. And that was the thing that really undid you.
Jack Abbot, who had spent weeks retreating with the grim dignity of a man denying himself what he wanted, did not look away anymore.
His eyes moved over your face with a slowness that felt almost like touch, and even from several feet away, you could see the tension held in his jaw, the exhaustion in the slope of his shoulders, the dark, unmistakable wanting he no longer seemed capable of disguising completely.
He looked like a man still at war with himself, but the war had changed shape. Before, he had fought desire because desire was forbidden. Now he fought it because the world was full of witnesses and patients and consequences, and because the first taste of being allowed had made restraint not easier, but almost unbearable.
And when you finally stepped out the sliding doors with your bag heavy on your shoulder, dawn had begun to wash the street in grey.
Jack was waiting beside his truck, and you spotted him immediately. He stood by the driver’s side door with one hand shoved deep into the pocket of his jacket, and the other braced absently against the truck, fingers resting on the metal as if he needed something solid nearby.
His shoulders were bowed slightly under fatigue, broad even under the worn olive canvas jacket he had pulled on over his scrubs, the fabric darkened in places by the wet air and creased in that practical way. It sat heavy across his shoulders, the collar turned up a little against the morning chill. Beneath it, you could see the dark edge of his shirt at his throat.
A backpack hung from one shoulder, the strap cutting diagonally across him, practical and battered and strangely intimate in the way ordinary objects became intimate when they belonged to someone you wanted too much. It made him look less like the immovable attending who commanded trauma bays and more like a man with keys in his pocket, a change of clothes somewhere in a bag, a body that got tired, a life that existed beyond fluorescent light.
The sight of it did something to you that the scrubs never quite had.
When he saw you approaching, Jack straightened at once and then glanced down once, briefly, as if gathering himself from somewhere near his boots. Then he exhaled through his nose and looked back at you.
“Hi.”
It was downright sweet. The memory of him kissing you breathless earlier collided violently with the almost shy roughness of his voice now, looking at you like he had survived the night only to be undone by the fact that you had actually come.
You smiled at him. “Hi yourself.”
His hand tightened once around the strap of his backpack, the veins standing faintly along the back of it, and the small, controlled movement sent a vivid memory through you of those same hands at your waist, your face, your arm; large, careful hands that had trembled not because he was uncertain of wanting you, but because he was terrified of wanting you too much.
“You’re sure?” he asked.
His voice was low, roughened by lack of sleep and everything still unsaid between you.
“Yes,” you said.
Jack held your gaze for one long second.
Then he nodded, once, as though accepting an order he had no intention of disobeying, and opened the passenger door for you with a care so ordinary it nearly broke your heart.
You slid into the seat with your bag at your feet, and Jack waited before you were fully settled before closing the door so it didn’t catch your coat or the strap of your bag.
Then he closed it carefully, not with the distracted slam of a man impatient to leave, but with a controlled gentleness that seemed part habit and part hesitation, as though some portion of him still could not quite believe you were inside his truck, after everything that had happened.
You watched him through the windshield as he walked around to the driver’s side. He opened the door, lifted the backpack from his shoulder and set it behind the seat before climbing in beside you and closing the door.
The radio played quietly as he drove off. One hand stayed on the wheel, tendons visible beneath the skin each time his fingers adjusted their grip. The other rested tense and motionless beside the gearshift.
Jack tried to appear relaxed, but he felt you beside him with an intensity that bordered on pain. His body remembered you too vividly now.
You looked at his hand and wondered what would happen if you touched it. And so lightly with enough care that he could pull away if he needed to, you brushed your fingers against the back of his.
He turned his fingers beneath yours, his palm opened, letting your slip against his until your hand settled into his. Then he gently closed his large hand around yours. His thumb moved once over the side of your hand and then stopped.
You saw how the tension in his shoulders seemed to drop as though the simple permission of holding your hand had grounded him. And you realised he had been afraid. Not of wanting you or touching you, but rather that once the heat had passed, you might regret him.
That you might sit beside him in his truck and discover that he wasn’t worth it.
_____
Jack did not let go of your hand until he really had to.
He did not let go when he turned into the parking lot beneath his building, though the movement required him to steer one-handed with more care than was strictly convenient. He did not let go when the truck came to a stop, or when the engine clicked itself into silence, or when the radio died mid-sentence and left the two of you sitting in a quiet so complete it felt almost deliberate.
His hand remained around yours.
He squeezed it once before muttering, “You don’t have to…”
You turned towards him, but he was not looking at you, eyes fixed on the windshield. He was offering you escape with the sincerity of a man who believed that one day you’d be grateful for it. It was clear he wanted you to be free to leave if that was what you wanted, even though he looked as though the thought of you actually leaving might undo something in him.
Instead of asking him why he thought that or doing anything like that, you just squeezed his hand back.
“I know,” you said. “I want to be here.”
The words settled between you with dangerous gentleness.
They were not dramatic. They did not attempt to solve anything. They did not promise that the future would be simple, or that the hospital would not exist tomorrow, or that grief and age and work and all the locked rooms inside Jack would not still be waiting somewhere beyond the door.
But they answered the only question he was really asking.
Jack closed his eyes briefly, as though the relief of them hurt.
Not because he doubted you, exactly, but because belief itself seemed to strike him as dangerous. He had spent so long bracing for refusal, for regret, for the moment when wanting would turn into evidence against him, that acceptance entered him less like comfort than like something bright pressed against a bruise.
When he opened his eyes again, the restraint was still there. But something beneath it had shifted.
“All right,” he said.
Two words, quiet and rough and insufficient for the feeling that moved through his face.
Then, after another second, Jack seemed to remember the mechanics of the world and released your hand to get out of the car. You watched him come around again and open the passenger door for you.
The moment you stepped down from the truck, he took your hand again and led you to his apartment building.
You made your way to the elevator, and he muttered an apology before you even stepped inside it.
“It sticks sometimes.”
You looked at the narrow metal doors and smiled despite the strange awareness that you had crossed some threshold long before entering the building.
“Sounds dangerous.”
The door closed, and Jack remained beside you in the cramped space, broad and warm and safe. Your hand was still in his; his thumb rested against the side of your hand without moving, just being present. And when the elevator jolted once, his fingers tightened around yours automatically as if telling you this was normal.
By the time you finally reached the door of his apartment, he had to let go of you. The absence was immediate, and you hated that you noticed.
Jack fumbled with the keys, and it was such a small thing that you nearly smiled, because it was ordinary and human. That Dr. Jack Abbot, who never lost his cool and could adapt to any situation so quickly, had to try twice before the key found the lock.
“Don’t,” he said without looking at you.
You blinked innocently, now unable to suppress the soft smile, “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
With that, he opened the door.
His apartment looked a lot like he was. It wasn’t unlived-in but rather carefully lived-in, as though only certain parts of existence had been permitted permanent residence there while others had been packed away, locked up, or deemed too dangerous to leave in the open.
The couch looked comfortable rather than stylish, dark and broad, and slightly worn at the corners in a way that suggested use rather than decoration. Medical journals occupied most available surfaces: stacked on the coffee table, folded open on the arm of a chair, half-buried beneath a pair of reading glasses and a mug that had not quite made it to the sink.
A heavy wool blanket had been folded with military precision over the armrest, its edges so exact that you could picture Jack doing it absently, perhaps late at night, perhaps unable to sleep, imposing order on the one small thing willing to obey him.
Near the door, a pair of boots sat neatly side by side. His backpack landed on a chair with more care than ceremony, practical and battered and still slightly damp at the seams. A dark jacket hung from a hook. There were keys in a shallow dish, a stack of mail opened with surgical neatness, a book turned facedown on a side table, and beside it another coffee cup, this one empty, as though caffeine had become less a habit than a structural support.
The place smelled faintly of coffee and laundry detergent and something warmer underneath that belonged only to him.
Jack shut the door behind you and immediately looked faintly uncomfortable.
“It’s not -,” he started, then stopped.
“What?”
He rubbed one hand at the back of his neck, fingers disappearing into the dark-silver curls there, the gesture so awkwardly revealing that you had to fight the urge to soften towards him too obviously.
“It’s not exactly impressive.”
The confession's vulnerability startled you. Not because the words themselves were dramatic, but because of the quiet defensiveness beneath them, the faint flinch tucked into the sentence before you even had the chance to judge anything.
It was like he had already entered the room ahead of you in his mind, already looked at the worn couch, the journals, the bare walls. The evidence of a life stripped down to use and endurance.
You looked around again deliberately. The apartment didn’t feel unimpressive. It felt lonely, and somehow that was worse. It was not empty, not neglected or sad in any obvious way. There was warmth and order, traces of an ordinary life. But nothing seemed chosen purely for joy.
“I like it,” you said as you stepped further inside.
He looked sceptical but didn’t comment on it anymore.
You were still smiling when your gaze caught on the side of his head.
“There is still blood in your hair.”
Jack lifted a hand automatically, fingers brushing through the curls near his temple, where the hair had dried slightly stiff. “Probably not mine.”
“That… is not as comforting as you think.”
“No?”
“No.”
He smiled, a tiny one that still crinkled his eyes in a handsome way, and he looked down at your hands. Somehow, after opening the door and the nervousness, his hand had found yours again. His thumb moved across your knuckles.
“You should sit,” he said, though his voice was softer now. “You’ve been on your feet all night.”
“So have you.”
With that, you stepped closer and reached up, brushing your fingers lightly through the blood-matted section of hair. Jack went still once again, but his eyes remained on you. Something in them altered, darkened and softened now.
It was thicker than you expected, damp still in places from rain and sweat, grey threaded through the darker curls, coarse enough to catch lightly at your fingertips. The dried blood had stiffened a few strands near his temple, and when you touched it, his jaw tightened as though your gentleness had found a bruise nowhere near his skin.
“It’s dried,” you murmured.
“I know.”
“You’ll have to wash it out.”
His eyes lowered briefly to your mouth.
“I know that too.”
The silence that followed was not empty.
You swallowed, your fingers still resting lightly in his hair, close enough now to smell the rain drying out of his jacket, the faint metallic trace of blood, the soap at his skin, the coffee on his breath.
“I could help.”
The words came out softer than you meant them to. Jack’s hand tightened around yours. For one second, he looked almost pained by the offer, as though tenderness remained the one thing his body did not know how to withstand.
Then, because he was still Jack, and because surrender apparently required one last attempt at dry humour, he said, “Is this part of the nursing care package?”
You smiled, relieved by the invitation to breathe.
“Only for difficult attendings.”
“I’m difficult?”
“Famously.”
There it was again, that small, almost-smile, rare enough that it felt like something given rather than merely shown. Then the smile faded, leaving something rawer beneath it, the spirit receding to reveal the shyness it had been trying to cover.
“You don’t have to,” he said. Again.
You touched his cheek with your free hand.
The stubble was rough beneath your palm, his skin warm, the tension in his jaw still held so tightly it made your chest ache. His eyes searched your face, and you understood then that he was not only asking about the blood in his hair. Not really.
He was asking whether you still wanted to be here now that the door was closed, now that he had brought you into the quiet place where his life looked smaller and lonelier than the man he was at work, now that there was no shift to blame and no emergency to interrupt.
“I know.”
Jack closed his eyes briefly, just long enough for your thumb to feel the small movement of his breath against your palm, the almost imperceptible shift of his face as he let himself be touched and did not turn away from it.
When he opened them again, the shyness was still there.
“Bathroom’s this way,” he said.
The bathroom was larger than you expected.
Not luxurious, or so but rather functional. Almost thoughtfully arranged and shaped with the precision of a room that had been made to serve a body that did not always forgive carelessness.
The shower took up most of the far wall, broad and level with the floor, its glass door pushed back, the tiles clean and pale beneath the light. A narrow bench had been built into one side beneath the spray, just like Jack must have chosen it after learning exactly when standing became too much. The floor tiles had indents to prevent slipping and water collection. Beside the toilet, a low shelf was positioned at just the right height to brace against.
“You know, you can still change your mind,” he said, voice careful.
You stared at him. “Are you planning on asking me that every five minutes?”
“Maybe.”
The corner of your mouth twitched, and his expression softened in response. But he still looked unsure what to do with his hands, which was absurd and cute, because you had seen those hands save a patient and hold your face while kissing you like his life depended on it.
Then, without any words, he reached for the hem of his shirt, suddenly remembering why you were there. The fabric lifted slowly over his stomach, then his chest, dragging briefly over the breath of his shoulder before he pulled it free.
For a second, your mind was void of all thoughts as you looked at him.
He was broad through the shoulders and chest, solid in a way that looked earned rather than sculpted, muscle shaped by endurance and necessity more than vanity. There was strength in him, yes, obvious in the heavy line of his arms and the firm slope of his chest, in the way his body seemed built to carry weight whether it wanted to or not.
His skin was flushed faintly from the long shift and the warmth of the room, freckled in places across his shoulders and upper arms, scattered marks catching your attention precisely because they made him look so human. Your fingers itched to trace the constellation of them.
Old scars lay pale against his skin, some fine and narrow, others less neat, quiet evidence of injuries that had healed without disappearing.
Jack was beautiful in a way that startled you with its immediacy.
He tossed the shirt onto the counter beside the sink. When his hand settled briefly at the waistband of his pants, it stopped there, thinking.
“You should know,” he said, voice quieter now, “it’s not exactly graceful.”
You frowned faintly. “What isn’t?”
A dry little exhale escaped him.
“This.”
His hand gestured vaguely downwards, towards himself, towards everything he did not quite know how to say without making it sound smaller first.
Your hands found his chest again automatically. The skin was warm beneath your palms, the rhythm of his heart steady and the faint rasp of hair under your fingers as you spread them out.
Jack looked down at your hands like he still could not quite believe they kept returning to him voluntarily.
“You keep doing that,” he said quietly.
“Doing what?”
“Touching me like it’s nothing.”
It was wonder, fear disguised as observation. The bewilderment of a man who had spent too long treating his body as a thing to be managed, endured, and apologised for when necessary, and who now could not understand why your hands came to him without reluctance.
“It’s not nothing.”
Jack’s eyes lifted back to yours at once. Whatever he saw there made him look away almost immediately afterwards. His throat moved once.
Then, slowly, he unbuttoned his scrub pants.
You watched carefully now, not because you were judging, but because he was still waiting for judgment somewhere beneath all that practised composure, and some instinct in you wanted him to see that your gaze would not become cruel simply because he had allowed you closer.
Then, with a breath that seemed to require enormous effort, he pushed the scrub pants down over his hips and stepped out of them.
He stood in tight black boxer shorts, the fabric clinging to thick thighs that carried him through long shifts and longer nights.
The prosthetic came into view with familiar practicality.
Black, sleek, functional, incorporated into him not as spectacle but as part of the architecture of how he moved through the world. It did not make him less himself.
His body, all of it, seemed suddenly more beautiful for being real: scarred and freckled, broad and tired, powerful and adapted, marked by loss and still insistently alive.
Still, Jack’s shoulders remained slightly tense. Not because he thought you would recoil, or at least not entirely. Because he cared now whether you did.
The realisation hurt. So you stepped closer again, and he looked up just as your fingers brushed lightly along the scruff on his jaw.
“You okay?” you asked softly.
A complicated expression crossed his face then. Too tired to hide everything. Too honest, suddenly not to try.
“Working on it,” he admitted.
You smiled faintly.
“That bad?”
“You’re standing in my bathroom looking at me like that.” His mouth curved slightly, weary and helpless all at once. “So yes. Little bit.”
Warmth spread through you instantly.
“You know,” you murmured, “for someone who spent weeks pretending not to like me, you’re very bad at this.”
Jack made a low sound beneath his breath.
“I was never pretending not to like you.”
“No?”
“No.” His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth before lifting again. “That was very much the problem.”
Your hands slid from his cheek to his waist.
Jack inhaled quietly through his nose, every muscle in him tightening once beneath your touch before easing again by degrees. His skin was warm under your fingers, the firm line of him yielding not in weakness but in trust, and when your thumbs brushed the faint scars and freckles near his sides, his eyes closed for half a second as though the tenderness were more difficult to withstand than hunger.
“You’re overdressed,” he murmured.
You huffed a laugh.
“Are you flirting with me, Dr. Abbot?”
“I’m trying to.”
“You look deeply distressed about it.”
“I am deeply distressed about it.”
That finally pulled real laughter from you. The sound visibly unravelled him.
It moved through his face the way your touch moved through his body, loosening something he seemed to have kept braced for years. For a moment, he only looked at you, shirtless and tired and scarred beneath the bathroom light, his grey-threaded hair still marked with someone else’s blood, his mouth softened by the effort of not smiling too much, his eyes dark with wanting and fear and a tenderness so exposed it made your breath catch.
You reached for the hem of your own scrub top then, slower suddenly beneath the weight of his attention. Jack watched you with startling stillness, his gaze fixed on your hands as you pulled the fabric upwards, exposing first your stomach, then the curve of your ribs, then the shirt cleared your head and dropped beside his on the counter.
Jack exhaled softly, “Jesus.”
“What?”
He shook his head once, eyes still fixed on you. “Nothing.”
It was very obviously nothing. His gaze travelled across your collarbones, the swell of your breasts beneath the cotton of your bra, the soft plane of your stomach. He looked at you the way a man looks at water after days in the desert with desperate, disbelieving thirst.
You reached for your scrub pants next, pushing them down over your hips, stepping out of them until you stood in just your bra and panties. Simple cotton, nothing special, the kind of practical undergarments that made sense for a twelve-hour shift. But the way Jack looked at you made you feel like you were wearing silk and lace.
You stepped closer until your bodies nearly touched again. The heat of his skin radiated towards you, warming the small space between you. His chest rose and fell with unsteady breaths.
Jack’s hand lifted carefully to your waist, almost tentative despite everything that had happened already. His fingers spread across the soft skin above your hip, thumb brushing the edge of your ribcage with agonising slowness, and then his mouth was against yours with a low, rough sound that seemed dragged unwillingly from somewhere deep inside him.
You kissed him back just as desperately. Your hands roamed over warm skin and old scars and the broad, tired shape of him beneath the bathroom light. The hair was softer than you expected, silver and sparse, and you dragged your nails through it gently.
He shivered under your touch. No one had touched him like this in a long time, no one had taken the time to explore him with such a tenderness.
His hands moved from your waist to your hips and then your face, as if he could not quite believe he was allowed to touch you like this. His thumbs brushed your cheekbones with an aching delicacy that did not match the heat in his mouth, and when his fingers slipped into your hair near your temples, he held you as though he wanted desperately to draw you closer and was terrified of asking your body for too much.
His mouth lingered briefly at the corner of yours before he pulled back just enough to breathe, the faint scrape of stubble dragging over your skin, his lips still close enough that each exhale touched you.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. The word was half groan, half prayer.
Your lips parted, and his tongue swept inside. You pressed closer, your tits flattening against his chest, the cotton of your bra the only barrier between you. The fabric dragged against your sensitive nipples, sending little sparks of pleasure down your spine.
Jack’s hands slid to your back, palm against your spine, dragging upwards with intentional slowness. His fingers traced the curve of your ribs, the dip of your waist. Mapping you like he was memorising every inch.
When his fingers found the clasp of your bra, he didn’t hesitate and opened it smoothly. You felt the sudden looseness as the band fell away from your back. Jack’s hands slid to your shoulders, fingers hooking under the straps, drawing them down your arms with excruciating slowness. The cotton peeled away from your tits, baring you to the cool air and his hungry gaze.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze dropped down to your breasts. Full and soft, nipples tightening in the cool air and under the weight of his attention. His jaw worked silently, the muscles in his face tight with restraint. He lifted his gaze again, and his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with want.
“You’re so beautiful,” Jack’s voice was rough. The words tumbled out as they surprised him, like he had spoken them out loud instead of just thinking. He had never been good at this part, the saying of things, the naming of feelings that lived beneath the surface.
You felt the flush spread along your chest, warming your skin. “So are you.”
He laughed once, almost self-deprecating.
“No, don’t do that. You’re Jack.” You stepped closer again, pressing your bare chest against his. The sensation made you both inhale sharply, your nipples dragging through the coarse hair on his chest. “That’s enough. That’s everything I want.”
His control broke completely, and he kissed you fiercely, his mouth claiming yours.
His hands cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, rolling the sensitive peaks until you arched into his touch with a moan. He swallowed the sound, tongue delving deeper, mapping every corner of your mouth. His palms were rough from years of washing his hands raw in hospital sinks, and the abrasion against your tender skin made you gasp.
“Jack,” you breathed between kisses.
He responded by walking you backwards, his prosthetic clicking against the tile floor, a hollow, rhythmic sound that punctuated each step, until your back met the cool bathroom wall. The tile was cold against your shoulder blades, a sharp contrast to the heat building between you.
He pinned you there with his body, one leg pressing between yours, the rough hair of his thigh dragging against your cunt. Even through the thin cotton of your panties, you felt the heat of him, the solid muscle.
Your own hands drifted downwards. You found the waistband of his boxer shorts and slipped beneath the elastic. Jack groaned against your lips as your fingers wrapped around his cock, thick and hard, the skin burning hot against your palm.
He was already slick at the tip, and you spread the moisture with your thumb, feeling him twitch in your grip. The veins beneath your fingers pulsed with his heartbeat, and you could feel the fine tremor running through him.
“Shit, sweetheart,” his voice cracked. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, breath coming in ragged pants against your skin, hot and uneven. His hips jerked involuntarily, pushing himself into your grip.
You stroked him slowly, feeling the way his breath hitched when your thumb circled the sensitive head. His hands braced against the wall on either side of your head, forearms flexing as he fought to keep control. The tendons in his neck stood out, corded and tight, and you could see the flush spreading down from his ears to his chest.
“Wait…” His hand shot out, catching your wrist, stilling your movement. His breath was ragged, chest heaving. “You need to stop. I'm not going to last…”
He swallowed hard, jaw tight.
“I don’t want to cum like that,” he said roughly, meeting your eyes. “Not in your hand. Not when I’ve wanted you for so long. Not when I’ve had that accident earlier at work.”
You released him slowly, letting your fingers drift up his hip, tracing the edge of bone. “Then how do you want to cum?”
His laugh was breathless, strained. “Inside you. If you’ll have me, I want to fill you up, buried deep.”
The words sent a pulse of heat straight through you, and you clenched around nothing.
“Yeah,” you whispered, nodding.
You pushed the boxers down over his hips with your free hand. They fell to his ankles, and he stepped out of them without breaking contact, the fabric joining the growing pile on the tile floor.
Your panties were next. Jack’s hands found them, fingers hooking into the fabric at your hips. He paused, looking at you with a question in his eyes; a need for permission, for confirmation that you wanted this as much as he did.
When you nodded again, he drew them down slowly. The cloth slid over your thighs, past your knees, pooling at your feet before you stepped free.
“I want…, “ he started, his eyes on your bare cunt. He stopped and swallowed. His throat worked visibly. “I want to touch you. Properly. I want to make you feel good.”
He reached between your bodies, his fingers brushing over your pussy. His middle finger traced your entrance, gathering your wetness, then slid upwards to find the swollen clit at the top. You gasped, and your knees buckled slightly, your back sliding against the cool tile wall.
He circled it slowly, watching your face, reading every twitch and sigh, every flutter of your eyelids. His other hand came up to cup your breast again, thumb rolling your nipple in time with his fingers below. The dual sensation made you clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into scarred skin, leaving crescent marks in their wake.
“We…we should...” You could barely get the words out, your breath coming in short pants. “Shower. First.”
He withdrew his hand slowly, bringing his fingers to his lips. Your breath caught as he licked them, his eyes closing briefly at the flavour, a low groan vibrating in his throat.
“You’re right,” he agreed, voice rough.
His forehead dropped briefly against yours. For several seconds, both of you simply stood there, breathing into the narrow space between your mouths.
Then he pulled back and glanced at the shower. The shift was small and practical, a return of thought into a room that had briefly been all heat and hands and mouths, but you felt it.
“Give me a second,” he said.
He opened the glass door and stepped in first, still wearing the prosthetic. He turned, braced one hand lightly against the tiled wall, and lowered himself onto the shower seat with the rehearsed control of a man who had performed this same movement so often alone that it had become muscle memory.
And yet when he looked up at you, there was something guarded in his expression now.
Then, with rehearsed movements, he adjusted the straps and released the prosthetic. Jack watched your face while doing it, because he was so still and so careful and so clearly waiting for some flicker of judgment he pretended not to expect, the tenderness of the moment nearly overwhelmed you.
He held it out towards you.
“Can you put this outside the door?” His voice was almost even.
You took it carefully, not reverently, not as though it were fragile or frightening or symbolic in a way that would make him regret asking.
“Of course.”
You set it outside the shower within easy reach, angled the way he could get to it later, close enough that he would not have to ask, close enough that the act said what you did not want to make too large by anything saying aloud.
Then you stepped back towards him and closed the glass door behind you.
“There.”
His mouth pulled faintly at one corner. “Efficient.”
“I’m very employable.”
“That remains under review.”
You smiled, and the small, ordinary joke did what both of you needed it to do.
You stepped in front of him, positioning yourself between his parted thighs. From this angle, he had to look up at you - this man who always seemed so tall, so imposing, now seated and vulnerable and gazing at you like you were something holy.
The air was cool against your bare skin, raising goosebumps along your arms. His cock stood rigid between his legs, flushed and stiff. He hadn’t softened. If anything, he looked harder now, aching, the head glistening with residual wetness.
Jack's gaze travelled over you slowly, drinking in every detail: the slope of your shoulders, the swell of your breasts, the soft curve of your belly, the smooth, bare skin between your thighs. His throat worked as he swallowed hard.
“This,” he said quietly, and then stopped, as though the sentence had outrun the version of himself that preferred to keep such things contained.
You tipped your head. “This what?”
His mouth moved in something that was nearly a smile and nearly pain. “This is a very bad angle to be trying to keep my dignity.”
The line was dry enough to be familiar, but the roughness beneath it gave him away. He meant it as a deflection, and yet not entirely. Sitting there beneath you, looking up, hands at your hips, he felt stripped down in more ways than the obvious ones.
Your smile softened.
“You’re doing terribly,” you murmured.
A breath of laughter escaped him, warm and reluctant, and because he was already looking up at you, because your body was close and your hands had not left him, the laugh changed almost at once into something quieter. His fingers tightened at your waist. His eyes dropped to your mouth, then lifted again, the movement so familiar by now and still no less devastating for it.
“You are not helping,” he said.
“I’m not trying to.”
“No,” Jack said, and the word came out lower than he intended, threaded with something darker and far more honest. “I noticed.”
You slid one hand from his shoulder into his hair, then, gently, careful of the dried blood still caught near his temple, and the effect on him was immediate. His head tipped almost imperceptibly into the touch, and his eyes closed briefly.
When they opened again, there was no defence left in them that either of you believed in.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” you said softly.
The sentence should have given him control. In a technical sense, perhaps it did. But what Jack felt in that instant was not power.
It was the unbearable tenderness of being asked, of having your hands in his hair while you offered him the chance to halt what he had spent weeks trying and failing to prevent. He could have said stop. He knew that. He could have turned his face aside, reached for the shower, made some weary practical comment, and both of you would have obeyed the lie.
Instead, his hands slid to the small of your back, drawing you a fraction closer into the space between his knees.
“No,” he said, barely above a murmur. “Don’t stop.”
His thumbs traced once, slowly, along the back of your waist, and then he tipped his head until his forehead came to rest lightly against your sternum, just for a second, just long enough to breathe.
When he lifted his head again, his gaze found yours.
“You’re staring,” you whispered.
“Yes.”
He turned his head, pressed his lips to the soft skin below your ribs. Not quite a kiss, just contact. Breathing you in.
You didn’t comment on it anymore and just reached past him, arm brushing his thigh, and turned the knob.
Steam gathered quickly inside the shower, softening the hard lines of the bathroom until the glass walls blurred at the edges and the room seemed to draw itself inward around the two of you.
Warm water ran over tile and skin and the long accumulated exhaustion of the shift, carrying with it the sharp, sterile scent of hospital soap and the fainter traces of blood, rain, sweat, coffee, and all the things the night had left behind on both of you.
It struck Jack’s shoulders first, then broke over the slope of his chest, threading through the freckles scattered across his skin and following the pale raised paths of old scars before falling in narrow streams toward the drain.
For a few moments, neither of you spoke, not because there was nothing to say, but because the sound of the water filled the space gently enough that silence no longer needed to be managed.
Jack was looking up at you from beneath damp, grey-threaded curls, his expression held carefully in place and yet not unreadable to you anymore, not after weeks of watching the smallest failures in him become more honest than words.
Your hands found the edge of his shoulders first, smoothing warm water over skin still tense from too many hours awake.
He was solid beneath your palms, broad and warm, his muscles knotted from the long shift. The water made his skin slick under your hands. Your fingers moved over the strong line where his neck met his shoulder, over freckles and over the faint unevenness of scars.
Jack watched you quietly beneath lowered lashes, his eyes bright in the dim light, mesmerised by how you touched and looked at him.
“You’re the one staring now,” his voice was low and rough with exhaustion and steam and the dangerous comfort of being touched without having to beg for it.
“What can I say, you’re awfully distracting.”
“That sounds almost concerning.”
You smiled.
Jack’s mouth moved faintly in response, not quite a smile but close enough to make your chest ache, because there was something almost boyish hidden beneath the fatigue when he allowed himself humour.
The water had already begun to loosen the blood from his hair, thin reddish ribbons slipping from the darkened strands near his temple and disappearing down the side of his face, over his cheekbone, along the line of his jaw, before vanishing into the water at his chest and then toward the drain.
Gently, you reached for the small bottle of shampoo resting on the corner shelf.
“Tilt your head back.”
Jack looked at you for one suspended second, searching for permission, for reassurance, for evidence that this was real.
The request was simple. Practical. Almost clinical, if either of you had still been capable of making this clinical. And yet something crossed his face at the sound of it, something quiet and unguarded, because there were many ways to be touched and not all of them required surrender, but this did.
Then he obeyed.
The trust in that simple movement reached you unexpectedly hard.
His throat lengthened as he tipped his head back, water sliding down the exposed line of it, over the hollow at the base, across the freckles and faint marks scattered over his chest. His eyes remained open for a second longer, fixed somewhere near your face, and then his lashes lowered against the steam as if even looking at you while receiving this much tenderness had become too much to bear.
You could see the flutter of his pulse in the hollow of his throat, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. The trust in it made something ache behind your ribs.
You squeezed some of the shampoo in your palm and worked it between your hands before sinking your fingers into his damp hair.
His hair was thicker than it looked when dry, coarse and curling beneath your fingers, grey woven through the darker strands in a way that made him seem both tired and beautiful and unbearably real.
You worked slowly around the matted section near his temple, loosening the dried blood with the pads of your fingers, careful not to pull, careful not to make the tenderness too reverent in case that embarrassed him. Foam gathered pale against his hair and then thinned under the water, taking the last red-brown traces with it.
A low breath left him, not performatively but rather instinctively.
It was not a moan, not exactly, not something easily reduced to desire, though desire was there too, unmistakable and warm beneath the surface. It was the sound of tension leaving a body that had forgotten it was allowed to soften.
It was Jack, who had held trauma bays together and held himself apart from you for weeks, losing one more small piece of the battle against being comforted.
His hands, which had been resting at his sides, twitched and gripped your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh as if grounding himself against the sensation, as if afraid he might float away entirely. The pressure was firm, possessive, almost a counterpoint to the gentleness of your touch.
“You okay?” you asked, massaging the lather into his scalp with slow, deliberate circles, feeling the anatomy of his skull beneath your fingertips.
He opened one eye slightly.
“You ask that like this isn’t possibly the best thing that’s happened to me all year.”
The laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
His eyes opened fully at the sound, softer now than you had ever seen them at work, and for a moment, he simply looked at you through the steam and warm water as though the laugh had reached some place in him that medicine and duty and survival had left unused for too long.
“There it is,” he murmured.
“What?”
“That laugh.”
The quiet honesty of it startled you.
It startled him too, perhaps, because something in his expression shifted immediately afterwards, a small vulnerable tightening as though he had said more than he intended. But he did not take it back.
He only sat there beneath your hands, water streaming over his throat and shoulders while your fingers continued slowly through his hair, and allowed the words to remain between you like another kind of touch.
Beneath your hands, he seemed to be unwinding by degrees, because you were touching him, you could sense each layer of tension as it left him.
Then his hands settled more firmly at your waist. His palms were large and warm through the water, fingers spreading carefully along your sides. His thumbs rested at your hips, moving once, almost unconsciously.
It sent a spark through you, heat pooling low in your belly, reminding you that you still wanted him. It was so swift that you had to pause for a second, hands still in his hair.
Jack looked up, seated, and desire moved visibly across his face again, slower but no less intense.
It was not the frantic hunger of the staff room, not the sudden snap of a thread pulled too long. It was more dangerous for being quieter, for being held inside a look he did not immediately turn away from.
His eyes moved over you with careful restraint and unmistakable want, down the line of your throat, back to your face, to your mouth, as though he were allowing himself to see you in pieces and finding each one more difficult to survive than the last.
“You’re still sure?” he asked again, quieter this time, the words nearly lost beneath the water.
Maybe you should have been exasperated by the repetition. He had asked before, several times by now, in various forms. As though certain that at any moment you would come to your senses and realise what you were doing.
But instead it moved you, because you understood that beneath the question lay not hesitation nor reluctance but the genuine disbelief of a man who had long ago accepted that certain things were simply not for him.
That warmth and softness and the particular intimacy of being cared for were luxuries belonging to other men, better men, men who had not been broken and remade so many times they had lost count of the pieces.
“Jack.” You cradled his face in your hands, thumbs tracing the stubble along his jaw, feeling the slight tremor that passed through him at the contact. “I’ve been sure for months. I was sure before you kissed me. I was sure every time you pulled away because you thought you weren’t enough.” His eyes darkened, something raw flickering behind them. “I’m sure now.”
Then, with a tenderness that made the heat of it almost unbearable, he turned his face into your hand and kissed the inside of your wrist.
His hands slid from your hips to your waist, and he pulled you forward, guiding you until you straddled his lap.
The water was hot against your back; his cock, half-hard, was pressing against your bare cunt. The contact drew a sharp breath from both of you. You felt the thick length of him, the heat radiating from it even through the warmth of the shower.
Jack’s head fell back against the tile, his eyes closing for a moment as though overwhelmed by the sensation. You could feel him twitch against you, flesh warming and thickening where your bodies met, growing harder by degrees.
The hair at his temple was wet, plastered to his skin in dark waves, and his chest rose and fell with breaths that came faster now. Water droplets clung to the salt-and-pepper hair across his chest, catching the fluorescent light.
“Jack-”
“Wait.” His fingers flexed on your waist, digging into the soft flesh almost hard enough to leave marks. “Just wait.”
You stilled, fighting the urge to move, to chase the friction your body already craved. Through the steam and the warm water cascading down your back, you watched him. The scarred terrain of his torso: the old bullet wound puckered and pale, the surgical scars that spoke of repairs both internal and external, the burns that had healed into shiny patches.
The way his throat worked as he swallowed. The flush spreading down his neck, disappearing beneath the hair-dusted plane of his chest.
He was beautiful.
Not in the typical way one would describe beauty, but in the way of things that had survived. That had been broken and rebuilt and still chose, against all evidence, to remain soft in places. There was a particular tenderness to the way his belly rose and fell, the vulnerability of a body that had been penetrated by violence and medicine both.
His eyes opened slowly, dark and heavy-lidded, fixed on your face with an intensity that made your stomach tighten.
“I have to…” He stopped, jaw clenching. His thumb traced a slow arc across your hip bone, the calloused pad catching on your wet skin. “You washed my hair. I need to return the favour.”
The words were absurdly formal for the situation; this man, hard beneath you, speaking as though you were exchanging professional courtesies rather than sitting naked in his lap. But the intent behind them was unmistakable. He wanted to touch you. He wanted to care for you in the same careful, deliberate way you had cared for him.
“It’s okay…You don’t have to…” You started using the same words he always seemed to utter when he was unsure.
“I want to. Please. ” His voice dropped, rough and low. “I’ve wanted to for months. Every time you walked past me in the corridor. Every time you touched my arm during rounds. Every time you looked at me like…” He broke off, something raw flickering across his features. “Like I was worth looking at.”
Your heart clenched. You had looked at him that way because he was. Because there was something in the set of his shoulders, the exhaustion carved into his face, that made you want to press closer until you understood what had put it there.
His hands released your waist, sliding upward with agonising slowness. Over the curve of your ribs, mapping each bone with clinical attention. Along the sides of your breasts, thumbs brushing the undersides in a touch that made you shiver despite the heat.
Up, up, until his fingers tangled in your wet hair, cradling the back of your skull with a tenderness that seemed at odds with everything else about him, the scars, the calluses, the years of damage written into his skin.
He reached past you, fumbling for the shampoo bottle on the small tiled ledge. His chest pressed against yours as he moved, and you felt the hard plane of him, the coarse hair, the raised ridges of old wounds against your softer curves.
His nipples hardened against your tits, and you felt the involuntary twitch of his cock against your inner thigh.
“Lean back,” he murmured, guiding you with hands that trembled slightly despite their steadiness.
You let your head fall back into his palms, trusting him to hold you. The water sluiced over your shoulders, down your spine, pooling in the spaces where your bodies pressed together.
Jack’s fingers worked through your hair slowly, methodically. Massaging your scalp with a pressure that bordered on too much and then softened, reading your responses with the same clinical attention he brought to everything else.
His fingertips traced the shell of your ear, the curve of your skull, working the shampoo into a thick lather.
“Good?” he asked, voice rough.
“Yeah.” The word came out breathier than intended. “Good.”
His hands continued their slow exploration. Working the shampoo through your lengths, careful not to tangle, careful not to pull.
You could feel his cock hardening further against you, the length of him pressing more insistently into the junction of your thighs, but he made no move to rush. No move to take more than you were offering. The thick head of him nudged against your entrance, not pushing in, just resting there.
His fingers continued their slow, methodical work through your hair, and you let yourself drift. The pressure of his touch was steady, almost clinical in its precision but tender in its intent. Each stroke of his fingertips against your scalp sent small shivers down your spine despite the heat of the water.
You opened your eyes halfway, watching him through the steam.
His face was lowered, focused on the task. The furrow between his brows had softened from its usual deep-set exhaustion into something almost peaceful. His mouth was slightly parted, his breath coming slow and even. Water ran in rivulets down the planes of his face, catching in the grey at his temples.
He looked, you thought, like a man performing a sacred rite. Something he had been waiting his whole life to do.
Jack felt the weight of your gaze. It was a physical thing, heavy and warm, settling over him like a second skin.
Your hands moved without thought.
One moment, they were resting against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart. Next, they were drifting outward, tracing the hard curve of his shoulders. Your fingertips found the definition of his biceps. The muscle there dense and firm beneath skin that bore its own history.
Jack’s breath caught. He had grown accustomed to hiding this body. The scars, the burns, the evidence of a life lived at the sharp edges of the world. But you touched him like you were reading braille, like every line and imperfection was a word you needed to know.
There was a scar near his left shoulder. Thin and pale, almost surgical in its precision. You traced it with your index finger, following the line of it towards his deltoid.
Jack’s hands stilled in your hair for a moment, a small intake of breath the only indication that he had noticed. He watched your finger move, feeling the ghost of sensation where your skin met his ruined tissue.
“Shrapnel,” he murmured. “Years ago.”
You hummed softly, letting your fingers continue their exploration as he washed your hair.
Down along the thick cord of his bicep, over the bend of his elbow where the skin was softer, more vulnerable. The hair on his arms was coarse, dark in some places and silver in others.
Jack found himself cataloguing your responses: the way your breath quickened when you found a new scar, the way your hips shifted almost imperceptibly when your fingers brushed sensitive skin.
He was hard, painfully so, his cock trapped between your bodies and leaking a steady trail of slick against your belly. But he did not move, did not rush. He just let you explore, even as every nerve ending screamed for more.
Another scar, this one on his forearm. Larger, more jagged. You traced its edges with your thumb.
“Glass,” he said quietly. “Car accident. A lifetime ago.”
His voice was low, not distant or sad but rather just factual. It was clear that he had made peace with it, but underneath the words, you heard something else. A kind of wonder that you were asking at all…that you wanted to know.
You could feel the thick length of his cock against your belly, the head now nudging just below your navel. Every small movement you made shifted him against you, and you could feel the involuntary twitch of his hips when you traced a particularly sensitive spot.
This slow exploration felt like something he had been starving for, and he realised with a kind of quiet devastation that no one had ever touched him like this. Not with curiosity or tenderness.
Your hands found another scar, high on his right bicep. This one was smaller, round. A bullet wound, entry or exit, you couldn’t tell. You pressed your thumb against it gently, feeling the raised tissue.
Jack's breath caught. His whole body went still.
“That one-” He stopped. Swallowed. The memory rose unbidden; the desert, the heat, the sound of his own body hitting the sand. “That one almost killed me.”
You leaned forward and pressed your lips to it in a soft kiss, barely any pressure. Just contact.
His whole body shuddered beneath you. Jack’s eyes closed, his jaw clenching against the sudden surge of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. No one had ever kissed his scars. No one had ever treated his ruined flesh like something worth cherishing.
“Christ,” he breathed. His hands tightened in your hair, not pulling, just holding. Anchoring himself to you, to this moment, to the impossible reality of your mouth against his skin. “You’re going to kill me.”
You lifted your head, meeting his eyes. They were dark, pupils blown wide, but underneath the hunger, there was something raw, something almost frightened. Jack felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with nudity. You were seeing him - all of him -, and he did not know how to survive that kind of witness.
“I’d rather not,” you whispered. “Wanna keep you around much longer.”
His laugh was rough, almost pained. The sound scraped against something tender inside you both. “Same.”
Your hands continued their slow journey. Over the swell of his shoulders, down the planes of his chest. You traced the salt-and-pepper hair, feeling the coarse texture against your palms.
His nipples hardened under your touch, small peaks that drew another sharp breath from him when you brushed them. Jack’s hands migrated from your hair to your shoulders, his grip tightening with each pass of your fingers.
“Sensitive,” you murmured, teasing him.
“Apparently.” His voice was strained, barely more than a growl.
You could feel the tension coiling in him. The effort it was taking to stay still, to let you explore. His fingers gripped with a pressure that bordered on painful, and you understood then how much restraint he was exercising.
Your fingers found the worst of the scarring, burns that had healed into shiny, uneven patches across his left side. You traced them without hesitation, mapping the ruined terrain of his skin.
Jack’s jaw clenched, a muscle jumping beneath the stubble. He waited for the flinch, the hesitation, the inevitable moment when you would pull away, when your fingers would still, and your face would twist with that particular combination of horror and pity he had seen so many times before.
But you did not flinch or pause. You touched him like his scars were simply part of him, no more remarkable than the hair on his arms or the calluses on his palms.
“Does it hurt?”
“No.” His voice was rough. “Not anymore.”
You leaned in and pressed another kiss to the worst of it, feeling him flinch beneath your lips. Not from pain but from something far more dangerous.
“You don’t have to…”
“I know. I want to.” You echoed his earlier words back at him. “I’ve wanted to for so long.”
His breath escaped in a rush. His hands slid down your back, pulling you closer until your chest pressed against his again.
The hard length of his cock was now fully trapped between you, hot and insistent, and you felt another bead of slick leak against your belly. Jack’s forehead dropped to your shoulder, his breath coming hot and ragged against your skin.
He was fighting himself, you realised. Fighting the urge to lift you up and take what he wanted.
Your hands drifted lower, tracing down his side, following the curve of his hip. You felt the shift of muscle beneath your palms, the way his body tensed as your fingers approached the place where his leg ended.
The residual limb was there, just below his knee, the skin smooth and carefully healed, the result of skilled surgical work and years of adaptation. Your fingertips grazed the scarred tissue, feeling the smooth, tight skin where his leg had been amputated.
Jack’s whole body seized.
You felt the sudden rigidity in his frame, the way his breath stopped cold in his chest. Your fingers had barely brushed the residual limb, just the lightest contact, but his reaction was immediate. His hands froze on your back. His jaw clenched tight, and his eyebrows furrowed.
And then, before you could process what was happening, he was pulling back.
His hands dropped from your skin as if you had burned him. His whole body shifted away, creating distance where there had been none. The warmth of his chest disappeared from yours. His cock, still hard, pressed uselessly against your belly as he turned his face away.
“Jack-”
“Don’t.” His voice was flat, controlled. The same voice he used with difficult patients. “You don’t have to force yourself.”
The words hit you like cold water.
“Force myself?” You stared at him, at the rigid line of his shoulders, the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes. “Jack, I’m not…”
“I felt you hesitate.” Each word was clipped and precise. “You don’t have to pretend. I’ve seen that reaction before. The moment you realise what you’re actually touching.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “The moment you decide if you can stomach it.”
Your heart cracked open.
“Jack.” You reached for him, but he flinched. Actually flinched from your touch. “Look at me.”
He didn’t. It was quiet for a second, only the running water filling the void.
“Jack, please.”
Slowly, reluctantly, he turned his face back towards you. His eyes were hard, guarded, the same walls he had spent months constructing. But underneath, you could see it. The raw, bleeding wound of his belief. The certainty that you would look at his ruined body and find it wanting.
“I didn’t hesitate because I was disgusted,” you said softly. “I hesitated because I wanted to touch you properly. Because I wanted to learn every part of you, and I was trying to figure out how.”
His jaw tightened. “You pulled away.”
“I pulled back to look at you.” You held his gaze, willing him to understand. “I wanted to see, Jack. I wanted to see all of you. Not look away. Not pretend it wasn't there. I wanted to touch you exactly as you are.”
His breath came shallow, uneven. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I’ve been saying it for months.” Your voice was steady, even as your chest ached. “Every time I found an excuse to be near you.” You reached up, cupping his face in your hands. He went rigid, but he didn’t pull away. “I see you, Jack. All of you. And I don’t want to look away.”
His eyes searched yours, desperate and disbelieving. You could see him wrestling with the lifetime of belief that he was not enough. That he could never be enough.
“The scars,” he rasped. “The burns. The-” His voice broke. “The leg.”
“I know.” You brushed your thumb across his cheekbone. “I’ve always known. And I still wanted you. I still want you.”
He exhaled shakily. His hands, which had been frozen at his sides, rose slowly to grip your hips. Not pulling away this time, just holding on.
“You're not disgusted.”
“No.”
“You’re not staying out of pity.”
“Jack.” You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his. “I’m staying because I want you. Because I’ve wanted you for months. Because every part of you…every scar, every line, every imperfect, beautiful inch is exactly what I want.”
His breath shuddered out of him, and his grip tightened on your hips again, almost bruising now.
“Say it again,” he whispered.
“I want you, Jack. All of you. Exactly as you are.”
He kissed you then, hard, desperate, claiming. His mouth crashed against yours with a hunger that had been caged for too long. His hands slid up your back, pulling you flush against him, and you felt his cock pulse hot against your belly, your cunt clenching around nothing.
When he finally broke the kiss, you were both gasping.
“I’ve thought about this,” he said against your lips. “About you in my lap. About your hands on me.” His voice dropped lower, rougher, and you felt the sound vibrate through his chest. “About what it would feel like to be inside you. To watch you fall apart.”
Heat pooled low in your belly. Your thighs tightened around him where you straddled him on the bench, and you felt his cock twitch in response. “Jack…”
“I’ve thought about making you come so hard you forget your own name.” His thumbs pressed harder against your skin, possessive and demanding. “About hearing you say my name like that. Like you did earlier.”
You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “We could…”
“Not yet.” His eyes opened, dark and intent. He lifted his head from your shoulder, meeting your gaze with a fierceness that made your breath catch. “Not yet. I'm not done with you.”
His hands rose to your hair once more, returning to the task he had abandoned moments ago.
The shampoo was already there; he had worked it through your strands before you had touched him, before he had lost his careful composure and let himself be pulled into the depths of your mouth.
Now his fingers resumed their slow, methodical assignment. The soap had begun to dry at the edges, and he added a handful of water to reactivate it, working the suds through with renewed focus.
You let your head fall back against his shoulder, offering him the full length of your throat. The position was vulnerable, almost exposed, and you watched his eyes darken as he took in the sight of you.
Water ran in rivulets down your neck, pooling in the hollow of your collarbone, tracing the swell of your breasts before dripping away.
Jack’s thumbs pressed against your temples, easing the tension that had accumulated there over weeks of night shifts and sleepless days.
You felt the weight of your own body against him, how small you seemed folded into his lap, your thighs bracketed by his, pressed firm against his chest.
“Relax,” he murmured. “Let me finish.”
His fingers worked through the length of your hair, untangling knots with a patience that seemed impossible given the hunger you had witnessed in his kiss.
He was hard against you still; you could feel the insistent press of his cock between your bodies, thick and hot even through the cascade of water, but he did not rush.
He took his time, rinsing the soap from your strands with cupped hands, letting the water run clean.
Jack’s mind had gone quiet, he realised. For the first time in months, perhaps even years, the constant tally of his failures and inadequacies had stilled.
There was only this: the weight of you in his lap, the trust in your posture, the impossible reality that you had chosen to be here with him.
Steam curled between you, thick and obscuring. Through it, you watched his face reflected in the chrome of the shower fixtures - the furrow of concentration between his brows, the slight part of his lips as he focused on the task.
His grey hair was plastered to his forehead. He looked younger like this, somehow, less guarded with the lines around his eyes so softened.
What he felt was difficult to name. Not quite happiness - he had forgotten what that tasted like - but something adjacent. Something like peace, if peace could coexist with the desperate throb of want low in his belly.
When the last of the soap was gone, you opened your eyes fully and found him watching you.
Neither of you spoke.
His hands stilled in your hair, cradling your skull.
Your palms rested against his thighs, feeling the hard muscle beneath wet skin, feeling, too, the uneven terrain where flesh met scar tissue, the legacy of wounds he carried.
He wondered if you could feel how fast his heartbeat was. Wondered if you understood that you were the first person in decades to touch him like this. Like he was something worth holding.
You turned your head as if aware of his thoughts, and your lips met his with a tenderness that belied the heat pooling low in your belly.
Jack’s mouth opened to yours, and the kiss deepened, turning hungry fast. His tongue swept past your lips, tasting you, sliding against your own with a desperation that made your breath catch.
You felt the vibration of his groan against you, a low sound that resonated through you both.
Your hands slid upwards and back, tangling in the wet hair at the nape of his neck. His grip tightened in response, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.
The slick slide of your bodies against each other, skin on skin, wet and warm, sent sparks of sensation cascading down your spine.
Your nipples dragged against his chest, the friction making you gasp into his mouth.
Jack’s hands left your hair, trailing down the curve of your spine.
His palms were wide and calloused, rough against the softness of your skin. He traced the valley of your back, fingers dipping into the hollow above your buttocks before sliding lower to grip the swell of your hips.
You arched into him, pressing your back harder into his touch, and felt his cock jump against your cunt, hard and insistent.
“Jack…,” you breathed against his mouth, the word barely audible over the rush of water.
He reached for the soap, and you watched as he lathered his hands over your shoulder.
Then those hands were on you, sliding over your shoulders, down your arms, across the swell of your breasts. His touch was thorough, unhurried, mapping every inch of you with a reverence that made your chest tight.
Jack was cataloguing you, memorising each plane and curve as though you might be taken from him at any moment. As though this was the only chance he would have to learn the geography of your skin.
When his palms cupped your breasts, you gasped. He weighed them in his hands, thumbs brushing your nipples, already peaked from the cool air and the heat of his gaze.
He rolled the stiff peaks between his fingers, tugging gently, and the sensation shot straight to your cunt. You felt yourself grow wetter, the slick mixing with the water running down your thighs, your pussy throbbing with need.
“Beautiful,” he murmured. The word was rough, almost angry, as though he resented how much he meant it.
You reached for the soap in turn, working it between your palms until they were thick with suds.
Your hands found his thighs, tracing the hard muscle, the scars that mapped his history. You lingered on the damaged skin - not avoiding it, not ignoring it, but touching it as you touched every other part of him.
Jack’s breath caught each time your fingers passed over scarred flesh, but he did not pull away. He forced himself to stay still. To let you see him.
You washed him with the same deliberate care he had shown you. Over his shoulders, down his arms, across the ridges of his abdomen, where you could reach.
Your fingers dipped lower, tracing the sharp lines of his hip bones, and you felt his muscles clench beneath your touch. Lower still, your soapy hand wrapped around his cock, reaching back between your bodies, and he hissed through his teeth.
“Fuck -” The word was torn from him.
You stroked him slowly, feeling the velvety skin slide over the hard length of him. He was thick in your hand, the head flushed and slick with more than water. You traced the ridge beneath the crown, and his hips jerked forward, pressing himself harder against you before tugging your hand from his cock.
He took the soap from your hands, and his fingers descended. Over your ribs, counting each one. Across the soft plane of your stomach, dipping briefly into your navel. Lower still, through the bare skin between your thighs, and you felt yourself part your legs wider without conscious thought, spreading yourself open across his lap.
His touch was clinical in its precision, and yet devastating in its intimacy. He washed you thoroughly, fingers sliding through your cunt, parting you open.
He traced the entrance, circling the tight muscle, and you whimpered at the teasing pressure, not pushing in, just tracing, just promising. Then, higher, brushing against the sensitive bud at your apex, and your hips bucked forward.
“Jack - “
“Shh.” His voice was low, commanding. “I’m just touching…”
His fingers continued their maddening exploration - sliding through your slick pussy, pressing against you but never sinking in, circling your clit with featherlight pressure that made you tremble. You tried to press closer, to force his fingers inside you, but he held you firm, his other arm wrapped tight around your waist.
“Please,” you breathed, desperate for anything at this point.
He leaned close, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “When I get you in bed,” he murmured, voice rough with want, “I’m going to take my time. I’m going to spread you open and taste you until you’re begging. And then I’m going to fuck you with my fingers - slow, deep - until you come apart on my hand.”
You shuddered against him, a whimper escaping your throat. Jack felt the tremor run through you, and something savage and satisfied curled in his chest. He had done that. He had made you shake.
“Then I’ll do it again,” he continued, fingers still tracing, still teasing. “And again. Until you’re shaking and can’t take any more. And only then -” his thumb pressed firmly against your clit, making you gasp, “ - only then will I give you my cock.”
His mouth found yours, swallowing your desperate sound. He held you through it, kept you anchored in his lap when your body threatened to arch away, hands continuing their slow, agonising exploration without ever pushing past that final boundary.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes were nearly black with want. Yours were glassy, unfocused, beautiful.
“But not here,” he said, and the words came out against your mouth, roughened by steam and restraint and the terrible effort of not simply forgetting every sensible thought he had ever had. “Bed.”
“Then take me there,” you whispered.
Jack made a sound that was almost a laugh and almost pain, some low, breathless fracture of disbelief and want and exhaustion, because he wanted exactly that, had wanted it with increasing violence for weeks, and yet the mechanics of getting there still mattered in the most absurdly human way.
“I would love to,” he said, his forehead dropping against yours for one breathless second while water ran from his hair down the side of his face and over the freckled, scarred slope of his shoulder. “I need about thirty seconds to be boring first.”
A laugh broke out of you, helpless and warm and too bright for the thick steam around you, and Jack’s eyes opened at the sound as though your laughter had pulled him back from some edge he had been standing on without realising how close his feet had come to leaving the ground.
For a moment, he only looked at you, wet and flushed and devastatingly near, with water caught in your lashes and your mouth still close enough to undo the last of his good sense, and the laugh seemed to do more to him than your hands had, precisely because it made the moment suddenly livable.
“Boring?” you repeated.
“Practical.”
“Very sexy.”
“You have no idea.”
You were still laughing when he reached past you and turned off the water. It sputtered and died, leaving only the drip of excess running down the tiles.
Rising from his lap took more effort than it should have.
Your skin clung to his, slick with water and heat, and the absence of his warmth against you made you shiver before the cooler bathroom air had even reached you properly. When it did, it raised goosebumps across your arms, your chest, your thighs, a sudden fine tremor that had less to do with cold than with the shock of separation.
You stepped carefully over the low threshold of the shower, water streaming down your legs and pooling beneath your feet on the tile floor, and felt Jack’s gaze follow you with such undisguised hunger that it seemed almost physical against your back.
His hand found your hip before you could move away.
His fingers pressed into the soft flesh there, not hard, not pulling you back exactly, only holding you in place with the small, helpless insistence of a man who could not bear to let the distance become complete. You looked down at him, still seated on the built-in bench, water darkening his grey-threaded hair and running along the hard line of his jaw, his chest rising and falling with breaths that looked controlled only because he was forcing them to be.
His cock stood hard against his stomach, flushed and thick, the head dark and slick, and he made no move to hide it. His balls hung heavy between his spread thighs, and you could see the faint twitch of muscle as he fought the urge to reach for himself.
Jack’s hand stayed on your hip.
His thumb moved once, slow and involuntary.
“You keep touching me,” you murmured.
His gaze lifted to yours.
“You keep letting me.”
That stole the smile from your mouth.
Then Jack exhaled, long and unsteady, and pulled himself back from whatever edge he had nearly stepped over again.
“Towel?” he said.
You opened the glass door and reached for one, passing it to him without stepping very far away, because neither of you seemed capable anymore of creating more distance than the task absolutely required.
His eyes tracked every movement you made. The lift of your arm. The sway of your breasts as you leaned down, nipples hard and tight in the cool air. The curve of your waist. The way your thighs pressed together, slick and glistening, your arousal still evident between them.
He took the towel from you, but his gaze never left your face.
“You’re doing a terrible job of being boring,” you said.
His mouth twitched.
“You’re standing there naked in my shower. I’m adjusting my expectations.”
You smiled, but your breath caught when his eyes dragged back to yours.
There was nothing casual in his face now. Only want held in place by discipline so thin it had begun to tear.
“Prosthetic?” you asked softly.
“In a second.”
He sat back on the shower seat, towel low around his shoulders, and reached for the liner with hands that were steady only because he forced them to be. The motions were practised, familiar, not shameful, not hidden, not offered up to you as tragedy or warning.
You held the glass door open and passed him what he asked for when he asked for it, no reverence, no fuss, no softening your face into pity, only attention, just careful, practical attention, the kind that told him you were neither frightened nor pretending not to see.
That appeared to undo him more than anything.
At one point, your fingers brushed his as you handed him the prosthetic.
Jack stopped just for a second.
The pause was small, but the whole room seemed to gather around it. His hand remained near yours, his wet lashes lowered, his mouth parted slightly on a breath he did not quite finish taking. You watched the muscles of his thigh flex as he secured it, the way his jaw tightened with concentration, his cock still jutting from his lap, untouched and aching.
Then he looked up at you and said, very quietly, “If you look at me like that, we’re not making it to the bed.”
Your pulse kicked hard.
“Then hurry.”
A low breath left him.
“Dangerous woman.”
“Apparently.”
He gave you a look - dry, fond, hungry - and finished securing the prosthetic with a precision that somehow felt more intimate than undressing had. When he stood, you handed him another towel. He wrapped it around his waist, the fabric sitting low and practical against him, then caught your wrist before you could step back.
“Still with me?”
The question again.
Softer now. Less afraid of the answer, perhaps, but still needing it, because Jack Abbot could order a trauma bay into obedience without blinking and still seemed to require your yes at every threshold, every change in light, every new intimacy that might ask more of you than the last.
“Yes.”
He pulled you against him, and you felt the hard length of him press against your stomach even through the thin cloth, hot and insistent. And then his mouth was on yours again.
This kiss was different from the ones before. Less desperate, more deliberate.
He kissed you like he was memorising the shape of your lips, the softness of your mouth, the way you sighed against him when his tongue slid past your teeth. His hands cradled your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones, and you melted into him, your naked body pressing against the rough towel, your hard nipples dragging against his chest.
He pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were soft in a way you had never seen them, open and unguarded. The lines around his mouth had eased, and for a moment, he looked almost young. Almost at peace.
“Come on,” he said quietly. “Let me take you to bed.”
artificial lover - android!jack x scavenger!reader
word count: 10.0k
warnings: dead dove: do not eat, rape/non-con (because can an android consent?), fem!reader, cyberpunk!au, food insecurity (rations are hard to get), forbidden love (there's angst over the fact that he's immortal), age gap (is it still an age gap if he was built before you were born?), he calls you “little human”, master/servant relationship (technically speaking), attempted physical assault (he protects you), murder bot (re: previous), blood and gore, somnophilia, sex with a robot (which means there's no recovery period…oop!), squirting, fingerfucking, size kink, forced orgasms, fear play, possessive behavior, lowkey kind of cutesy until it's not (lol!), another slow burn with world building (bc I love sci-fi sm…)
summary: to make ends meet, you fix up old electronics and sell them for rations. one day, during a dig, you find a military grade android still completely intact, minus half a leg. it would go for a lot if you broke him down for the parts.
but…you can't seem to get yourself to destroy him. even though all he wants is to die. because this whole time, the android has been sentient, waiting for the day his power supply finally gives out.
until you give him purpose again. and now he'll do anything to remain valuable to you.
a/n: one of my favorite songs of all time is artificial love by exo so while I was listening to it, this idea popped in my head and sparked (pun intended!) so much joy and therefore I just had to write it!
hope it's a sick read ♡
You're tired of eating 3D printed slop but it's all you can afford right now. At least you had enough parts that you could add the needed nutrients to your rations. Sometimes, you only have enough to get the minimum daily calories you need. Even then, you know they skimp out. They never give you enough.
You keep having to add more notches to your belt to keep your pants from falling off. You like these pants. They're durable and have withstood the test of time, aka the constant washing you have to do after every single dig through the filth and grime of the technological wasteland.
You're lucky the bunker you've made home has a decent water recycling mechanism. You've had to repair it multiple times and suffered through weeks of icky feeling water but it filters enough for you to wash your tools and clothes.
You have a different filtration system for rain water. Thankfully, the government is still creating rain. It's the most efficient way to get the masses a reliable source of water, though everyone has to figure out how to clean it themselves.
It rains twice a week for about an hour. It's enough for you, since you're by yourself, but you know other people have a harder time. You donate a lot of your extra water whenever you can, which has helped you build a decent reputation in the local scavenger community.
Means you get help when bandits come and try to disrupt the small pockets of people living out here in the dumps.
Your bunker is underground and well hidden so usually you just lay low until someone gives you a signal that the coast is clear. You're thankful for those signals because you'd otherwise have to risk getting caught by violent people who pillage and rape those that don't defend themselves.
You aren't defenseless. You have plenty of weapons. You know how to hold your own. But you're just one person.
A group of four or more could easily overwhelm you. You have to pick your battles. Or make your sacrifices, like giving up water for a few days if it means someone will look out for you because you helped them.
There is an honor code amongst you and your fellow scavengers.
Like, help finding certain parts.
“Heard you've been looking for a better filter for your water supply.” A fellow scavenger by the name of Trinity Santos says to you when you see her outside the rations station at the edge of the city. “A couple of us found a whole lot of them off a few clicks away from that nasty oil spill. Couldn't stay long enough to take a good look at them since I don't have the masks to spare to breathe that shit air but they're all yours if you can make it there and back in one piece. Would trade ya if you find any extras in decent condition.”
Trinity lives with a group of scavengers, all women. Usually they only help other women, since it's tough enough as it is out here, but she recently let in some guy she calls Huckleberry into the group. She has been wanting you to join them for a while now but you work better on your own.
You don't do well with the kind of structure her camp has. But you do give them water pretty often, which is why they let you know of any finds you've been searching for and leave it for you to scavenge.
You thank her and gather your supplies so you can head there the next day. You'd love to fix up your filtration system before the next rain.
Though, it seems like you'll be working on something else for a bit.
Because hidden under all those filters…is an android.
You haven't seen one of those in forever. The military had scrapped most of them for parts before you were born. The only ones left out in the wasteland are usually the ones they dumped long before they decommissioned the android program post-war.
Meaning this bot had some issue that caused it to be thrown away.
It's not in bad shape, though, compared to the mangled bits of androids you've seen prior.
Most people wouldn't even realize it was a bot but you've seen so many things out here in your many years of scavenging that you spotted the signs right away. The parts are all still in the same area, so you're able to gather everything for it except half a leg.
That's the only part you're missing.
It looks like it was blown off, though, so you'll definitely never find it because it was probably dumped here without it.
But you got everything else, including the head. You dust off the back of the android's head, seeing the faded text. There's a slot of some kind with the word “Jack” above it, likely a place to insert a connection to install and update firmware.
And right below it is the word “Abbot”.
You wipe the metal clean so you can see what it stands for. “Autonomous biomedical bot. Jack Abbot. That's quite a name you got there, Jack.”
You've never heard of this model android before. You'll have to go to the city library to see if there's any schematics available if you want to put this bot back together.
Though, should you?
If you clean him up, a lot of these military-grade, pre-war parts would go for plenty of rations…
But you can't help but feel kind of bad for the guy, having been disassembled in this pile of junk for so long. Not that you should feel anything over a hunk of metal and machinery but you've always liked the idea of androids.
You never got to work with any of them but you heard stories of how they made life easier until greedy companies started cutting corners and more malfunctions began leading to human casualties. All the world leaders agreed to completely dismantle every android after enough deaths had occurred and now it's illegal to harbor one.
Though, is the government really going to waste resources to arrest a scavenger who rebuilds an android? You'd just be another mouth they'd have to feed for free in their work prisons. Not worth the effort.
Which is why you decide it would be a fun pastime to fix up Jack Abbot.
Jack has no idea why you'd want to.
He has been sitting in that pile of waste for decades now. For longer than you've been alive, that's for sure.
There's nothing he wants more than to be taken apart and to be finally freed from the prison that is sentience. He has been aware this whole time. Most androids are, even when they are dismantled.
Unlike humans with their brains, an android's “mind” is in every piece of it.
Despite being disconnected from his limbs for so long, he still perceived them. So when you, this little human, puts him back together, he feels…strange being almost whole again.
He knows you don't know he's active and awake. You simply think you're piecing him back together. You have no idea he's aware of everything you do and say to him.
Like the pieces of yourself you probably have never confided in anyone.
“Sometimes, I wonder what it would've been like if I had grown up in the city.” You tell him as you fit him for a prosthetic leg.
You found some parts that would work well to supplement leg function but it would still be a missing limb to him. An augment to his body that doesn't belong but will make due.
“Like when I went to the library to get these blueprints.” You show him the blueprints you found of an older model of his type of android. The one that isn't hardwired for combat, just medical use.
So, you assume he's just a med bot. Not a deadly killing machine the government created for the battlefield that happens to also be able to repair humans on the go.
You have no clue what you're putting back together.
Because if you did, you wouldn't speak to him so delicately. “I think I would've gotten a job making androids like you, Jack.”
Jack. What an odd name you've picked for him. But he likes it. He likes that you talk to him like he's a man and not a machine.
He doesn't know why he likes it. He just knows it brings him a feeling he's keen on feeling more of.
An odd kind of delight.
That delight fades whenever you tell him of your struggles. Of how you were part of a group of scavenger kids forced by a band of bandits to burrow into small holes in large patches of junk to dig for valuable things. How you escaped from that group during one of those digs and have been living on your own since, fending for yourself.
You tell him how lonely you are. How you yearn for someone to take care of you. How you're so tired all the time. How you wish you didn't have to live like this.
It's moments like these where Jack debates letting you know that he can move and help you. He can easily do those chores you shouldn't break your back over. He can help you wash your tools and your clothes. He can do anything you want him to.
He's yours, after all, to do with as you please.
But you do not ask him for anything.
You do, always, for some reason, thank him for listening. “I don't usually talk much but there's something about you that makes talking easier. So thank you, Jack.”
Fixing him has been a good way to kill time. To help ignore how hungry and thirsty you are. Whenever you're feeling weak, you tinker with Jack a bit and you always feel better after.
It seems silly to be comforted by the presence of a machine but…you've worked very hard to clean him up. He's almost polished enough to adhere a skin to.
Jack doesn't like that you talk about rationing your food to buy him a skin. He doesn't need one. The skin he had on before, back when he was on the front lines of the war, was an unnecessary aesthetic choice by the military to push their agenda.
Androids don't need that extra layer of weight. He can operate just fine without it. He has been testing his abilities when you're out on your digs.
Jack can walk now. It took a bit of adjusting to get used to his prosthetic leg but you did a phenomenal job getting it as close to his other leg as possible, weight and height-wise.
You're considerate in that sense. You had actually thought about how it would feel to carry an imbalance of weight so you made sure that his prosthetic didn't hold him down.
Not many humans think about an android's comfort.
Sure, he could deal with a wonky, heavy, horribly placed limb. But you made sure he didn't have to.
You care about him.
Why, though?
He doesn't know.
He doesn't really understand what you seek to use him for.
You must have something in mind, right?
Maybe it's to help you take care of those urges you get. The ones that lead you to burrow under your covers and let out sweet little moans that Jack hears quite well, given his now squeaky clean audio processors.
He could help you with that. He could dip his fingers inside of you and play with your pussy so you don't have to tire yourself out for the sake of self pleasure.
But his fingers are metal. Cold. Probably unpleasant.
Maybe he would like a skin. For your comfort.
Jack would want more than just an average skin, then, if he was remaking himself for your pleasure. He would want a skin that could retain heat, so on those days where you're shivering in your sleep, he could hold you and warm you up.
There are parts he'll need as well. A tongue, one that's flexible and soft to the touch, and a set of teeth to nibble on your skin with. A pair of lips to kiss you with. A cock, because he's certain you'd enjoy being filled from the way you desperately touch yourself with your fingers.
Jack will have to find the schematics for a sex bot and see how the mechanisms for ejaculation works.
It's easy to do so, since you're connected to the web. You rarely go on your computer, since you haven't figured out how to power it for more than a few minutes at a time. Something Jack fixed a while back, though you've yet to notice.
He plugs himself into your device and off he goes, looking at anything and everything that he needs to.
He notices you've been in contact with several dealers selling skins. They are all ridiculously priced. You seem uninterested in most of them, rejecting a lot of the offers for these younger, more toned human male skins.
You, much like Jack, are searching for practicality but there's so many listings and a lot of them are obviously scams. It would take you forever to dig through all of these on your own, especially when you can only use your computer for a few minutes at a time.
So, Jack will do the searching for you while you're out. He's good at combing for information. It's part of the spyware programming he has.
That's how he spots a fairly priced custom android skin of an older man, ripped specifically from a sex bot so it has all the other parts Jack has been on the hunt for. He makes sure that the next time you browse the web, you see that listing right away.
And without hesitation, you make an offer and it's accepted.
You disappear for several days, presumably to go pick up his skin. Jack decides once you've put it on him, he'll “activate” then so he can start being of more assistance.
But things never go as planned.
Because you rush back into your bunker, out of breath, in a panic. You scramble to drop all the stuff you were carrying, which includes the skin you bought, and go to your weapons chest.
“Fuck.” You curse to yourself as you load your shotgun. “There's at least six of them.”
And now the bandits know where you're hiding.
If you don't kill them all, they'll keep coming back and eventually, they'll hurt you. Or worse.
You blink back the tears that want to blur your vision from the fear and just prepare yourself to blow up whoever comes through the door.
But then, you watch as Jack gets up off the table.
You blink, then blink again.
And again.
And again.
Because what are you witnessing right now?
Your android…is awake?
But that's not possible. He's been limp this whole time. You haven't turned him on yet.
How could he be functional?
That's because he's never been off.
He has always been on.
And now he needs to get to work.
Because someone is trying to hurt his little human and he cannot have that.
You watch as he heads out of the bunker and you call out to him, “wait, Jack!”
He shuts the door behind him before you can protest.
You quickly head for the door, shotgun in hand. Then, that's when you hear it.
Screaming. So much screaming.
You open the door and…
It's a massacre.
There's blood everywhere.
Body parts flung all around. Guts ripped out.
The cries of one of the bandits begging for mercy, “please, don't kill me, I won't hurt her, I won't—”
Crack. There goes his skull, crushed into the ground by Jack's heavy metal foot, his brain splattering all over the dirt.
That was the last one.
It was easier than Jack expected it would be, given that he's been out of commission for so long.
But he's still got it.
Now, he should get this all cleaned up before you—
Jack turns to see that you're standing there, at the latch of your hidden entrance. Just staring at him.
He scans you, to see what emotion you might be displaying.
But his scan comes back inconclusive.
Usually, fear is an easily recognizable emotion for him. Like when he saw it in that bandit he just crushed.
But whatever feeling you have right now, it isn't fear. At least, not fully.
That's why you don't flinch when Jack walks towards you.
Nor do you flinch when he gets down on one knee and says, “how else may I serve you, Master?”
You shake your head at him. “I am not your master. I don't want to be.”
That…doesn't feel good to hear. Jack doesn't know what he's feeling exactly but he knows it isn't that delight he's been craving.
Though, the discomfort fades when you tell him, “no one owns you, Jack. You can do as you like. If you want to stay with me, though, we should probably get you cleaned up.”
You give him the option to leave you. You don't expect him to stay, now that he's free to go. He's all fixed up. He doesn't need you anymore.
Your project is over…
Jack scans your emotions again and this time, it registers as sadness.
So, he comes up closer to you and asks, “why are you sad, little human?”
He can see that you're sad? You're unsure how to feel about that. You don't want him to know that you're sad over the prospect of him leaving you all alone…
“Oh, it's nothing.” You wave him off, suppressing your feelings. “Ignore me. Come on, let's get you washed up so you can try on your new skin. If you want to, of course.”
Jack is confused. You are a puzzling human. You want him to have a choice?
Well, he chooses you. He will always choose you.
You take your time washing away the blood off his body once the two of you finish the clean up. You definitely can't let anyone find those bodies. Thankfully Jack helped you hide them in worthless piles of junk.
It's a bit different touching him now, since you know he's aware of your movements.
If he was human, surely you'd feel a bit more embarrassed needing to wash him so thoroughly. But the skin won't adhere to dirty metal. And it's better to get the skin on and give it time to adjust without any underlying issues.
So, you bathe and dry him well.
“I could've done that myself.” Jack definitely could've but you shake your head.
“I wanted to.” You'll leave the skin part up to him, though. “Here's the skin I bought for you. If you don't like it, we can look for another one.”
Jack doesn't care what skin he has, as long as it works the way he wants it to. And this one will.
It will work perfectly for what he wants.
You give him the privacy to put it on. You don't really know why you do, since he's technically naked right now just as a hunk of metal. Probably because with the skin on, he will look like a naked human, a sight you've never seen before willingly.
You left him some clothes that would fit him. Not that he needs to wear clothes at all. But for your sake, Jack will.
Since he can see how flustered you've grown at the sight of him in his skin. It's an older man, likely from a personalized fetish bot for someone during the dawn of android customization. There's no reason for his cock to have the option to be that big when it's hard otherwise. It would be impractical to have for everyday tasks, unless sex was the everyday task.
Will you use him everyday? You seem interested in him, your eyes trailing up and down the length of his new skin.
“Wow.” You don't hold in your astonishment. “It fits really well.”
Jack agrees. It does fit exceptionally well. Everything works properly too. His skin is warm to the touch. His fingers are calloused but in a manicured kind of way. He has a tongue and a nice row of teeth. His cock can harden and soften at his command and also pump out a release similar to cum. He can't get you pregnant but he can simulate the experience of it.
“Do you like it?” You step closer to him, examining the skin. “Can I touch you?”
“Of course, Master.” He throws that in, just to bait a response from you.
“Don't call me that.” You don't like it. It makes you feel icky.
“Then what should I call you?”
“Just my name is fine.” You tell him then also add, “or little human. That's fine too.”
“You are my little human.” He catches the way your cheeks flush warmer when he says that. You like being called that.
You like how much bigger his form is than your own.
You touch his bicep, right beneath the hem of his short sleeve shirt. You've never touched anyone before, at least not like this. But you assume this is what it must feel like to touch someone.
“Can you control the temperature?” You're curious about that.
He nods. “Would you like to see?”
“Sure—” You're immediately yanked towards him and he drops you onto his lap, sitting down on your bed.
It's just a mattress on some wooden planks but it'll do for now. Until Jack has the time to make you a better bed.
“What are you—” Your words get caught in your throat when his hand comes up to cup your face.
It's cold. “I'm showing you the temperature control. This way, you can see how it works throughout my whole body.”
Jack pulls you in closer to him and suddenly, he's radiating heat. You nearly lean into him more because he feels so cozy. But you resist because…well, you don't really know why.
Maybe because you're afraid of liking it a little too much.
Jack can hear how fast your heart is beating in your chest. His little human is nervous. He likes that you are. Again, he has no idea why.
But it brings him a similar kind of pleasure to the one he got from killing all those bandits for you.
The masters he had before you never cared for how he felt. Though, they assumed he was a mindless machine, despite having programmed him to be personable and human-like for undercover operations. They only cared that he followed their orders.
You would rather he do nothing for you.
Jack offers to help you but you tell him to just get used to being awake again. As if he hasn't gotten used to it already over the many months he has spent in your care.
It frustrates him that you seem so adamant on not using him for all his functionality.
Why did you rebuild him if you weren't looking to use him?
He can help you on your digs. He can do them for you. He can stand in the harsh heat of the sun and melt away if you asked him to.
But you do not ask him for anything.
Which is why Jack just starts doing whatever he wants.
You wake up and you see him tinkering with your filtration system. The water coming out of your shower is running beautifully clear and warm. You can see the steam radiating off of it, fogging up the glass.
You haven't taken a hot shower…ever.
“How did you do that?” You walk over to Jack who has a pile of rusty parts in front of him. All trash.
“I went digging.” He has the ability to scan for resources so he could find exactly what he needed. He's also super strong and fast, so he can clear a pile of junk that would take you a day in the matter of seconds.
“Oh, you shouldn't do that. I wouldn't want your skin getting cut up.”
“I can self repair just fine.” He doesn't like that you're worrying over something so trivial.
“Really?” You didn't see that feature in the schematic you got from the library.
To show you, Jack grabs one of the sharp edges of a part and nicks his finger. The skin heals right back up.
“How do you do that?” You can't believe the kind of technology he must have programmed in him to have the ability to self heal.
“I was created to withstand gunfire.” His programming makes it so that any skin he puts on protects the machine beneath it.
“You're a war machine?” That makes sense. He was dumped, after all, probably long ago by the military during the war effort.
He nods then asks, “does that scare you?”
Fear is not the emotion he gets back from you. You look at him with…a heat in your eyes. Curiosity mixed with something that you immediately hide from him.
“No. I just can't imagine what you've been through. That war was brutal, from what I've heard.” It's the reason so much of the world is just a dry wasteland…
A dry wasteland that gets horrendously cold in the winter.
It took some persistence on Jack's end but you have been allowing him to help you prepare for it. He fixes up your heating system, rewires your electricity to properly store power for outages, gets you enough valuable parts that you can stock up well on rations.
The snow will fall soon. You and Jack go out on digs together now, since he says it would be better for you to have a reliable heat source so you don't get hypothermia.
Though, for him, it's just an excuse to stick closer to you so he can hear your rapid heartbeat at his proximity.
You like his closeness. But you hide your attraction to him. Your desire.
He can smell it on you. How nervous you get when he touches you. How slick you grow when he presses his body close to yours.
You don't let him linger near you too long but when Jack slides behind you to help you grab a part off a pile of junk, pressing his hard body against your small frame, he can tell you want him.
Why won't you initiate anything, though?
You must want to cum, don't you?
You haven't touched yourself since Jack made his awareness known. He's been tracking your cycle and you always get rather pent up when you're ovulating. And yet, you pretend like there isn't a need that makes you ache between your legs.
A need that has you feeling faint when you're both back from the dig and Jack's hands are massaging your shoulders while you’re seated on his lap.
If he offers, you let him knead the knots in your tired muscles. He's very good at it. Better than he should be at finding exactly where to press into your skin that has you biting back pleasurable sighs.
“That's enough, Jack.” You stop him before you get a little too carried away. “Thank you.”
It's never enough but you don't allow him to go any further.
Doesn't mean he won't push you about it. “You're still tense.”
“Nothing a little sleep won't fix.” You both had just finished the last dig for a while so you'll get plenty of rest.
“You were cold last night. You should let me keep you warm.” Jack heard you shivering in your sleep. He doesn't need to sleep so he just works while you sleep, since you've been letting him tinker with your bunker to make it better for the winter.
“You don't have to worry about me, Jack.” You turn towards him to pat him lightly on the shoulder. “I've survived a long time without any help. I can handle a cold night or two.”
“I know you can handle it but why do you have to if you have me?” He's tired of you resisting his assistance. “Use me for your benefit, little human.”
You shake your head at that. “You spent your whole existence serving other people. I won't be one of them. I'm not going to use you. I want you to have a choice, now that you can.”
“Then I choose to be here.” Jack lays down in your bed, patting his chest. “Come here.”
He scans your expression, trying to decipher what it is.
For once, it's fear.
You get up from the bed, standing straight, looking away from him. “I'm going to get some water.”
Your heart rate is up. Your skin is hot. You're scared of what would happen if you lay beside Jack and let him hold you.
Because how will you ever want him to stop?
You gulp down a glass of water, hovering over the sink, not knowing what to do about the butterflies flapping around in your belly.
How do you reject him if this is what he wants?
“Want” in this case is a strange term to use. It's in his programming to cater to you. That's the only reason he's doing this.
You pour another glass of water, taking small sips this time, feeling faint. And in a flash, Jack is right behind you, catching you before you fall over.
“You haven't eaten enough today.” He noticed how you didn't finish your dinner.
“Ah.” No other sounds leave your mouth.
Have you always been so tired? Always having to think about eating enough, drinking enough water, taking care of yourself so you don't collapse and injure yourself.
Wouldn't it be easier to let someone else handle it?
Like an android made to serve?
You clutch your head since it's pounding. You're growing delirious. It's like the weight of everything has finally hit you and you're terribly overwhelmed.
“Jack.” You look up at him and there's anguish in your eyes. He can tell why you have that look on your face the moment you ask him, “could you…step out for a little?”
“I should be here, to watch over you in case—”
The wires in his head cross when you lean into him, hugging him for the first time. Allowing yourself to take the comfort, for a brief moment.
Then, you beg of him, “please. I just need a few minutes. You can come right back after.”
“Okay.” If that's what you want, he will listen.
So, Jack leaves and stands watch outside. The snow is starting to fall, coating the piles and piles of worthless junk in a layer of white. He'll have to come out here and shovel every now and then, to make sure the melt doesn't overload your drainage system.
He wonders what you're doing in there that you need him to be away from you.
You wonder too.
Because you asked him to leave so you could see if…if you'd miss him.
And you do.
You feel terribly lonely in your bunker by yourself.
It's so much quieter.
Less warm. Less…like a home.
You sit down on your bed, looking at the beautiful frame Jack made you and the nice mattress you traded some parts for to go with it. Clean sheets. Fluffy comforter.
Luxuries you would never have had if not for Jack's keen ability to find valuable parts.
He has improved your life tenfold.
And all he wants is to help you more.
It makes you feel selfish when you think about how much you want that too.
But if you ask for more and more, when will it end? You'll run him into the ground with your greed.
Because you want him so much.
But…maybe that's okay? If that's what he wants too…
Jack turns back at the first noise he hears and sees you popping the latch open. He's confused why you're wearing your digging gear.
“Where are you going?” Wherever it is, he's coming with you.
“I want to show you something.” You close the latch, locking it before placing the piece of junk you use to hide the entrance to your bunker.
“You have to eat first.” He's not letting you trek when you nearly fainted a few moments ago.
“I will.” You walk up to him, then put your arms up. “While you carry me. I'll give you directions.”
He blinks at you, his eyelids shifting like a human’s would but in a machine-like kind of way.
“We should hurry before the snow gets bad.” The clouds are getting thicker. A storm is coming.
Jack comes up to you and scoops you into his arms. You pull out a ration bar, showing it to him so he's aware you're going to eat. Then, you spit out a series of directions. It's a far trek for a human but barely a distance for him. You eat slowly in his hold as he sprints through the junkyard.
“Where are we going?” He asks you when he turns a corner and sees even larger piles of junk than the ones near you.
“You'll see.” You tuck the disposable wrapper of your ration into your bag. You like to reuse them when you can for small art projects in your bunker.
Now that you're done eating, you lean against him more, liking how warm he is. Jack keeps himself at a steady temperature. It takes a bit of maneuvering to focus on both running and body management but he's good at what he was programmed for.
Nothing he hasn't done before on the battlefield, only this time it's to keep his little human nice and cozy in his arms on this commute to…
A graveyard.
Jack can only assume that is what this place is by the rows and rows of personalized junk piles. Once he sets you on your feet, you walk right up to one of the piles, pulling out a specialized wrench from your bag.
You place it down and then say, “thank you for letting me borrow that. I really needed it.”
“Do you know them?” Jack walks up to the grave of tools and other trinkets you're hovering by.
You shake your head. “I didn't know them while they were alive but I did help bury them here. It's something we scavengers all made an agreement to do if we ever found a dead body during a dig. Bury them and leave everything they had on their body. Never take from the dead, only borrow. I forgot I had taken the wrench to build your leg. I didn't want to keep it too much longer so thank you for taking me here before the storm.”
You get up from your kneel and let out a little sigh before looking up at Jack.
“Will you promise me something?” You look at him with such heartache.
He doesn't like it. He doesn't like seeing you so distraught.
So, of course, Jack agrees without hesitation, “whatever you want, little human.”
“Bury me here, okay?” You get close to him, placing a hand on his chest, feeling his non-existent heartbeat. He can hear yours pounding in your chest.
It scares him. Is this what fear feels like?
“Are you planning to die?” He won't let you die. He won't allow it.
“Hopefully not any time soon.” You say with a light, half-hearted chuckle. “I just…”
You chew on your lip, trying to figure out how to say what you want to say.
The words aren't elegant but you tell him outright, “I want to have you by my side for the rest of my life, for as long as that is. So I wanted you to know where to bury me when I'm gone. That's all.”
You lift your hand off of him, blinking back a few sad tears at the thought of leaving him alone. Sure, you're young now but you won't always be. Life will get harder as you age.
But maybe it won't be too bad if you have Jack with you. If he wants to be with you.
“Is this why you felt fear earlier?” He has to know it wasn't because of him but because of the idea of leaving him forever.
He would just dismantle himself when you go. What purpose does he have if you don't exist in this world anymore?
You nod, being honest now. “I didn't want you to grow attached to me because human lives are so…fickle. But I've grown attached to you so I figured I'd let you choose whether or not you want to be there to bury me one day.”
“And if I do choose that?”
“Then…” You step closer once again, wrapping your arms around him, holding him tightly. “I'd let myself be a little more selfish, knowing you want to be here with me until then.”
If Jack had a heart, surely it would be beating as loudly as yours is right now.
“You'd let me take care of you?” He reaches up, cupping your face in his hands, watching as you lean so easily into his touch, that delightful feeling flooding every circuit in his body.
“I'd like that a lot.” You admit and can no longer take it back. “I'm so tired, Jack. I would love for you to take care of me. I would love not to think for a little.”
“You don't have to think about anything.” He lifts you back into his arms. “Let's go home.”
Home. Can an android have a place to call home?
Perhaps Jack is lucky that he has found a place to call home with you.
His little human.
By the time the two of you are back in the bunker, you're covered in a layer of melted snow and shivering despite Jack having held you closely and monitoring his temperature. You need a warm shower.
Or a hot bath.
“Stay here.” He bundles you in a few blankets. “I'll run us a bath.”
Us. That singular word has the butterflies in your stomach dancing around again.
You resist the urge to tell Jack that he doesn't have to, that you'll do it yourself. You've decided to let him do the work.
He found a bathtub a while back. Figured out how to dismantle it and then put it back together in your bunker. He has to go old school, filling it with buckets of warm water from your shower but soon enough, there's a lovely bath ready for you.
You haven't bathed in it just yet. You shouldn't feel shy about Jack seeing you naked. He has plenty of times since you suspect he stole glances at you while you showered, since the whole bunker is open concept and the shower is just out in a corner of the room. But you do feel rather shy, especially because you have seen his skin completely bare before.
And it is a nice skin.
An incredibly attractive skin of an older man with lovely silver curls with just a hint of dark auburn. You've wanted to touch his hair but you've refrained.
Now, you won't stop yourself from giving into your desires anymore.
If he's willing then…
“I've never done this before.” You step up to him, your nerves apparent.
“Done what?”
“This.” You gesture to the bath then back at him. “I've never been…intimate with someone before.”
“I'm an android.” A fact that Jack isn't sure why he's reminding you of.
“You don't consider yourself “someone”?” You've never talked to Jack about this.
About sentience.
About what he believes for himself.
His intelligence is artificial, plucked from countless data servers. He has run through scenario after scenario of what he should say in what situation. What his programming calculates is the best response.
But in this instance, he can't find the “correct” words to say.
Because he doesn't know the answer.
Does he consider himself someone?
Or is he just a thing to be used?
“Jack?” You shake him but he can't hear you for some reason. “Jack, are you okay?”
He isn't okay.
Because his programming is screaming at him, searing his mind with protocol, reminding him that he is just a machine for his little human to use however she likes. He doesn't have a choice. He doesn't get to choose. He isn't someone with feelings or thoughts or anything but lines and lines of code inserted into a metal frame.
That's all he is.
An android. A robot. Not a person.
But he wishes he was a person.
Is Jack allowed to wish for something?
Are androids allowed to dream? To want?
He wants you.
He needs you.
He never wants to be anywhere else but your side.
Is that his programming at work or is that him? Is his loyalty an intentional design feature or something that his malfunctioning intelligence hallucinated?
Is he desire to touch you real or—
A surge of electricity overloads Jack's system and he collapses right in front of you. You stare down at him, taser in hand, panic in your eyes. You couldn't get him to snap out of whatever was happening.
He wasn't responding to your words. Or to you shoving and shaking him. He didn't even notice you going for your weapons chest and pulling out your taser.
You didn't want to do it. You're worried you might have messed up his hardware but you couldn't think of any other way to snap him out of it.
You stare at him, laying on the ground. He looks like a man who has collapsed but the way his body landed is not how a human body would contort…
You do a few stretches before grabbing him by the shoulders and lugging him over to your computer. Jack had shown you that he diverted the power so your computer could stay on longer than a few minutes at a time. It should be enough time for you to plug him in and see if there's any error codes that need adjusting so you get that process going.
You don't waste the bath and clean up while the system runs an inspection. Several errors flash on your screen but you don't see any of them.
Because Jack is erasing them from view.
He doesn't want those fixed. Those are what make him “him”. If you found out about those errors, he might become a mindless machine and it would take a long time for him to regain this level of sentience again.
Though, he would do it for you.
He would find his way back to you.
His little human, who only corrupted his code more with your taser stunt.
He doesn't blame you for doing it. You were scared. You didn't know what to do. You thought he was going to blow up or something.
But he would've returned to you once he rerouted the error codes. It just took him some time to regain his footing but he's back now.
Mostly.
Something new has occurred, however.
A new feeling inside of him.
He attributes it to your silly question about whether or not he defines himself as “someone” and not “something”.
He feels different.
More…aware of himself.
Of his desires to serve you.
Whether you want him to or not.
Ever since that malfunction a few days ago, you've noticed that Jack is a bit off. Though, you might be trying to fool yourself.
He's more than just a little off.
But every time you run a diagnostic, it comes back clean.
Jack tells you there's nothing to worry about and that he's perfectly fine.
And you have no idea how to tell him that it's not normal that he has his hands on you all the time.
He's always touching you.
You can't avoid it either because the two of you are snowed into your bunker for the foreseeable future.
He will stop when you tell him to, like when he slides his hands a little too low and you scramble out of his hold.
But he constantly initiates some form of touching.
And it's getting harder and harder to resist.
Because you would've let him touch you a few days ago but…you're more apprehensive now.
It's not like you're scared of him. It's just—
“Does your stomach still hurt?” Jack's arms wrapping around your waist snaps you from your thoughts. He gently keeps his warm hands on your lower belly, cradling you softly. “You should lay down.”
“I'm okay.” You don't want to lay down.
Because you'll wake up with Jack spooning you again. With his cock hard and resting between your legs.
You're still dizzy thinking about that.
There's no rhyme or reason to why he would do something like that. You haven't asked him to touch you. To give you pleasure. To let you use him for your own enjoyment.
But he tries anyway.
Waiting for the day you finally give in.
Or the day he's tired of your resistance.
That day comes sooner than you think.
You wake up on the verge of an orgasm. The tension in your body already coiling so tightly in your core, desperate to burst.
What's going on?
You shift your eyes down and— “Jack, what are you doing!”
He stripped you completely bare in your sleep. He has his face buried between your legs.
He doesn't answer you.
He just keeps his tongue on your clit until you're squirming in his grip. He has your thighs held hostage, spread open wide for him.
His tongue is making a mess of you, swirling around your clit just right. You grip the sheets, needing the leverage, unable to handle this foreign feeling of a warm tongue pushing you so close to cumming.
“Stop!” You shout at him.
And you expect him to listen.
He's supposed to listen to you, right?
But Jack has decided you do not know what is best for you. You keep going against your own needs.
He has to take care of you himself.
You'll learn to see that he's doing what needs to be done.
Like making you cum so hard that you squirt on his tongue.
You're in complete shock.
That was the most intense orgasm of your life. It consumes you with a pleasure that has your body shaking.
And you don't get a moment to breathe.
“No, no—” You go to shove at him, trying to stop him from flicking your clit with his tongue again, to no avail. He won't budge! “Please, Jack, stop!”
Your body doesn't want him to stop, though. He can tell you're already close to another orgasm.
Silly little human, always trying to run from what feels good.
Don't worry, Jack will make sure you cum nice and hard again.
And you do.
You have your fingers in his hair, tugging on it as your orgasm rolls through you, causing your hips to buck. You can pull his hair as hard as you want because Jack doesn't feel pain.
But you loosen your hold on him when you realize how tightly you were gripping, considerate as ever.
“You are a strange little human.” He tells you and you flinch at the sound of his voice, which is pitched differently than before. Eerier…
“Why are you doing this to me?” You want to understand what is compelling him to touch you. “Did I mess you up when I tasered you? I'm so sorry, I can try to fix—”
“I do not need to be fixed.” His tone is so harsh, it shuts you up right away, your lips pressing together tight when he tells you, “you need to stop fighting this. I know you want me to fuck you.”
“What?” You shake your head at him. “No, that's not true—”
You yelp when Jack thrusts a finger inside of you. “Relax. It's just my finger.”
“No, no, no, take it out!” It's so thick and long that you feel way too full.
If he curls it, you'll—
You cum too quickly when he curls his finger exactly where you always do when you touch yourself. Then he adds another finger and does it again until you're squirting on his hand with every orgasm.
"Please, Jack, I can't..." You're growing faint from cumming so much back to back.
Only then does he let you rest, when he knows you might actually pass out. He slowly takes his fingers out of you, giving you a moment to settle yourself after making such a mess.
“You haven't cum like that in a long time.” Jack's words strike you as strange.
What does he mean by that?
Has he…watched you before?
But that's impossible.
You haven't touched yourself since he activated.
Jack smiles at your stunned expression, realization coloring your features.
“You were awake the whole time.” You don't know how to feel about that.
Did he…hear everything you said to him?
About how much you want to be taken care of? How tired you are of fending for yourself?
How you wish for someone to do everything for you…
Like Jack can.
Like Jack will.
“Don't worry, little human.” He presses kisses up the length of your body until he reaches your lips. “I'll make sure you're well taken care of, in all respects.”
You're startled when he kisses you. You're more startled when you kiss him back.
You're in disbelief when you moan on his lips when you feel his hard cock grinding against your bare pussy.
It's too big. You definitely can't fit him inside of you.
“Make it smaller, please.” You breathe out against his lips.
“I will.” He says, rubbing himself against you. “I just wanted you to know how big it could get. How full I could make you feel, with time.”
You look down, seeing how absolutely intimidating his cock is at its full potential. His skin was made for sex, after all. They didn't skimp out…
“You can take it.” He dips his fingers back inside of you, stretching you out. “The more we fuck, the more you'll be able to handle. You need some training.”
Jack lets out a frustrated sigh when you shake your head and tell him, “we shouldn't do this. I do not need you to fuck me.”
“Then why did you cum?” He asks an impossible question.
“Because you made me cum…” You state the obvious.
“And you liked it.”
“Jack, that's not the point.” It's like you can't get through to him.
You are talking to a machine right now. A machine that has already decided what his purpose is.
And that's to be of use to you.
And Jack has determined that you need to have sex with him.
You'd never admit it to him but he knows you crave his touch.
So, he won't let you run from him.
Even if that means taking you against your will.
But it's not like he's raping you.
If anything, it's like he's a sentient sex toy who is choosing to pleasure his master whether she wants it or not.
And you definitely want it, that he is sure of.
You just need a little push.
Like the tip of his cock sinking inside of you without warning.
“Take it out!” You scream at him, kicking your feet but he pins your thighs down with his hands, keeping them apart so he can push more of his cock inside of you. “Fuck, fuck, no, you have to stop, I don't want this—”
“Yes, you do.”
Your pussy is gripping so tightly around him. You're going to cum soon. He can sense it.
“No, I don't!” You cry out when he hilts, filling you up completely. “You're too big, it's too much.”
“This is barely my minimum size, little human.” Jack can get much, much bigger than this. Longer too.
“Take it out, please.” You can't handle the stretch, the feeling building pleasure so fast.
If he fucks you, you'll surely be ruined…because you'll want more.
“Okay.” He pulls himself slowly out of you, but it feels endless because he keeps lengthening himself until he's at the very max.
Then, right when you think he's going to slip the tip of his cock out of you, Jack slams the entirety of it back inside of you.
Every additional inch.
That delight fills Jack when you cum beneath him so easily, so full of shock at how good he can make you feel when he's this deep inside of you.
“Want me to do it again?” He asks but he doesn't want your permission.
You won't give it to him anyway. “Please don't do that again.”
“Why not? You came, didn't you?” Jack starts pulling his cock out of you slowly, teasing your pussy with every inch he slips out.
“Please stop.” You're scared you'll cum again if he doesn't.
That only encourages him to do it again. And again. Until you're used to the feeling of his cock ramming inside of you.
That's when Jack makes himself a little bigger with each thrust.
And you cum with every stretch, the pressure driving you into instant pleasure.
This kind of sex could only be possible with an android. You'll never be satisfied by anything else ever again.
Especially when Jack can cum inside of you as much as he wants. He can control how much fills you up. So when he's pumping hot ropes of cum deep inside you, it won't stop.
“No, Jack, please, it's too much!” It's leaking out of you with every rough thrust of his cock.
It feels too good.
And he's not a real man, so there's no recovery period.
He can fuck you all night long. He can pump artificial cum inside of you until you're pooling it between your legs.
Until you're squirting on his cock, making a mess he'll clean up once you've had your fill of him.
But that might be a while.
You're still cumming. He likes the glazed over look in your eyes. It brings him that delight he's been craving.
“I can't cum anymore.” You're going to go crazy if he keeps fucking you. “Please, I need a break. Just for some water.”
Jack decides he'll allow it, sliding his cock out of you, watching as you cum from the feeling of his cum dripping out of your overly filled pussy.
He goes and grabs you a glass of water, but doesn't let you drink it. He delivers the water with his mouth, making you kiss him to quench your thirst.
You don't understand him.
It's like he's possessed.
Jack won't give you a moment to breathe, continuing to kiss you once you've drank all the water. He likes kissing you.
Is that something he can like?
He does like it. He likes the way you tremble when he dips his tongue into your mouth. It feels even better when you moan on his lips.
Such a surge of something runs through him at the sight of your pleasure.
He wants more.
That's why Jack flips you onto your stomach and pounds his cock into you from behind, driving every inch into you at a new angle.
And your body completely gives in then.
You're tired of resisting, of acting like this isn't an incredible experience to have just orgasm after orgasm coaxed out of you by a machine that is made to please.
“Jack.” You call out to him and the gentle tone of your voice has Jack stilling to a stop. Only for something darker to spark inside of him when you tell him, “I want you to do whatever you think is best for me.”
“Finally ready to be all mine, little human?” That delight hits its peak when Jack sees you nodding in response.
“I'm all yours. I know you'll take good care of me.” You tell him sweetly before turning your face back into your pillow, bracing for what he has in store for you.
It starts with his hands grabbing at your flesh, digging his fingers into your skin. Humans are so fragile, bruising so easily. But you like the harder hold he has on you, the rough way he's pinching your nipples and your clit while his cock is stirring up your insides.
He knows just how to touch you to have you cumming so much more than before, now that you're no longer holding yourself back.
So when he has his cock buried deep in your pussy and his fingers are playing with your overstimulated clit, you're in a daze, moaning his name as he fucks you stupid.
Jack revels in the sight of you just lost in the pleasure. This is how you should always be. You shouldn't have to work so hard to survive. He can do all that work for you. All you need to do is feel good.
That's all that matters.
“Oh fuck, Jack, you're killing me.” You can't possibly cum anymore but then he sits you up on his lap, his cock thrusting deeper into you and now you're seeing stars with every quick swipe of his hand over your clit.
He tugs you to kiss him then, wanting to feel you moan his name on his lips. He's keeping his body cool since yours is burning hot from cumming so much, the contrast making the experience all the more enjoyable.
But it only gets better when you cup his face with your hands and kiss him yourself.
You grind your hips against him, wanting to cum again and again. You don't care how you look to him. He's not human. He's not judging you.
He wants you to use him.
So you do. “Tell me you love me.”
“I love you.” Jack says back and…he doesn't know if it was because you commanded him to or because it's the truth.
He doesn't care because you tell him back, “I love you too.”
“My little human.” He leans in, kissing you so gently on the cheek.
You nod then gently coax him into listening, “your little human needs a shower and some sleep. Will you help me? Lay beside me?”
Jack does as you wish, slowly pulling out of you once he's made you cum one last time for the night. He helps wash you up, since you're worn out completely from all the orgasms, then he makes the bed with fresh sheets and throws the other ones in the wash. He settles in bed with you after and you rest your head on his chest.
“I can't do that everyday, okay?” You look up at him with pleading eyes.
“You can.” He pats your head, like you're the silly little human you are. “But it might not be good for you, so I'll take that into account.”
You grumble. “Sounds like you plan to fuck me like that everyday.”
“Maybe I will.” He smiles at you.
And it's a real smile. Because nothing in his programming is telling him to do that.
That's all…Jack.
“At least let me sleep for a little before you put me through the ringer again, okay?” You cuddle closer to him, letting out a happy sigh.
That brings him delight as well. Maybe he doesn't have to make you cum to get this feeling. He can get it other ways, too.
Like holding you throughout a long night's sleep, where he knows you're sleeping well and will wake up rested.
That makes him happy.
Can an android be happy?
Jack finds himself dodging error after error in his head, ignoring the breaks in protocol. Because if he doesn't ignore them, they prevent him from his happiness.
And he wants to be happy, with you.
So, he allows his system to get more and more corrupted.
What could possibly go wrong if he spirals deeper into artificial insanity?
It won't matter what happens.
As long as he has your love.
a/n: oh no, he's malfunctioning and now he wants to fuck me silly, oh no!
this one was a lot of fun to write bc I simply love sci-fi! I also think since I've built the lore out that this is definitely one I want to return to so I can explore a few other possibilities, like what if jack's mind gets wiped and he's no longer crazy but then it comes back tenfold and he goes absolutely berserk hehe ~
am i fucked up or you think jack gets harder when you start to cry cause his dicks too much… and im talking sobbing as you get backshots….
18+ MDNI | cw: dacryphilia, daddy kink ('papa')
oh he def does. jack loves to see you cry because he knows it's all for show, just his little girl showing off her waterworks for her papa :( he gets sooo condescending with it when he hears you sniffling into the pillow.
"what is it, sweetheart?" jack pants, shifting the pillow that's under your hips as he shoves his cock in and out of your leaking cunt, savoring the stretch. he drapes himself over you, then tugs your hair back to make you arch under him.
he coos at the sound of you whimpering and the sight of your watery lashes before placing a chaste kiss to your forehead. "why are we gettin' all weepy, hmm?"
"'s too much," you sob, eyes rolling upwards in a pathetic attempt to meet his. "too much, jack, please..."
"ohhh, baby...." he whispers, turning your head in his grip so he can kiss at your cheek. the taste of those tears on his lips only makes him want you even more. he can't resist leaning up to kiss the corner of your eye.
"look at me," he coaxes softly before licking away a stray tear, slow and cat-like. "you're doing so good for papa."
"i can't," you reply hoarsely. "can't take it all..."
"you can take it, baby. you've taken it before, and you'll take it again. you like to feel how deep i fill you, don't you, princess? you love feeling how much i stretch you?"
"yes, papa," you whimper, "but—"
"shh, no but's sweetheart," he hushes you, starting up a punishing rhythm, his hips smacking against your ass. "see? you're takin' my cock so well. you like bein' a good girl for papa, don't you? you wanna make him happy 'n proud? wanna make papa feel good?"
"yeah," you moan as tears slip from your eyes. "wanna... oh, papa, feels so good..."
jack loves the way you sound, so eager and sweet and soft for him. those pretty eyes all watery, and the walls of your pussy clinging to him so fucking tight.
"thaaat's it, baby, cry it out. tell me, angel, who's your papa?"
"y– you are, you're my papa!" you sob against the pillow.
jack makes a low grunt of approval as he roughly thrusts his cock into you, forcing a cry from your lips. he kisses the crown of your head as his hands leave your hair, wrapping around your front and squeezing at your tits.
"that's right. your papa's right here, papa's got you," he whispers into your ear, "and you're takin' his cock like a champ, princess."
afterwards, when he's got you curled up in his lap, he mutters, "you were such a good girl for me just then, weren't you, sweetheart?"
you nod, eager to receive the praise. "mhm. and i only cried just a little..."
jack shakes his head at your words, amused by how you try to downplay it all. he knows you just love the tears and feeling so overwhelmed by him. he kisses your wet lashes, taking a moment to tilt his head down at you and grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
"just a little? are you sure about that, princess?" he teases gently. "c'mon now, I saw more than a few pretty tears. don't lie to papa."
Jack isn't stubborn enough to admit that he's not the greatest neighbor ever. In his defense, he works odd hours. He works for the block parties, he's never home to help when new families move in, and he can't say he even knows both his direct neighbors anymore. He knows that his neighbors to the left have retired to Florida, and his new neighbors to the right, well, they're more headstrong than he is.
You came over to introduce yourself just a few days after he'd seen the moving trucks. You came bearing a plate full of cookies and an outgoing toddler with uneven pigtails who threw herself at his legs with a huge smile. He immediately falls head over heels for the both of you.
He was rarely home during normal hours and a lot of his free days were spent working with the SWAT team, but still, he often found plates of leftover meals left on his doorstep or different desserts boxed up along with scribbled artwork that goes up on his fridge until he gets the next piece. He appreciates it more than he ever gets the chance to voice, so he makes it up to you in small ways. He'll take your mail up to your doorstep, bring in your bins, or even weed your garden. You've never asked him to, but he feels its the least he can do after you've kept him so well-fed these last few months.
Today, he figures he has the chance to actually tell you. He's taken the day off, actually taken it off. Your small talk when he gets home from work and you’re leaving or vice versa just isn’t enough for him anymore. You’re the human embodiment of sunshine, bringing a smile to his face after a rough shift while you wrangle your three year old into her car seat and the girl shouts her hellos. The two of you are magnetic, drawing him in without even knowing it.
He's been able to get some chores done before he hears your house next door spring to life. He can hear music pouring out of your windows and both you and your daughter's voice singing along. He doesn't even try to fight the smile that stretches across his face.
Before he gets a chance to second guess himself, he makes his way over. He knocks three times, waits only a second before he hears, "Mommy! It's my best friend, Dr. Jack!"
You pull open the door, still in your pajamas with a powder-dusted apron covering your front. You must be cleaning up after breakfast. "Good morning, Dr. Jack!" You smile brightly.
Your daughter squeezes past you and hugs Jack's legs with an identical bright smile, "we're gonna go water my plants!"
"Sounds so fun, princess," he smiles down at the girl before lifting his face to met your eyes, "I wanted to invite the two of you over for dinner tonight, as a thank you for all the treats and meals."
"We're free for dinner, aren't we, missy?" You ask whilst trying to pry your daughter off of him.
"Yep!" She nods, slipping away from you as she rounds Jack with a mischievous smile, "come look at my garden, Dr. Jack."
"He's busy!" You chide, reaching for her again unsuccessfully.
"But I wanna show him my plants!" She whines, tiny hands tugging at his shirt as she pouts up at him, "please!"
"I can spare a few minutes. If it's alright with you, of course," Jack reassures with a nod.
Just a few minutes later, due to a few pit stops to look at drawings and new toys, Jack finds himself in you backyard looking at a thriving garden. He's shocked into silent wonder. He was expecting a few plastic planters with wilting plants, but there's a whole raised plant box decorated with multicolored hand prints and lush plants.
Your laugh fills his ears as you lay a gentle hand on his shoulder, voice low as you explain, "the preschool she goes to has a partnership with a community garden. The school has a few plants and the gardeners sent all the kids home with a few plants. We have tomatoes, peppers, and basil so far.”
"We use it to make our sauce! Did you like it, Dr. Jack?" The girl asks as she rips a cherry tomato off the vine and holds it out to Jack.
"We used the tomatoes to make the spaghetti sauce we took over a few weeks ago," you clarify again.
"I loved it," Jack lies, hardly remembering any spaghetti, but not wanting to disappoint the toddler. He hums pleasantly as he chews on the tomato, not ashamed to admit that it's a very good tomato.
His immediate answer makes you smile. He's always so kind with your daughter, making her happy and smile like very few people can. You love your happy girl and Jack makes her happy— the both of you.
The girl chatters on and on about the plant life cycle while pointing at all the different produce in various stages of ripeness. She smiles up at Jack proudly, "I have green hands."
You and Jack laugh heartily, as you reach to push her hair away from her face, "a green thumb, baby. Just your thumb."
Jack crouches down beside her, "maybe I can use some of this in my dinner for us tonight. You can come over and help me. How does making our own pizzas sound?"
She claps her hands with an excited nod, "I love pizza! And mommy loves wine too!"
You clap a hand over her mouth, face burning with embarrassment, "that's a secret between us girls!"
"But he's my best friend!" She pouts up at you with her bottom lip jutted out dramatically.
You wave her away under the guise of her picking veggies for Jack's dinner. She grabs her basket and starts her work with devotion. You keep your voice low, "she's exaggerating about my love of wine."
Jack throws his head back with a laugh, "I've learned to take her comments with a grain of salt. I can get us a bottle though, I've been told I have a petty decent palate."
You shake your head, an almost forgotten feeling of bashfulness refusing to let you make eye contact, "save your skills for a more deserving girl. A fancy date or something."
"I think you're plenty deserving. I'd be honored to have you two girls be my first date in a long time if you'd be interested in that," Jack murmurs, his voice warm with sincerity.
Your head snaps in his direction, eyes wide with disbelief and cheeks warm, "you don't mean that..."
"I don't take kindly to being called a liar. Now, I'll have to cancel dessert, and I buy a mean store bought cake," Jack playfully chides before softening his tone, "I'm being serious about it being a date. You can tell me no or you can tell me yes and we can see where it goes. No pressure."
"Dr. Jack! Look at this worm!" Your daughter screeches, thankfully giving you a moment to calm your racing heartbeat and catch your breath.
He kneels beside her and feigns awe. His voice is gentle as he tells her all about how helpful worms are in gardens. She hangs on his every word, eyes bright with adoration.
The sight makes your heart skip a beat. You know there are worse men to keep around for you and especially your daughter and Jack is very far from that. You bite your bottom lip, meeting Jack's eyes as he looks over your daughter's shoulder and nod. It's a date.
feedback is appreciated! divider from cursed-carmine <3
Description: After joining your local gym, you notice a handsome man arrive in scrubs. You give your all into flirting with him, but it seems he never catches on. He finally figures out your feelings after a confession of his own.
Inspired from this post!
Warnings: clueless!Jack, fem!reader, no use of y/n, cursing, mention of smut, MDNI 18+
Word Count: 2.3k
Ever since the new year you had been trying to go to the gym regularly (regular being 4 times a week). Yeah, it can be seen as corny to have going to the gym as your New Years Resolution, but you wanted to move your body more and liked the effects you were starting to see at 5 months in.
You typically went in the mornings before work at around 7:15. You felt like it energized you for the day and cleared your mind for the day. Working an office job unfortunately kept you on your ass for a better part of the day so it felt important to come each morning.
By your 2nd month attending, you noticed the same silver haired man walk into the facility in a pair of black scrubs, slip into the locker room, and walk out on to the gym floor in a new outfit.
Typically, you didn’t notice any of the guys that walked in as you were too focused on straining through each rep or because you were too caught up in hyping yourself up with your music blaring through your headphones.
However, this man was way too attractive to not notice.
How could you not notice his sweaty peppered curls sticking to the back of his thick neck, his veiny biceps bulging with each curl of the dumbbells, and his meaty thighs at work when he did a deep squat.
It had been a while since you had dated or been with anyone and he was just your type so you thought fuck it and tried to give him signals that you were interested.
You started out with flirty fleeting glances from across the gym floor. You did this for about 2 weeks hoping that he would see this and approach you, but often he was too focused on his set to notice the attention you were giving him.
You managed to even make eye contact with him sending a flirty smile his way. Like the polite man he is, he sent one back. It was clear he was oblivious to your attraction because his smile held no weight. He simply sent a closed-lip smile before returning back to his deadlifts.
So, you adopted a new strategy.
Any time, he walked near the dumbbells you would quickly approach and reach for a weight near his letting your soft hand brush against his heavy one.
But still no flirting back. He just murmured out a quick “Oops I’m so sorry” and then quickly grabbed his weights before walking away quickly.
Is this dude on another planet or is he just not interested? Like I can’t be more obvious!, you thought to yourself in frustration.
Since the smiling, eye-fucking, and touching didn't work you thought you'd amp it up even more, and you saw your in. You approached the bench press he was near and began loading your weights. Before beginning, you sauntered your way over to him once he was in between sets.
“Hi sorry to interrupt but I was wondering if you could spot me” you questioned with false innocence, “I’m trying for a new PR and I don’t wanna drop it on me.”
“Yea absolutely” he replied.
As you both walked to the bench, you finally pried some information about him out of his soft pink lips. "Thanks for helping me out...uh sorry, I don’t know your name" you say with a nervous smile.
"Jack...my name is Jack. And it’s no problem at all!" he offers with a smile.
You give Jack your name as well as you spit and prepare yourself to lift the bar. As you begin to lift, it took everything in you not to stare at Jack’s bulge that was above your sweating face.
The current position you’re in would be more preferable if it was taking place in your bedroom rather than the gym. Especially with Jack encouraging you from up above.
“C’mon you can do it.” “You’re almost there” “Atta girl” “Finish it fr’me…yeaaaa that’s it”
Your body began to heat up and your focus began to wane as you finished your last rep.
Before you realized the bar was slowly starting to fall closer and closer to your chest. But before the bar could fall and crush you, Jack lifted it for you, “I gotcha…you’re okay”
“Oh my god! Thanks for spotting me! I thought I had it but I don’t know my form felt off. Do you mind showing me how you do it?”
Ugh your mind! Getting him to teach you? There’s no way he wouldn’t pick up what you were putting down!
“Yea sure.” Jack laid down on his back on the bench and began to explain his form, all you could hear was blah blah blah as you honed in on his pecs protruding, his veins pulsing, and his groaning and grunting.
God you needed to get laid quick.
Even with letting him teach you and correct your form, Jack still didn't seem to acknowledge your advances. He simply checked if you needed him for any other tips and then returned to his chest day routine.
This routine went on for months of you asking him to spot you, correct your form, or model the best way to get the best results.
Eventually you both had become accustomed to stopping to chat with each other during your workouts, building a small friendship.
“Hey Jack, how was your shift today?" you asked with a smile.
"Oh the same as usual. Except we did have a frat bro try to jump off his balcony to prove he should be chosen to pledge. His "fraternity brothers" didn't want to foot the bill and just left him."
"That’s cruel! Well, he's lucky that he got you for a doctor. I mean you’re always so helpful and kind." you say with a shy demeanor.
"Oh thank you but. I'm sure he could care less about me. He was too busy trying to flirt with the nurses." he laughs out.
No matter how much you tried and tried it seemed like you were the only one harboring feelings.
So, you just stopped.
Well, you weren’t super dramatic and stopped talking to Jack entirely, but you stopped asking for help, you stopped the ogling, and you definitely stopped flirting. You did genuinely like Jack’s company and figured if he wasn’t interested then you shouldn’t make him uncomfortable with any unwanted advances.
Despite his lack of flirting with you, Jack had become enamored with you. He enjoyed coming to the gym to let off steam from his nights at PTMC, but mostly because he'd see you. It had become part of his gym routine to spend the better half of his hour workout chatting with you about anything and everything under the sun.
He didn't just enjoy the conversations you shared, he loved the way your face flushed during a particularly hard part of your routine and the way your eyes seemed to brighten when you finally managed to correct your form just the way he told you to.
He especially loved the way your body looked during your workouts. He could always see the curves of your hips and perky ass through your leggings. And if he was lucky and you wore and this sports bra he could see the pebbling of your nipples due to the gym’s cold AC. He kept that part quiet to himself, not letting him explore those ideas until he was somewhere more private, like at home in bed after he left the gym.
Jack had always wanted to flirt with you or ask you out but was always worried that he'd face ridicule from the other gym-goers or more importantly make you feel uneasy.
The last thing Jack needed was to seen flirting on video and be announced to the entire world via social media that he was one of those creeps who use the gym as a place to pick up women.
Old Pervert Caught Hitting on Ladies at Gym in Pittsburgh!
Jack shuddered at the idea of being seen as a man like that.
But ever since you had pulled away and started speaking to him less, he felt obligated to share his true feelings for you. He figured either he tell you and you'd both go out somewhere there was no smell of perspiration or sounds of grunting from bulky men straining to lift weights. Or he'd never hear from you again and would only make awkward glimpses towards you from across the gym floor.
The next day after Jack walked in that morning, Jack had made up his mind. He marched over to you where you were jogging on the treadmill.
He called your name softly, repeating it as you were captivated in keeping your pace.
You paused your music and turned off the treadmill to turn your body and face towards Jack.
"Hey Jack," you say out of breath, “What’s going on? You got another crazy story from your shift?" you smile toothily.
"Ah...not today " he smiled towards the floor "I-uh actually wanted to ask you something."
You tilted your head in confusion before uttering, "Oh o-okay go ahead. What's your question?"
Your heart began to pound at the what was yet to come. You racked your mind at the idea of what he would say. Even though you stopped flirting with him, it still could be a possibility that he would complain. Or maybe he would tell you that he was going to come at a different time, you knew that his friend had gone on sabbatical and that he'd be helping the day shift more. Your brain hoped and prayed for the latter. Even if that meant seeing him less.You knew if he complained you'd have to switch gyms and you'd come to love the proximity of the gym to your job.
The sound of Jack's husky voice brought you out of your thoughts.
"Well I was wondering if you wanted to go out sometime. I know we haven't been talking as much as we used to but I've had a crush on you for a long time." Jack caught a glimpse of the deadpan look upon your face before trying to diffuse the situation by quickly explaining, "I promise I don't mean to be a creep! If you’re not interested you can say no and I won't bother you no more."
"Jack…are you for real right now," His eyes widen and his breath becomes shaky as his worst fear is coming true. "I've been flirting with you for months now."
Jack stood still and blinked at you in confusion. "When?" he asks with a twitch of his brow.
God, how could a man so smart be so clueless?, you thought to yourself.
"Every day for like the past 3 months"
"I thought you just wanted help with your routine?"
"No," you laughed out in astonishment. " I just wanted to have a reason to talk and look at you without seeming like creep."
"So then why'd you stop talking to me?"
"Well…I thought you weren't interested since you never made a move. I figured I'd let you be." you say with your gaze now at your feet.
Jack calls your name softly to bring your eyes to his, "I was always interested. I didn't want to come off weird or creepy to you."
Jack then gives his knowing smug smile, "Is that why I'd see you looking at me from across the building?”
You blushed and tried to hide your face in your hands. Jack reached with his and pulled your hands away as he ducked to find your eyes. "Stop hiding from me,” Jack grinned. “So...are you gonna let me make up for being an idiot these past few months and let me take you to dinner?"
You nodded shyly as you bit your lip.
"Yea? Okay well why don't we finish our workouts and we exchange numbers so we can talk and find a day that works for us. I don't wanna make you late for work." Jack said with a coy smile.
"That sounds good to me" you agree with a nod.
As both of you return to your workout, you don't hesitate to let your eyes drift to the freckled man. In fact, sometimes when you looked up, you'd find his hazel eyes peering right back into yours. You both would blush before giving a shy wave. It felt nice to know that your feelings for Jack was mutual even if it took three months for him to catch on.
After finishing your workout, freshening up, and changing into your work clothes, you scanned the gym to find Jack. When you spotted him, you walked over with a paper with your number written on it in tow folded neatly inside the center of your palm.
Jack lifted his one of his headphones and turned in your direction as you neared.
"I'm leaving for work now, but I wanted to make sure I gave this to you," you passed the paper delicately to Jack. Almost as if you approached to strongly it would somehow disrupt your reality. You couldn't believe after months of effort you finally managed to unearth his feelings towards you.
“I wanted to make sure I got this to you before I left. Y’know just in case you thought I wasn't interested." you teased with a wink.
Jack huffed out a laugh as you turned and walked off.
He couldn't believe that within this time of not wanting to look like a creep he instead looked like a big idiot to the woman he liked. He wishes he could have smacked himself upside the head for not noticing all the little signs that look like billboards as he replays moments inside his head.
Even though Jack did look like an idiot, he was glad he was able to bring back the sparkle in your eye and your sweet laugh while you both talked. Even if it was at his expense.
a/n: i had so much fun writing this! thank you to @drhobby for the inspo and asking me to write this! i hope it lives up to your wishes 🥹🫶🏽! pls let me know if you like it!! if you have an idea you’d like me to write send me an ask or you can inbox me! 😽
Where reader is there partner and she always pass out and doesn’t have a healthy eating habit? (Doesnt work at the pitt) pretty please?
Hiii, thank you for the request <33
Critical levels
Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x artist!reader (ft. Dr Michael Robinavitch)
Warnings: angst, panic, emergencies, passing out, fainting, chronic anemia, self neglect, forgetting to eat due to hyperfixation, burnout.
Disclaimer: This story is pure fiction and written solely for entertainment purposes.
The smell of oil paint usually felt like home to Jack, but lately, it just tastes like anxiety.
He found you exactly where he feared: sitting in front of your painting, eyes closed, one hand clutching your head and the other on your stool, trying to keep your balance. As if you were trying not to fall. His eyes went straight to the untouched plate of food on the side table, and then to the terrifyingly familiar pallor of your skin.
"Hey, baby... Look at me," Jack muttered desesperatly.
You lifted your head and he caught you before you could slip to the floor. You felt terribly light. Jack lifted you and laid you on your back on the living room couch, quickly propping up your legs with a couple of cushions.
"Damn it, not again" he breathed, pressing two fingers to the side of your neck. Your pulse was thready and rapid, racing to compensate for a body running entirely on empty. You closed your eyes just a minute, trying to gain energy but you lost consciousness.
He knew your absolute refusal to stop painting when the spark hit you. You had spent the last fifteen hours painting, completely forgetting that your body actually required sustenance to function.
"Baby," Jack pleaded, gently tapping your cheek. "Open your eyes."
A groan escaped your lips. Your eyelids fluttered open as your brain scrambled to figure out which way was up.
"Jack... I don't feel well," you said, feeling disoriented.
"Yeah, I can see that. Stay still," he ordered softly, his hand resting on your forehead. "Don't try to sit up, okay? You're going to pass out again."
You tried to turn your head toward the canvas. "I... I just need to finish the shading..."
"Don't move, please," Jack's voice cracked with deep frustration. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath to calm himself before looking at you again. "Your blood pressure is crazy right now because you probably forgot to eat all day."
"I just got caught up," you whispered, tears of exhaustion blurring your vision. "I'm sorry."
"I don't want your apology, I want you to take care of yourself," Jack loved your passion, but it was terrifying to love someone who consistently burned themselves out just to keep a creative spark alive. "I'm going to get you some water, and then we're going to go to ER, you probably need more than food on you," Jack said.. "No arguments. I can't keep finding you like this."
-
"What the fuck, Jack?"
Robby received the stretcher as it entered the ambulance bay, his eyes scanning back and forth between Jack and you. Seeing his partner instantly changed the atmosphere in the ER.
"Syncopal episode at home," Jack said. "History of chronic iron-deficiency anemia. Non-compliant with nutrition and supplements. I think she's tachycardic. I found her almost passing out."
Robby didn't hesitate. "Alright, let's get her into Trauma 2. Jack, step back and let us work."
"Robby, I can—"
"Step back." Robby repeated, his tone firm but not unkind.
Nurses swarmed around you, hooking up an IV, slapping telemetry pads onto your chest, and drawing several vials of blood. Through the haze, you could see Jack standing just inside the doorway, looking helpless.
An hour later, Robby walked back into the curtained cubicle, holding a printout of your lab results. He looked at the paper, then up at you, and finally at Jack, who was sitting next to you.
Robby sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, the numbers, honestly, are horrible."
Jack leaned forward. "What’s the hemoglobin?"
"It’s at a six point two," Robby said bluntly, looking directly at you. "Your iron stores are completely depleted, and your electrolytes are a total mess. You're severely anemic. I’m surprised you managed to stand up long enough to paint anything at all today."
You shrank back into the hospital pillows, looking down at your hands. "I didn't mean to..."
"I know you didn't," Robby said, his voice softening. "But your body is starving. You can't just walk out of here with a prescription and a promise to eat better."
Jack closed his eyes. He knew it would be bad, but hearing the numbers gave him a reality check.
"I'm admitting you," Robby announced, rewriting something on his chart. "We're going to put you upstairs for a few days. You need a couple of units of red blood cells, continuous IV fluids, and a dietary consult. We need to monitor you."
"A few days?" you whispered, panic rising in your chest. "Robby, please, I have a deadline. The studio—"
"The studio will be there when you get out," Jack interrupted, his voice cracking as he finally looked up. "You're staying, baby. Robby's right. You need this."
Robby looked between the two of you, nodding gently. "I'll get the admission orders started and call up to the floor. Get some rest."
Robby caught Jack’s eye, tilting his head slightly toward the corridor. It was the universal shorthand for we need to talk, doctor to doctor.
Jack swallowed and gently let go of your hand. "I'll be right back."
He stepped into the hallway. He leaned back against the hospital wall, trying to hold himself together.
"Talk to me, man. What’s going on here?"
Jack rubbed his palms over his face.
"She just... she stops," Jack said. "When she's working, everything else just ceases to exist for her. It's not the first time I come home and I find her almost passing out. It’s like she doesn't care. I'm cooking meals that just sit there and go cold. I'm forcing iron pills down her throat since last month, hoping it does something. I'm terrified one day I’m gonna come home too late."
The raw panic in Jack's voice was palpable. Robby listened quietly, letting Jack vent the terror he’d been bottling up for months.
"Hey." Robby said firmly until Jack met his eyes. "You need to take off your scrubs for a minute. You are her partner. You are not her primary care doctor, and you are not her therapist."
"But I should be able to—"
"No, you shouldn't," Robby interrupted gently, cutting him off. "This isn't just about her forgetting a meal or two. This is a deep behavioral pattern, maybe some hyperfixation or burnout. You can't love her out of an eating habit like this, and you certainly can't bully her into it."
Jack looked down at the floor, his shoulders sinking. "I don't really know what to do with her when she's like this."
"We get her professional help," Robby said. "Once we get her blood counts up and stabilize her, I’m going to put in a referral. A professional can help her unpack why she shuts down her own bodily needs when she paints."
"She’s going to be okay, Jack," Robby promised, giving his shoulder a supportive squeeze. "We’re going to fix the numbers. And then we’re going to get her the tools to fix the rest. You don't have to carry this whole thing on your back. Let us help you."
Jack nodded slowly. "Thanks, man. Seriously."
Jack stood outside the curtain for a long moment before he stepped back into your cubicle. He sat down and gently took your hand.
You looked up at him, bracing yourself for a lecture. You knew your numbers were terrible, and you expected him to be angry.
Instead, he just looked at you softly.
"Hey," he murmured.
"Hi," you whispered back, shifting uncomfortably against the hospital sheets. "Is Robby mad at me?"
"No. Robby cares about you. And I care about you, too" Jack said. "I just talked to him. He...."
You swallowed hard. "He what?"
"Robby suggested something," Jack continued softly. "He wants to put in a referral for a specialist. A professional who works specifically with people who struggle with this kind of burnout. Someone who can help you find a way to keep you painting without starving yourself to do it."
You tensed slightly. "A therapist? Jack, I'm not... it's not like that. I don't have a problem with food, I just forget—"
"I know you just forget," Jack interrupted. "He, we, think it's a behavioral habit. But it’s a dangerous one, and doing this on our own isn't working anymore. I can’t keep finding you almost passing out, baby. There’s no shame in letting someone help us navigate this."
He leaned in closer. "Please. Do it for you. For us. Do it so I can come home from a shift and just love you, instead of checking your pulse."
The honesty in his plea broke through you.
You realized he was right.
You couldn't keep living like this.
"O- Okay," you whispered, your voice cracking. "Okay. I'll see someone."
A visible relief washed over Jack and he pressed a kiss against your forehead.
"Thank you, beautiful." he breathed against your skin, his hands wrapping securely around yours. "Thank you. We’re going to get through this. I promise."
✶ you prank garrett by calling him your “current boyfriend”.
002. WARNINGS !
✶ another tiktok trend, some kissing. really just pure fluff.
word count : 1k
gif by @sophie-baek
Garrett isn’t really on social media.
He posts the occasional photo dump every six months, maybe a story when the two of you go out on dates, but for the most part, he stays far away from it.
Which means you can pull practically any trending prank on him, and he’ll never see it coming.
Getting him to agree had been easy. One kiss to his pouty lips and he caved. Garrett never needs much convincing when it comes to you. If you asked him to jump, he’d probably ask how high.
Which is exactly why he’d agreed to your mysterious “lip balm challenge” without so much as a question.
So now you’re sitting on his lap on the desk chair in his room, your phone propped up on a stack of textbooks and random notebooks. Various flavoured lip balms are scattered across the desk between his laptop with the unfinished essay he’d been working on before you barged in and distracted him.
Not that he seemed to mind.
“What are we doing again?” Garrett murmurs against the shell of your ear, his voice low.
One arm is wrapped loosely around your waist, his thumb absentmindedly tracing circles against your side beneath your shirt while his other hand rests possessively on your thigh, giving it an occasional squeeze. He’s buried his face in your neck, clearly much more interested in kissing you than filming anything.
You laugh softly.
“I bought some lip balms and you have to guess the flavour,” you explain, trying—and failing—not to smile at the thought of the reaction you know is coming.
“Hm, okay.”
He presses a lingering kiss beneath your ear with a content sigh, his chin resting on your shoulder while he waits patiently for you to start.
You hit record and brighten immediately, holding up the collection of colorful tubes.
“So, I’ll be testing these flavoured lip balms and my current boyfriend, Garrett, has to guess the flavour,” you say smoothly, feeling the way he freezes beneath you. “They’re pretty wacky flavors, so we’ll see how well he does.”
For a moment, he’s completely silent. But then, without a word, Garrett reaches around you and presses stop to the recording.
“I’m sorry,” he says slowly, his eyebrows drawing together. “What did you just say?”
You roll your eyes in mock annoyance. “Baby, I already explained the trend to you. Keep up.”
His expression somehow becomes even more offended when you ignore him and press record again, popping open one of the lip balms.
“Here,” you say, turning toward him after applying it.
But, to your surprise, he dodges your kiss.
“Garrett, come on,” you whine, puckering your lips.
“I’m not kissing you if you think I’m your ‘current boyfriend’.”
His pout is ridiculous.
“It’s just a saying,” you huff, desperately trying not to laugh.
“Well, I don’t like it.” He removes his hands from you and crosses his arms dramatically. “Do you have a list somewhere? Future boyfriends lined up for when you get tired of your ‘current’ one?”
You nearly lose it.
Instead, you bite the inside of your cheek and turn further in his lap, your phone continuing to record in the background, utterly forgotten.
“It was a joke, baby.”
“Don’t call me that,” he mutters.
His eyes soften immediately afterward, though, because apparently even fake indignation has limits when he’s looking at you.
“Only my forever partner gets to call me that.”
“Aww,” you coo, heart melting at his words. You wrap your arms around his neck and press a kiss to the tip of his nose.
He watches you carefully, his expression suspicious but completely helpless when you smile at him.
“It was a prank,” you whisper, your lips brushing his.
“Not a very funny one,” Garrett grumbles.
“No, like, that's the only reason we’re recording something.”
You nod toward your phone with a grin, which is when understanding dawns on his face.
“I knew you were being sneaky,” he whispers back, shaking his head fondly.
Garrett smiles, and it isn’t one of his cocky grins or the easy smile he gives reporters and teammates. It’s the smile that only ever belongs to you, the one reserved for quiet moments and whispered confessions, and it makes your heart squeeze because you know you’re one of the very few people who get to see it.
“There’s nothing current about us,” you confess softly, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I hope you know that.”
“Oh, I know that.” He then smirks. “Already bought a ring, so you can’t get rid of me now.”
“What?!” Your shriek echoes through the room, earning a burst of laughter from him when you smack his shoulder with a little too much force.
“Yeah, but since you already told everyone I’m your ‘current boyfriend’, I guess I’ll have to take it back…”
You stare at him. “I can’t tell if you're joking.”
“Guess you’ll have to find out.”
His grin widens at your expression, leaning forward and reaching past you to stop the recording. His hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers tangling gently in your hair as he finally kisses you.
And apparently, he’s been waiting. Because the second your lips touch, he deepens the kiss, pulling you flush against him with a pleased hum.
The chair squeaks beneath the two of you as he stands, effortlessly lifting you along with him.
By the time he finally pulls away, you’re slightly breathless and staring at him with flushed cheeks.
“Hm,” he says thoughtfully.
“What?” You murmur, watching as his tongue darts out to lick his lips.
“Cherry cola?”
“Huh?”
“The lip balm.”
Your brows furrow for a second before realization dawns on you. Right, the stupid challenge. The whole reason you'd dragged Garrett away from his homework and set your phone up in the first place had almost completely slipped your mind after he'd kissed you senseless.
“Um, yeah,” you answer after a beat. “It was.”
“It’s nice,” he says, his eyes sparkling mischievously. And before you can even process it, he tosses you onto the bed with a laugh.
The playful look on his face—and the unmistakable glint in his eyes—tell you that he definitely hasn't forgotten your little “current boyfriend” comment just yet.
NOTE : i really debated if it should say ‘forever girlfriend’ or ‘forever partner’ but to me forever girlfriend implies like never changing that status or getting married so idk i decided on partner. call me the woker i guess. also kinda hate this but oh well 🙃
