⭒ 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.
in which during your first week of living in pittsburgh, you manage to land yourself right into their busy ER. what you didn't plan on, was your ex-boyfriend being the attending.
warnings some bad language, probs medical inaccuracies lol. nothing else really, a bit of weak angst, that's all <3 ps. NO AI used, i just like em dashes!!!!!
word count; 2.4k
masterlist
Landing yourself into the ER on your first week in Pittsburgh hadn’t been ideal. However, that’s what you get when you attempt home DIY projects alone.
”The scans showed us it’s only a hairline fracture.” The doctor smiled at you, as he calmly instructed a student doctor how to proceed with treatment. ”We’re going to wrap up your ankle just to keep it stable.”
You nodded, feeling utterly stupid. Your father had promised to come by during the weekend to help you nail the bookshelf to the wall, so it won’t accidentally tip over. But you were impatient— climbing an unsteady stepstool, which resulted in the fall that landed you in here.
”And we advise to keep weight off of it for 6-8 weeks. We’ll provide crutches, which we reccommend you use for the first 2-6 weeks. For the first 48 hours you should use R.I.C.E. And that is…what, Doctor Toomarian?”
The student doctor stilled for a moment, before smiling at you, ”Rest, ice, compress and elevate. That’ll help with swelling and pain. Over the counter medication is also a good help.”
The older doctor nodded, arms crossed over his chest, “Do you have someone who can pick you up? You shouldn’t be driving a car for atleast a little while, the foot is a little too sensitive for all that.”
“Oh, I can call an Uber, yeah.” You nodded. You had no one here. Your parents were going to visit this weekend, but you weren’t planning on sitting in the ER waiting room for the next day, obviously. An Uber will do just fine.
After Doctor Toomarian finished wrapping your ankle, she gave you a small smile, “We’ll keep you for just a little, to make sure the rest of the meds we gave you have a chance to settle, and then I’ll handle the discharge papers with you, ma’am.”
You gave them your thank you’s, and quickly both doctors slipped out of the room, leaving you on your own. The door was still open– not that you mind. Sitting alone in the quiet could’ve made you go crazy. The small buzz and noise of the ER is a nice fill to the silence.
Taking your phone into your hand, you sent off a quick text to both you parents, knowing they’d notice the crutches when they came to visit. And this way, by the time they actually get here, the whole panic phase of your injury would be over. You love your parents, truly, but they can go a little overboard when you’re hurt.
Easily an hour passed, a kind nurse stopped by to give you some water, and tell you that you’ll get out of there soon– everyone is just a little busy. Which you could also tell, considering doctors were hurrying up and down the ER floor constantly. Yeah, maybe you moved the bed a little closer to the door, so you could look. It’s like a hospital drama– for free!
Seeing the doctors at work made you appreciate them ten times more. They don’t have time to take breaks. You know exactly how badly rough shifts can affect a doctor who has worked too much for too long. That was what your ex was like. What made him join SWAT to be a medic, just so he could fill in the blank time he had between his hospital shifts. And you couldn’t take it. Seeing him hurt not only mentally, but physically too. It was always something. Bruised jaw from an unhappy patient, or his unability to sleep because his leg was in so much pain after shifts, because his prosthesis was chafing and rubbing the wrong way.
The final blow was when he came home with a gunshot wound. It just grazed me, he’d say. But you couldn’t take it anymore. Spending everyday worrying, whether he’d come back to you or not. If one of those nights, your goodbye kiss would be final.
So, you left. Packed your bags and moved back to your parents, trying to stabilize your life after uprooting everything. Three years later, you ended up here. Pittsburgh had always called to you. It’s also where you two wanted to move.
The throbbing in your ankle had thankfully settled down, a pair of crutches were prupped up by the side of your hospital bed. The thought of having to climb two sets of stairs to get to my apartment had you mentally reconsider everything, but you’d make it.
“Why is North 12 just sitting empty? Someone pick up a patient!” You heard a weirdly familiar voice call out in the hall, but you brushed it off. Lots of people sound similar. You couldn’t quite put your finger on who it sounded like, though. “We’re already flooding the waiting room, we need to pick up the– oh.”
A figure appeared in the doorway, just as the words died down. Your head turned, and it’s like time stood still. It was him. Jack Abbot. Your ex. Here. In Pittsburgh.
“Shit– sunflower? You– what the hell are you doing here?” Are the first words out of his mouth, as his entire brain recalibrates right in front of your eyes. Three years later, and he looks just as good.
Jack rushed forward, his eyebrows pressed into that cute, concerned furrow. The one he’d had many times before with you, over everything. Forgotten breakfasts, paper cuts…anything. His hand came to wrest on your wrapped ankle, clearly studying the work, mentally judging it. It seemed to be up to his standards, as he lowered your ankle carefully, turning to focus on you again.
“I can explain.” You mumbled awkwardly, still unsure of how to feel exactly. Your heartbeat had doubled, and your palms felt clammy. The last time you felt this nervous was for your first date with him. Three years, and he still manages to have that effect on you.
Jack pulled a chair closer, sitting down next to the bed, his eyes focused on yours. “How…how are you here? In Pittsburgh? I thought you moved back in with your parents. And I do believe there’s quite a few hospitals closer to them than this one.” A small smile quirked the corner of his lips, but it slowly fell.
It was an awkward situation. Yes, you two ended on good terms– well, as good terms as one can– but you never kept contact. Maybe the occasional check-up message, usually left unanswered, because going back there was too painful.
“I uh–” You cleared your throat, looking down at your hands, “Yeah, um. I just moved here, actually. To er– to Pittsburgh. Got uh– got a really good job here, so yeah. I was just…trying to mount a shelf to the wall, but my stepstool was old and unstable and well…the rest is history.”
Jack’s eyes never once left your face, as he listened to you stammer through your sentence. The same stammer you’d had the entire time you were together. He knew what it meant– whenever you were nervous or flustered, it came out. He loves it. Loved it. Whatever.
“You moved here?” His voice was quiet, followed with a small crack at the word ‘here’. He remembered. The late nights you two spent in bed, talking about moving to Pittsburgh, getting a beautiful house with a nice, big yard.
You nodded, forcing an awkward smile on your face, “Yeah.” Your hands awkwardly fiddled with the thin hospital blanket, eyes darting to his, and then falling back down to your hands. Eye contact with him was dangerous. Because Jack knows you. Knew you. Whatever. He’d see every emotion in your eyes immediately. And going down that path is dangerous.
“When did you move here?”
Jack sighed, head turning to the side, to look out to the open door, “Maybe a month after we…broke up. I got a nice apartment, and easily transferred over to be one of the attendings here. It’s a decent hospital. Nice area. Co-workers aren’t half bad either.”
It almost annoyed you. How calm and normal he was about this. You hadn’t seen each other in over three years. And he was acting like you two hadn’t seen each other in maybe a week. Like the whole break up hadn’t affected him at all. While you spent two months crying into your mothers shoulder at the mere mention of Jack.
It made you think. Was he dating someone new? Did your relationship maybe not mean as much to him as it did to you?
“That’s nice.” You forced a cheeriness to your voice, hands smoothing down the blanket, trying to find anything to do. “Uh…I’m supposed to get my discharge papers soon, so..”
An awkward silence fell over you two, and you hoped that Jack was picking up what you were putting down.
He wasn’t.
“I will personally make sure those get handled as soon as possible. I know sitting here is no fun.” He nodded, a small pursing of his lips following. He gently tilted his head to the side, trying to catch your eyes. But you seemed to be avoiding him like the plague.
Once again, you nodded. It seemed like it was all you could do. “Thanks. That’d be nice. I still have a lot of unpacking to do.”
Another silence fell over you two. Jack kept staring, and you could tell he was hesitating. It’s like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t know the exact words to use. You felt the same. For three years, you’ve held onto words that you wished you could say, and now that you actually have a chance to say them, nothing is coming out.
Jack had been the love of your life. You remember when you first started dating. He was only a first year resident at that point. His now-graying hair held more of the auburn than it does now. When the sun hit him right, his hair looked gorgeous. You remember the late mornings you’d spend together, since he was always gone for the nights. You remember how he made you laugh.
But you also remember how he made you cry. How he’d miss dinners all the time due to work. How he’d pick up more and more shifts, leaving barely any time for you two. You knew dating a doctor wouldn’t have been easy, but you also never knew how hard it would be. And you needed closeness, reassurance. Something he couldn’t offer you, no matter how much he wanted to.
Tears started burning the corners of your eyes, and you knew you couldn’t cry in front of him, god no. It’s been three years, and if this is the one time you get to see him, you don’t want it to be when you’re a sobbing mess. So, slowly, you started sitting up, getting ready to stand up off the bed, and go into the waiting room to wait for your discharge papers.
“I should go-”
“I still love you.”
Your heart plummeted into your ass. It’s a good thing you’re in a hospital, because you genuinely feel like you’re about to have a heart attack.
“I’m sorry. I did not mean to drop it on you like that.” Jack spoke quietly, getting up from the chair with a small groan, rounding the bed to your side, “But it’s true. I’ve been thinking about you the entire three years, sunflower. Not one day goes by where I regret letting you slip away from me.”
His hands reached out, gently hovering over your hands, giving you a chance to pull back. When you didn’t, he slowly cupped your hands in his palms. They were just as warm and rough as you remembered.
He slowly kneeled– something you just know hurt his leg– and looked up at you with that painfully addicting puppy-eyed look. The one he’d use whenever he apologized for messing up, or when he wanted something out of you. God, he’s good. His voice had lowered to that gentle tone, words ending in a soft whisper. How can you be mad at that?
No.
“Jack…” You whispered, hands resting limp in his, “We broke up for a reason. And considering you’re still here– still working twelve hour shifts, probably pulling that SWAT stuff too? It won’t work. I still think the same way I thought back then. I can’t be sitting in an empty house for over twelve hours everyday, wondering if my boyfriend is even alive.”
He nodded, eyes closing, his forehead gently resting against your knee. “I know, sunflower. Trust me, I know. I was an idiot back then, really. I had– shit, I had the best woman by my side, and I took her for granted. I was a jackass. That’s actually why I’m called Jack.”
His humor forced a choked laugh out of you, head tilting to wipe a stray tear off your shoulder. “Yeah. You…you really were a jackass. But I can’t do that again, Jack. It’s taken me a long time to heal, and I can’t go back to being that person again.”
“I understand.” He spoke softly, gently squeezing your hands, before standing up. “I’m…since you’re staying in Pittsburgh, maybe we could atleast have coffee some time? Just as friends, I promise. I’m not expecting anything more from you.”
Your jaw clenched for a moment. Yeah, being friends would be great. But, can your heart handle that? Can you be around the man you love, without letting him drag you back to him again.
It’s not like Jack was a bad boyfriend otherwise. When you two did have time for each other, he was perfect. But eventually, he stopped making time. You can’t handle going through that, not again. But Jack somehow had this magic way of slipping right under your ribs, holding your heart in his grasp.
Pulling your hands from his, you grabbed the crutches and carefully stood up, making Jack take a step back. The rejection hurt his soul, but he can’t blame you. He hadn’t been a good boyfriend, not a good man. He can’t expect a second chance.
“Can I atleast text you sometime?” He spoke quietly, watching you hobble towards the doorway. “Just a text. That’s all.”
You stilled, knuckles turning white from your grip on the crutches. No matter how hard you tried to resist, you knew that your heart still beat for him. That in every single universe, even if the odds were fully against you, you’d do anything to keep Jack Abbot in your life a little longer.
Turning your head, you looked at him from over your shoulder, unable to fight the small smile creeping up your lips. “Texts. That’s all, Dr. Abbot.” Not giving him a chance to respond, you walk out of the room, disappearing into the chaos of the ER.
Three years, and you still can’t let Jack Abbot go.
CW: reader is a bunny hybrid so she has ears and a fluffy tail! Reader x Jack abbot x Robby Robinivitch, small description of bunny coming from a bad shelter, a visitor at the shelter pulls her ear, MENTIONS OF FEELING SUICIDAL!!!! Only briefly mentioned when Robbys avoiding therapy. Pls be safe guys :(
݁ ˖Ი𐑼ֶָ֢
You were the runt.
The smallest of the herd and always the one getting pushed in the corner. It wasn't your fault though— the cage you resided in was never exactly tended to, always left in filth and only ever visited when the owners decided you needed food for once.
But thats all in the past now!
The icky shelter finally got shut down after a few months, all the bunnies including yourself had been transferred to a much much safer place. A therapy pet shelter where they take in animals and train them to become therapy pets for those in need. Which honestly just means they teach you not to nip at people and to give lots of love.
You had only been there about a week or two until your first visitors.
The anticipation having you thump your feet nervously as you chew on one of your donation toys in the corner of the play area (the place specifically for people to come visit the bunnies).
"c'mon man I really don't think sitting in a room with a stinky animal is gonna make me feel less suicidal"
A low toned muffle is heard from the other side of the door before it's gently opened. Your feet patter against the concrete as you skitter off to hide behind one of the small play houses.
"She's just a little shy, one of our more timid ones— but please enjoy your time and be gentle!"
The sweet employee's voice rings against the walls before you hear the door close, your nose twitching with anxiety as your breathing quickens
"Just try it okay? It's better than working on that death trap in your garage"
Another man's voice reaches your soft ears. This time a bit more scratchy but almost comforting? Hm I wonder why the heck other guy would rather be building dangerous stuff than be here—
Your thoughts are quickly interrupted by the sound of treats being shaken in a bowl.
Your ears perk up immediately.
The trainer had taught you about stuff like this— how the sound was usually affiliated with oh so sweet carrots and tasty things to munch on.
You slowwllyy peak around the corner, one ear tilted slightly as you finally see the two men in which the voices emanated from.
⊹ ˖ Ი𐑼
Ever Friday and Monday since then had been occupied by Robby and Jack's visits. No longer hearing the complaints from Robby after you had successfully made him smile by offering one of your carrots to him.
It was so fun everytime they came to visit!!
They always brought something new for you to munch on and Jack absolutely loved throwing your squishy toy across the room just to watch you run after it faster than the speed of a bullet. Robby usually just sat next to Jack though, not really talking much. But your trainer told you that just means they need extra attention! So obviously you spend most of the time with your chin perched on his knee when you're not busy playing with Jack.
Robbys callused hands gently pet the thin flesh of your ears before coming back up to scruff the top of your head. Repeating the motion consistently. He had been a little more quiet than usual today, feeling a small pang in his heart as he watched your nose twitch.
Before the two had come to visit you they had a long discussion.
"I want to get her out of there. She needs to have her own space"
Jack had been trying to convince Robby to co- adopt you for the past hour. Bringing up multiple points about how you always had to share with the other shelter bunnies and that you deserved your own clothes instead of donated ones. All the right words to make Robby feel guilty about you living there.
"we can't just adopt a living thing together jack. What're we gonna do about having to trade her back and forth? It's gonna be exhausting having to meet up and pack her stuff every week— and it's not healthy for her to keep moving spaces if you're trying to give her solid ground"
The whole situation carried in Robbys chest the whole day. Weighing him down because he knew jack was right. You deserved more than the shelter could give you, but he hated the thought of having to trade you off like some divorced couple.
⊹ ˖ Ი𐑼
Now that the shelter staff had seen you get along so well with jack and Robby they started having you do therapy for other groups too. Making your availability more public for new visitors. It startled you a bit when you heard the play room door open only to be greeted with a pair of grabby toddler hands-
A mom and dad who had brought in their infant to try to 'teach them' to be gentle with animals. You thump your feet loudly multiple times as the sticky little thing pulls at your ears, the parents only softly cooing 'no honey, go like this see? Gentle- gentle'. It only made you thump louder as tears pricked the corners of your eyelashes, the stupidly soft voice of the parents making you more aggitated because it was doing anything to soothe the death grip on the soft flesh of your ear. The child only letting out giggles at your harsh thumps.
⊹ ˖ Ი𐑼
The entire week had been filled with shitty visitors:(
Day after day of your ears being gripped and people not knowing how you liked to play so they assumed you weren't fun. The nights had been spent with tears streaming down your cheeks because you couldn't sleep properly with how sore your ears were from that stupid kid.
As Friday morning rolled around your heart raced with excitement, already knowing Jack and Robby would come to the rescue with a tasty new snack and actually gentle pets.
"You here sweet girl?"
Robby's voice immerses as the door gently opens up to reveal the two, Jack holding a small bag in hand as he trails behind Robby.
"Hii!! Hi hi hi" your voice comes out more high pitch than usual, filled with excitement.
You run stead fast into Robby, face nuzzling against his soft belly as your arms grip his jacket with force.
"woah there- what's up with you huh?"
Jack chuckles as he settles down in one of the chairs, watching you practically strangle Robby. Despite your strong grip on him he helps guide you towards the chair next to Jack, walking backwards as you remain clinged to the front of him.
Once settled in his seat he's loving on you with the same force.
"You just missed me didn't you sweetheart? Yeah you didddd, uh-huh"
his voice is low, cooing down at you condescendingly as he squeezes you back. The strength of his arms and the warmth of him making you erupt in giggles as your tail wiggles happily.
His large hands are rubbing all over you at a fast pace, knowing the physical contact was helping you release the pent up energy. He rubs all the way from the base of your spine to the top of your head, ruffling your hair playfully but stopping suddenly at the yelp and flinch from your small body. His hands immediately backing off as he searches you for any sign of injury.
"You okay?- tell me what hurts"
Jack's voice is soft and grounding as he sits up and leans towards the two of you to help Robby search for injuries. You tuck your face back into Robby's shirt, hiding the way your eyes started to well up with tears since Robby had touched your ears without knowing they were hurt.
"They started letting in other people to visit me..- n' this little kid was pulling at m' ears-"
Soft droplets of salted tears run down your cheeks unexpectedly, small hiccups interrupting your words as you clutch onto Robby's jacket a little harder.
Robbys immediately pulling you in, prying your small hands off his jacket so he can wrap it around you to shield you against his chest. Almost a makeshift burrow since it mimicked the feeling of a dark place that helped compress your nerves. He zipped it up all the way, leaving only your legs to dangle out as you sat on his lap. His hands rubbing over your back on top of the fabric as he kisses the top of your head, being mindful to avoid your soft ears.
He looks over to jack with a strong furrow in his brow, his voice coming out in a stern tone he had never used around you before. Not because he was trying to be mean with jack, but because he was so pissed at how easily other people could hurt you if you stayed here any longer.
"Go get the fucking adoption papers right now Jack."
ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐
A/N: this is the beginning of my bunny series so lmk what u guys think <3 I most likely won't be making the rest of the series this serious- I wanna aim towards silly drabbles and such, but this post is to help me get started.
summary after six months as the night shift's litigation handler, you finally get a night off with jack abbott. he cooks pasta, you ramble about stationery, and the date goes suspiciously well. (i fucking hate summaries bruh)
tags/warnings mdni! (18+, smut) age gap (mid 20s/mid 40s), lotta lawyer talk, bitta doctor talk, abbots dead wife mentioned :p, flirty silly, unprotected pnv, oral, handjob etc, the dayshift is betting on yall, first date and abbot can cook bc i said so. also abbot has sisters bc its fun. also reader is a dork and loves paper idk lol
wc 13.1k
could read as stand alone, part one (linger) here, part two (strawberry) here, part three (optics), part four (luck), part five (orbit)
Seven Months Earlier
"I've interned with both the VA and Children's Hospital of Pittsburgh."
Gloria nodded, making a note. "What was Children's like?"
You smiled politely. "Busy. Emotionally… complicated. It’s own kind of beast, I suppose."
She waited.
"Pediatrics is unique because you're rarely dealing with just one client. Legally speaking, you have the child, the parents or guardians, sometimes Child Protective Services, sometimes the state. Consent becomes complicated very quickly. Capacity, custody disputes, emergency exceptions..." You shrugged lightly. "You learn pretty quickly that medicine isn't actually, I guess, you know the difficult part. It's everyone around it. People are the complicated part."
Gloria smiled. "So you're comfortable with emotional people."
"I'd say I'm comfortable with frightened people."
"What's the difference?"
"Angry people usually want someone to blame." You folded your hands neatly in your lap. "I think that… scared people, they really just kind of need someone to explain what's happening."
Gloria's eyebrows lifted. She just nods. A good answer.
She glanced back down at your résumé.
"University of Pittsburgh Law. Law Review. Healthcare compliance clinic."
You nodded.
"And the VA?"
"I mostly handled EMTALA questions, which you’d be familiar with. Um, informed consent issues... occasional malpractice claims before litigation, risk-management investigations." You smiled apologetically. "Mostly a lot of document review."
"Not glamorous."
"It rarely is. But I’m a fan, admittedly."
Gloria chuckled politely. Hospital Administration is far from the glamour and prestige of participating in the medicine itself.
The office overlooked one of the main administrative corridors. Doctors, nurses, transport staff and administrators drifted constantly past the glass.
"PTMC's legal department is..." Gloria searched for the right word. "...busy.” She settles. “We're a Level One trauma centre. Every bad day in western Pennsylvania usually winds up here."
She folded her hands.
"When you’re assigned to a case, a doctor, you aren’t there to protect physicians. You understand that?”
You nodded.
"I'm there to protect the hospital."
"I like hearing that, but I do encourage a slightly different order. You're there to protect patients, staff, and the hospital. Usually in that order. You’d be advising attendings, reviewing documentation, assisting with subpoena responses, helping navigate consent questions, preserving records after sentinel events, occasionally reminding surgeons that emails do in fact mean something."
A beat. She cleared her throat, as she thinks of some sort of obstacle.
"Say an attending calls you at two in the morning."
She watched your face.
"And they've got an unconscious trauma patient. No family. Police want blood drawn immediately. Administration wants an answer. Risk management isn't picking up. What do you do?"
You thought for only a second. "I ask what they're trying to accomplish before I tell them what they can do."
"Police authority and medical necessity aren't always the same thing. If the blood draw is clinically indicated, document it. If it's solely for law enforcement, that's an entirely different analysis involving state law, hospital policy, potential warrants and patient privacy." You go on, rattling off Law School and past experience in a way that seemed like it could make sense.
Another nod.
"I wouldn’t give legal advice until I know which problem they're actually trying to solve."
“That’s good to know you are… thoughtful and considerate in that way.”
“Thank you.” You nod, appreciative.
Before she could continue— A loud voice echoed from the hallway.
"For Christ's sake, that's not what EMTALA says."
Another voice answered immediately.
"It isn't what I said either."
You glanced instinctively toward the glass wall.
Two physicians stepped off the elevator. One was tall, broad-shouldered, dark beard peppered with grey, coffee in one hand. The other was shorter, silver-haired, moving with quickness and mutterings.
Both still wore black scrubs.
The shorter one spoke with his hands, stabbing the air with obvious frustration.
"...I'm telling you the transfer documentation was garbage."
"It always is."
"No, Mike, this one’s goddamn creative. Guy fucking wrote 'good luck' on the damn transfer note."
The taller man snorted. "I'd frame that."
They kept walking.
The silver-haired doctor's irritation seemed to fill the hallway around him. Not quite explosive, but just simmering, always at the edge of something worse but can’t quite find itself to a true boil.
You watched without meaning to. He was pretty. Brows furrowed together, jaw tensed and tight, eyes wrinkled at the edges with earnestness and charm. Missing was politeness, but remained sincerity.
He rubbed at the bridge of his nose as they approached Gloria's office.
Gloria noticed where you were looking. "...Excuse me one second." She stood. "You'll meet our Emergency attendings eventually." She sighed. "Hopefully not today."
She crossed the room and opened the office door.
The silver-haired physician had already reached it.
"Where are my nurses?"
"Can you survive five minutes?" Gloria asked. "I'm interviewing."
Jack looked past her automatically.
Not at you.
Just... through the office.
He registered a young woman sitting neatly in the visitor's chair. Mary Janes. Hair pinned back. Professional suit. Probably another administrator.
Then his attention snapped straight back to Gloria.
"Our charge nurse is downstairs trying to convince six agency nurses not to walk."
"They're not going to walk." Gloria sighed.
"They're threatening to."
"They've been threatening to since Tuesday."
"Well, they mean it today."
The bearded physician leaned casually against the wall.
"Dana said if staffing drops again she's bringing the entire Emergency Department upstairs."
Gloria pinched the bridge of her nose. "I know."
"And?"
"...I'm working on it."
Jack exhaled sharply through his nose. "We've got hallway beds."
"I know."
"Boarding patients."
"I know."
"Four psych holds."
"I know."
"We're running one nurse over ratio in resus."
"I know."
"And legal's already breathing down our necks about hallway privacy like a bunch of… fucking A-holes."
Gloria looked directly at him. "They're doing their jobs."
"So are we."
Neither of them blinked.
Finally Gloria sighed.
"Five minutes."
Jack rubbed a hand over his face.
"...Fine."
He turned to leave. Then paused. “Why does it smell like Cherries?” He asked.
You instinctively glanced down at yourself, lifting your wrist to your nose.
Cherry perfume.
You hadn't even thought about it when you'd put it on that morning.
How he'd picked it out over antiseptic, stale coffee and hospital disinfectant, you'd probably never understand.
"Shut up," Robby muttered, already hearing whatever comment Jack was about to make.
Jack ignored him.
His gaze drifted through the office almost absent-mindedly and landed on you. You happened to look up at the exact same moment. For half a second, neither of you looked away.
You offered the small, practiced smile you'd perfected during interviews and awkward introductions: polite, a touch uncertain, trying not to look like you'd been caught staring.
Something in Jack's exhausted expression softened.
Just enough to be noticeable before he looked away again.
"C'mon, Mike."
The two doctors disappeared down the hallway.
Gloria shut the door. "...Sorry."
You smiled, briefly in thought. He seemed familiar in his own way and you can’t help but ask— "He a veteran?"
She furrowed her brows, confused as to how you would guess that. "Yes, actually."
She sat back down.
“Reminds me of the guys I worked with at the VA... Stubborn people.” You admit.
Gloria nodded. "Well, that," she said, pointing toward the hallway they'd vanished into, "...was Doctor Jack Abbot and Doctor Michael Robinavitch. Our Emergency Department." She hesitated. "They're... acquired tastes."
"They seem passionate."
"They're impossible." Another pause. "...They're also some of the best physicians I've ever worked with." She looked back at your résumé. "We're always looking for someone fresh assigned to Emergency."
She studied you over the top of the folder.
"You think you can handle personalities like that?"
You thought about the two men arguing in the hallway. About the way they'd been fighting for staffing instead of ego. About how exhausted they both looked.
"I think so."
Gloria smiled back.
"...Good." She closed your résumé. "Because I have a feeling they're going to keep you very busy."
PRESENT
Jack wonders what you’d be like in sex.
He pictured you on your knees.
Between his spread legs, that bright pink gloss catching the light as you looked up at him with that wide, contagious grin. Your lips parted and you leaned in, taking his cock into the warm, wet heat of your mouth. His fingers sank into your hair, gripping tight, guiding your head as you swallowed around him. He wondered if you’d let go completely—if you’d turn that busy brain off and just let him take care of everything.
He pictured you above him.
Thighs straddling his hips, manicured nails raking lightly down his chest and pausing near his throat. You’d sink down onto his cock in one slow, deliberate motion, your pussy gripping him tight as you started to ride. Every roll of your hips dragging slick and hot over his length, your movements growing harsher, needier, chasing the friction you craved.
He pictured you beneath him.
Back arched against the sheets, fingers laced tight with his. Him pressing you down into the mattress, hips driving deep and steady while you whimpered his name into the pillow, voice breaking with every thrust. Your body trembled under him, soft and pliant, completely open to whatever he wanted to give you.
"...Doctor Abbot?"
Jack blinks.
Right. Conference room. He clears his throat, dragging himself back into the present.
He looks up to find you watching him from across the mahogany table.
You offer him a small, patient smile, an elegant pink pen poised over your notebook. Beside you, Jane—the hospital's General Counsel—waits expectantly, while Charles from Risk Management flips through the meeting packet, your main senior colleagues.
Under the table, Robby's shoe taps Jack's ankle. Hard enough to get his attention.
"Sounds good to me," Jack says with a nod.
Charles pauses. "...We haven't actually gotten to the proposed revisions yet."
Jack sighs. "Right."
Jane folds her hands. "Doctor Abbot, we're discussing updates to the Emergency Department's informed refusal documentation, the revised EMTALA transfer checklist, and the new policy regarding body-worn camera footage requested by law enforcement."
“I’m sure it’s great, I’ve heard all the highlights from your associate here. Robby here’ll take care of all this, don’t think we need the whole gang, right?” Jack sighs. “I finished an hour ago, so.”
Charles gives you a brief look, a glance between you and Jack.
Jane chuckles a bit at that. “I understand my junior and you have a good rapport, Doctor Abbot, but it’s of the law that you stay here to hear all the changes,” Jane insists, strict.
You wince a bit at the correction of associate to junior. You shoot Jack a look that says please stay.
Jack nods. “Right. Of the law.” He sighs. “This could’ve been an email, is all.”
“Man,” Robby nudges again, this time a little harder.
Jack nods. He raises a hand in surrender. “Sorry. Go ‘head, please.”
You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from smiling.
Jane notices.
"So," she continues, clicking to the next slide, "effective next month, any patient leaving Against Medical Advice must have decision-making capacity documented separately from the AMA form itself. Signing the paperwork alone is no longer considered sufficient documentation."
The meeting drags on.
Slides change. Policies blur together. Jane walks everyone through revisions to the Emergency Department's informed refusal policy, updates to documentation standards for patients leaving against medical advice, changes to subpoena response procedures, and a new workflow requiring Legal notification before releasing records tied to pending litigation.
Charles jumps in every so often to explain how Risk Management wants incident reporting standardised after several recent malpractice claims had exposed inconsistencies between physician notes and nursing documentation.
It’s all very… tedious.
Jack just can’t find himself to listen. Not when he’s been awake for nearly twenty hours. His shift officially ended over an hour ago, though, like most shifts in Emergency Medicine, "ended" mostly meant he stopped getting paid while continuing to answer questions.
Normally he'd already be halfway home by now.
Instead he's trapped in a conference room, watching you. He tells himself to stop. He doesn't. Can’t.
You sit two seats down from Jane, taking notes in impossibly illegible handwriting, occasionally underlining something before quietly passing a comment to Charles. Every now and then you nod along to Jane's explanation, your expression thoughtful, brows knitting together whenever someone mentions a regulation you clearly disagree with.
Your hair, perfectly pinned when the meeting started, has begun surrendering to the morning. A few loose strands have escaped around your face. You tuck one behind your ear absent-mindedly.
It's ridiculous. He's survived Iraq, residency, mass casualty incidents, hospital administrators, and fifteen years of night shift.
Yet somehow he's losing a fight with a twenty-something lawyer wearing pink lip gloss.
His eyes drift back to you again. You smile politely at something Charles says.
He wants you to smile at him. To laugh. The one that makes you throw your head back a little. The one you do in his truck. The one you do when you spend twenty minutes passionately explaining why one brand of stationery is objectively superior to another.
The meeting limps along for another fifteen minutes before Jane finally closes her folder.
"Questions?"
Nobody volunteers any.
"Good." She stands. "Thank you, everyone."
Chairs scrape across the floor. Binders snap shut. People begin filtering toward the door.
Jack doesn't move.
Instead, he watches you gather your things.
You stack your papers with almost surgical precision before sliding them into your laptop sleeve. A pencil rolls toward the edge of the table. You catch it without looking, tucking it neatly beside your notebook.
Your hair has escaped its clip even more now. Another loose strand falls across your cheek.
"Where the hell's your head at?" Robby mutters quietly as he gathers his stethoscope.
"What're you talking about?"
Jack barely tears his eyes away. Robby follows his gaze.
"...Jesus Christ."
Jack finally looks over. "What?"
"You've got handoff in five minutes."
"I know."
"You sure?"
Jack gives him a flat look.
Robby just sighs.
"I'll start without you."
He slings his bag over one shoulder before disappearing with the rest of the Emergency physicians.
Jane and Charles linger in the hallway, already discussing accreditation deadlines and Joint Commission surveys.
Within a minute, the conference room is nearly empty.
You slide your laptop into your bag.
Jack wanders over.
"Counselor."
You look up.
"Doctor."
He nods toward the mountain of policy binders. "Riveting morning."
A smile tugs at your mouth. "I had a feeling your mind wasn't on informed refusal documentation."
"Oh yeah?" He slips his hands into his pockets. "Where do you think it was?"
You tilt your head thoughtfully. For a moment, he’s curious to know if you’ll somehow telepathically see the images he has of you on your knees.
"I don't know." A beat, to his reprieve. "...Not sure I want to know."
Jack chuckles quietly. "Probably for the best."
Silence settles comfortably between you as you zip your bag.
Jack wants to kick himself with his prosthetic. He's spent the better part of forty-five minutes pretending to pay attention while thinking almost exclusively about you.
"I think I know what you were thinking about." Your voice breaks through his thoughts.
Jack smiles. "Go ahead then."
You study him for a second with mock seriousness. "You've secretly been married this entire time."
Jack raises an eyebrow. "Really?"
"And your wife's coming back into town." You nod solemnly. "So now you're trying to figure out how to cancel tonight without telling me you've been living a double life."
Jack laughs. A proper one this time. "...Where the hell'd you get that?"
You point toward his left hand.
"You fiddle with your ring whenever you're distracted."
Jack freezes. Sure enough, his thumb has been unconsciously turning the plain silver band around his finger. He hadn't even realised. He lets his hand fall. You smile, pleased with yourself.
"I know you're not married," you add quickly. "I looked."
He furrows his brows briefly, needing you to continue.
"I have access to credentialing files."
Jack stares. "You abused hospital resources?"
"I... exercised professional curiosity."
Jack snorts.
"I also figured one of your residents would've accidentally told me if you had a wife." A beat. "So..." You nod toward the ring. "Decoration?"
Jack hesitates. For just a second.
"...I'll tell you tonight."
You brighten immediately.
"Oh." You grin. "Good. I was starting to think you'd forgotten our date."
"I could forget my own birthday before I forgot tonight."
The words leave his mouth before he can reconsider them.
You tilt your head with a sweet smile. "You sure you can actually take the night off?"
"'Course."
Almost without thinking, Jack reaches up, gently brushing the loose strand of hair back behind your ear. His fingertips barely graze your temple. You still beneath the touch.
"I'll see you at seven," he says quietly. "My place."
You nod, cheeks warming despite yourself.
Jack gives you one last look before turning toward the door.
As he leaves, he can't help smiling to himself.
★★★
You spend most of the day bouncing between conference rooms and clinical floors.
Policy revisions. Documentation audits. A physician wanting to know whether police can subpoena trauma photographs without a warrant.
Risk Management asking if a family complaint qualifies as a reportable event. Someone from Orthopaedics accidentally emailing protected health information to the wrong specialist… Again.
By six o'clock your brain feels like someone has replaced it with oatmeal.
Which somehow lands you standing beside Trinity and Dennis in Trauma Three while they prepare to sedate a fourteen-year-old with a badly displaced forearm fracture.
Normally Legal wouldn't be anywhere near this. Today, however, the kid's parents are divorced, Dad is present, Mom is on FaceTime from Cleveland insisting nobody touches her son until she arrives, and everyone has collectively decided this is now your problem.
Trinity wheels the sedation cart into the room. She nods toward you. "And this is our lawyer."
The father immediately stiffens. "...Do I need a lawyer?"
"No," you answer before Trinity can speak.
Trinity answers anyway. "She's here to stop you suing us."
Dennis closes his eyes. You smile apologetically.
"I promise, I'm not here because anyone's done anything wrong." You glance toward the father. "I'm just making sure we've got the right consent before they proceed."
The teenager grimaces from the stretcher. "My arm's sideways."
Dennis crouches beside him. "That's why we'd like to unsideways it."
The kid snorts despite himself.
You continue gently. "Your dad has legal authority to consent to treatment." You nod toward the phone balanced on the bedside table. "Your mum's concerns are being documented, she's been informed of the risks and benefits, and because this isn't elective care, delaying reduction could increase the risk of complications."
The father nods slowly.
"So... he needs this now."
The mother sighs loudly through the speaker. "...Fine."
Trinity claps her gloved hands together. "Excellent."
She looks at Dennis. "Drugs."
Dennis shakes his head. "Maybe don't call them drugs."
Twenty minutes later you're back in the hallway.
"...Jesus Christ." You stare down at your pink blouse. A few splatters of blood have somehow landed near your shoulder. You don't even know when. "I hate procedures."
Dennis is peeling off his gloves. "You weren't even doing anything."
"I witnessed a seventeen-gauge needle."
"You looked away."
"I heard it."
Trinity tosses her gown into the biohazard bin.
"This is why I became a lawyer."
Dennis laughs. "Fair."
The three of you head back toward the nurses' station.
You're already typing notes into your iPad. Consent confirmed. Capacity documented. Telephone consent witnessed and recorded. Risk Management notified. Everything exactly where it should be.
"You sticking around for nights, Kirby?" Trinity asks.
"I seriously think you people don't know my name." You hum. "I've gotta head home, got plans."
Dennis glances over. "Plans as in another night of online shopping?"
You shake your head. "Very funny… Got a date."
Trinity immediately elbows Dennis hard enough to make him grunt.
"...That was assault," you observe.
She folds her arms. "So."
You already know the look.
"...Is your date perhaps with one silver-haired Emergency attending?"
"What does it matter?"
"It matters immensely."
Princess doesn't even look up from triage. "Wait." She raises one finger. "You and Jack are finally going out tonight?"
You suddenly become aware that half the nurses' station has stopped pretending not to listen.
Dana slowly lowers her coffee. McKay looks up from a chart. Mel blinks twice.
You sigh. "I'm beginning to understand why HIPAA training has to be repeated every year."
Princess grins. "So that's a yes."
You gather your notebook. "I'm not participating in whatever betting pool you've all apparently started."
Dennis's eyebrows shoot up. "...You knew?"
"I didn't." You smile sweetly. "...Now I do."
You sling your bag over your shoulder.
"For the record, you're all legally in the clear. Have a good rest of your shift." You start walking away. Your heels click down the hallway.
The second you're out of earshot—
Princess slaps a hand onto the counter. "Pay up."
Trinity groans dramatically. "Oh, come on."
Princess holds out her palm. "Nope."
"You said next month."
"I said before Thanksgiving."
Dennis reaches into his wallet. The whole day shift seems to have to hustle their cash out for this.
★★★
Jack's apartment looks exactly like him. It’s not cold or minimalist, rather it’s solid. It’s comfortable and warm. The kind of place built over decades rather than decorated over a weekend.
You step inside as he locks the door behind you, the deadbolt clicking into place with a heavy clunk. Somewhere deeper in the apartment, something simmers gently on the stove. Garlic. Butter. Tomatoes. Fresh basil. Pasta.
Your stomach immediately reminds you that you'd skipped lunch.
"Oh," you murmur, taking in the space. "...You are rich rich."
Jack sighs before he's even finished shrugging out of his jacket. "Please don't say it like that."
He hangs the jacket over the back of a dining chair with the unconscious neatness of someone who always puts things where they belong. "It isn't that fancy."
You wander further inside anyway, your heels clicking softly across worn hardwood.
The apartment stretches out far more than you expected. Open-plan, but not cavernous. Everything feels proportioned for someone who actually lives here. Huge industrial windows dominate one wall, pouring warm evening light across the kitchen and into the living room. Outside, Pittsburgh glows amber beneath the setting sun.
In the distance, PTMC rises above the skyline. All glass. Concrete. Fluorescent misery. From up here, it almost looks peaceful.
"It's..." You look back out the window. "...nice."
Jack glances over from the stove. The sincerity seems to catch him slightly off guard. Now that you're actually looking, you start noticing him everywhere.
A well-worn leather recliner angled toward the windows, a folded army-green blanket draped neatly over one arm. A record player tucked beneath a shelf of vinyl. Fleetwood Mac. Springsteen. Nina Simone. Tom Petty. Radiohead. Pearl Jam.
Medical textbooks shoved beside dog-eared paperbacks. Blu-rays stacked with almost obsessive precision.
Military histories squeezed between Steinbeck and Cormac McCarthy. An old baseball sitting on a bookshelf for no obvious reason. Challenge coins lined carefully along another shelf beside framed photographs.
Your eyes drift over a faded army rucksack tucked neatly beneath a console table. A pair of polished boots by the front door. An old camouflage jacket hanging beside his hospital coat.
Then you notice the photographs. Dozens of them. Parents. Hospital staff. Army friends. Residents. Christmases. Cookouts. Retirement parties. You stop in front of one without thinking.
Jack and Robby. Both younger by fifteen years, maybe more. Scrubs wrinkled.Hair darker. Standing outside what looks like the ambulance bay at PTMC with beers in hand.
Robby has one arm slung around Jack's shoulders while Jack flips off whoever's taking the picture with complete sincerity. Both of them look utterly exhausted. Both of them are grinning like idiots.
You smile before you even realise you are. "...Cute."
Jack looks over from stirring the pasta. He follows your gaze. "Oh, don't encourage him."
He walks over beside you. "That picture's done enough to boost his ego already."
You glance between the photograph and the man standing beside you. "You both look exactly the same."
Jack snorts. "Stress preserves you."
You drift to the next photograph.
A much younger Jack stands beside a military helicopter, dressed in camouflage, squinting into harsh desert sunlight. His hair is brighter—almost copper—and there's far less grey, but the expression is unmistakably his.
The same furrow between his brows. The same look that suggests somebody has just asked him something profoundly stupid.
You hear footsteps behind you. Jack abandons the pasta for a moment, wiping his hands on a tea towel as he comes to stand beside you, following your gaze.
You lean in closer. "...Oh my God."
"What?"
"...You were ginger."
Jack looks offended immediately. "I was—" He points at the frame. "That is not ginger. That is auburn."
"Oh, Jackie." You smile sweetly. "That's just PR for ginger."
"It was distinguished."
"It is... literally reflecting sunlight- that’s- I don’t know, that’s pretty orange to me."
Jack lets out a tired sigh. You grin to yourself, studying the photograph again.
Younger Jack somehow looks sharper around the edges. Leaner. Cockier. Twenty-something. Probably convinced he already knew everything. Maybe a little insufferable. You find yourself liking him immediately.
Your attention drifts to another frame.
Two women are crowded onto a couch with Jack wedged between them, both clearly bullying him into smiling for the camera. "Sisters?"
"Yeah." He nods, hands settled behind him, back straight as he stays behind you. "Two."
You glance sideways at him. "...Middle child?"
Jack narrows his eyes. "...You can tell?"
"Kind of." You shrug. "You need attention in a very specific way."
He thinks about it for a second, shrugs and nods. Sounds about right. You look back at the military photograph.
Your voice softens. "...You were pretty."
Jack blinks.
"...Pretty?"
You nod. A quiet laugh escapes him. "That's a first."
You look between the young soldier in the frame and the man standing beside you. "You've got nice eyes."
Jack clears his throat. "You flirting with twenty-five-year-old me or forty-five-year-old me?"
"I'm weighing my options."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Mhm."
"And?"
"I think I like the older model."
His eyebrows lift.
"Better warranty."
That makes him laugh properly. The sound is warm enough that you feel oddly pleased with yourself. You study the photograph again.
"Do you still have any red left?"
Jack tilts his head toward you. "Probably." He leans down slightly. "Go 'head."
You step closer. Close enough to see the silver threaded through his hair properly. Most of it is charcoal now, streaked heavily with lighter grey around his temples. Tentatively, you lift a hand.
Your fingers brush through it. It's softer than you expected. Thicker, too. He must have a good routine, you think to yourself. Jack doesn't move. Doesn't even breathe much. He just lets you.
"Hm," you murmur dramatically.
"What?"
"It appears you’ve gone all grey… A tragic loss for the ginger community."
"They'll recover."
You smile. Your fingertips drift lower before you quite realise you're doing it. Just enough to brush the roughness along his jaw. Freshly shaved this morning, but already growing back.
The texture catches lightly against your skin.
"It suits you."
"What does?"
"The silver fox thing."
Jack goes still. His eyes lift to yours. Steady. Heavy enough that you suddenly become very aware of how close you're standing.
Your stomach gives a traitorous little flip. You're the first to look away.
"...You collect DVDs?"
The moment breaks. Jack clears his throat.
"Blu-rays." He corrects you automatically. "I don't trust streaming."
You smile to yourself and crouch in front of the shelves. Rows and rows of films. You slide one halfway out. "American Pie?"
Jack looks over from the kitchen.
"An American classic."
"That explains a lot, actually."
"Be kind."
"Ooh." You pull out another. "Happy Feet."
"That one's my niece's." A beat. "...Though the penguin can dance."
You glance back over your shoulder.
"You've watched Happy Feet by yourself."
Jack opens the fridge without missing a beat.
"Absolutely." He reaches for a bottle of wine. "God, those feet sure are happy."
Jack rolls the sleeves of his henley up to his forearms before turning back to the stove, stirring the pasta with absent familiarity.
"You drink red or white?"
"Yes, please.” You hum, barely looking away from the blu-ray shelf, more interested in examining him through his choice in films.
Jack smiles a bit at that, pours you a white.
You sigh and go join him. You hop onto one of the counter stools, resting your chin in your palm as you watch him move around the kitchen.
You realise, with some alarm, that watching Jack cook might be one of the most attractive things you've ever seen.
Knife work precise. Movements economical. Reading glasses sat low on his nose while he checked something on his phone despite clearly already knowing the recipe by heart.
There is something deeply unfair about watching a man near fifty confidently cook pasta while explaining wine pairings to you in that low gravelly voice.
"You're staring."
Jack doesn't even look up. He's stirring the sauce with one hand while reaching for the parmesan with the other, moving through the kitchen with the kind of ease that only comes from habit. Like he's cooked this meal a hundred times before.
You blink. "...Sorry."
Heat creeps into your cheeks before you can stop it. Jack glances over then, just long enough to catch the embarrassed little smile tugging at your mouth.
"You do that." He returns his attention to the pan, giving it another slow stir. "Started noticing it when you first came down to the ED on nights."
He notices the way you've gone quieter, the way your fingers curl around the stem of your wine glass.
"What goes on up here?"
He gestures lightly with the handle of the wooden spoon toward his own temple before nodding at you.
You think about it for a moment.
"...I'm observing."
"Oh?" He sounds amused. "What're you observing?"
You hesitate.
"...That..." You smile to yourself. "...I think you're very good at this whole..." Your hand makes a vague circle through the air. "...courtship thing."
Jack is quiet for a second. Then he smiles—small enough you almost miss it. "I try."
You curl your fingers beneath your chin, clearing your throat quietly as you shift conversation. “Do… you cook often?”
“I’m forty-five, sweetheart,” he says dryly. “Not a raccoon.”
“That didn’t answer the question.”
Jack glances over finally. “Yes,” he nods. “I try to cook whenever I can. Good to keep the hands busy.”
You smile as you listen, feeling like there’s more to that answer.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing. That’s- that’s good.” You tell/ Then- “Can I help, at all?” You ask.
He shakes his head, simple. “Long as I don’t screw up my sister's recipe in the next fifteen minutes, we’ll be alright.”
You nod.
“Not much of a cook?” He wonders as he chops the vegetables.
You watch his quick hands. “Not really. I’ve been a big buyer of microwaved meals since Law School. Cheap, quick. And sometimes when my parents come by, they leave me with leftovers to last me like, a few weeks.”
“You close with them?”
You shrug. “Sorta. They live far, so, don’t talk as much as I’d like to. Yours?” You then realise maybe things are different, a brief awkward beat– “I mean, if they’re- ali-”
“-My dad’s around,” he says with a small chuckle, getting to your train of thought before it could crash. “Mom passed… shit, when I was about your age, actually.”
“I’m sorry,” you hum, sincere.
Jack gives a nod of appreciation, focused on the vegetables before sliding the diced onion and fennel into the pan. The oil snaps immediately, sharp and fragrant, garlic following a few seconds later once the onion starts turning translucent around the edges. He lowers the heat automatically with the side of his wrist, stirring with a wooden spoon.
“Neither of mine could cook,” Jack says, almost absentmindedly. “My parents. They made a mean plate of buttered toast and mashed potatoes, but that was about it.” He scrapes the fond from the bottom of the pan carefully. “Then I enlist, and the army’s basically the same diet but with worse coffee.”
You smile faintly into your wine.
“Didn’t even realize I was missin’ out on anything ‘till I moved here and had Indian food when I was twenty-something,” he continues. “Thought, ah, that’s what I missed. Food’s actually supposed to taste like things.”
“Life changing?”
“Nearly made me wanna quit this whole damn country. That and my leg, but you know. Equally as rough in retrospect.”
You laugh softly.
Jack glances over at the sound for half a second before returning to the stove. He adds tomato paste next, letting it cook down properly instead of rushing it, the colour deepening slowly as he stirs.
You watch him deglaze the pan with wine, the sharp hiss filling the kitchen.
There’s something weirdly intimate about it all. You catch yourself smiling again, utterly enamoured by the sight of such an esteemed figure doing all this. He adds crushed tomatoes, a pinch of salt between his fingers, then reaches for fresh basil.
“You know,” you say carefully, “I think this is the first apartment I’ve been in where a man actually owns ingredients.”
Jack looks over, borderline offended. “What the hell kinda men are you dating?”
“Law students, usually.”
He shakes his head. “Bleak.”
“One of them put ketchup in a wine glass because he didn’t own bowls.”
Jack stops stirring entirely to stare at you. Judge you, more like it. You’re reminded of the incredulous face an actual Judge would give you when you have to recite the most inane quotes from clients.
“You let that man touch you?”
“You’re judging me in very vulnerable years.”
He turns back toward the stove, letting the sauce simmer lower now. Patient. Unhurried.
He stays quiet for a bit. Not quite stoic, just stirring in his own thoughts, brows furrowed slightly. Marvin Gaye hums softly from the record player.
Half an hour later, you've both all but cleaned your plates.
His sister's recipe, according to him. Though, after adding chilli flakes, swapping the wine, doubling the garlic and "fixing" the seasoning, you're fairly certain his sister would sue him for defamation.
It's excellent.
You don't realise how comfortable you've become until you're already halfway through explaining why the closure of Regent Paper is a genuine tragedy.
"...and it's ridiculous, because—do you remember Regent?" You ask that more rhetorically as Jack loosely nods, mostly confused but listening as you continue. “They made the worst A3 cartridge stock imaginable."
You lean forward, already warming to the topic.
"The GSM was inconsistent. The fibres were too short. Fountain pen ink feathered if you even looked at it wrong, the coating lifted whenever you erased graphite—"
Jack watches you with complete seriousness.
"Hm."
"And don't even get me started on Reflex."
"Worse?"
"So much worse."
"What'd they do?"
"They changed manufacturers."
"...The bastards."
"They are bastards." You point your fork at him. "I'm serious."
"I can tell.” Jack tilts his head a bit at you as he leans forward. “What’s the difference?”
You open your mouth. Pause. Then another. Your eyes drift down to your plate as the full weight of what you've been enthusiastically talking about settles over you.
"...Jack."
"Hm?"
"You really don't have to do this."
He frowns. "...Do what?"
"Sit here while I explain paper to you."
"I'm listening."
"I know, but..." You laugh quietly at yourself, rubbing the back of your neck. "I've just spent..." You glance at the ceiling as if calculating. "...At least four uninterrupted minutes talking about cartridge stock."
"So?"
"So this is supposed to be a date." You wave your fork vaguely between the two of you. "We're supposed to be mysterious. Flirt. Talk about interesting things."
"Mysterious? Right… okay, well… What're people your age talking about these days?"
"I don't know."
“Oh come on,” Jack lowers his gaze at you. “I don’t think either of us can pull off the mysterious card considering you did actually spend four minutes talking about cartridge stock.”
You sigh.
"You don't care about paper."
"I don't." He admits. "I care that you care about paper."
You let out a small breath, heart fluttering a beat at that.
Jack shrugs one shoulder as though it's the simplest thing in the world.
"I want you to keep talking."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure."
He nods toward your plate. "You want seconds?"
"What? No." You laugh. "That was amazing, thank you, but I'm full."
Jack stands, gathering both your plates before you can protest.
"I'll be right back."
He carries them into the kitchen, rinses them under the tap, then wanders back into the living room, drying his hands on a tea towel.
As he sits beside you again, he nods once.
"Alright."
"What?"
"You were saying."
You launch into a completely earnest explanation of grain direction, archival stock, brightness ratings, acid-free cotton rag paper, why legal pads have become objectively worse in the last decade, and how certain brands somehow make ink look flatter than others despite identical specifications.
Jack contributes exactly three things. "...Huh....Really? ...You should sue them."
You snort at that last one, now the two of you seated on the couch. "I should. They're evil."
He snorts. "Oh, are they?"
"You laugh now but… They’ve got a dark underbelly."
"I'm sure they do."
"They're ruining stationery."
He raises his beer in solemn agreement. "Won't somebody think of the binders."
You try not to laugh.
Jack shrugs one shoulder.
His hand finds your knee almost absent-mindedly on the couch, your feet tucked beneath you, heels abandoned elsewhere. His hand is warm and heavy. His thumb brushes once against the fabric of your skirt as he reaches for his beer again, like he doesn't even realise he's done it.
The city glows beyond the windows, Pittsburgh painted gold beneath the last of the evening light.
Somewhere between another story about disastrous law school roommates and Jack confessing he'd once accidentally eaten military rations that expired before you were born, the distance disappears.
Your legs end up tucked beside him.
Then against him.
Then, when you shift to make room for his prosthetic as he stretches out, he catches your waist without thinking.
"You comfortable?" he asks quietly.
"Mhm."
"You sure?"
Instead of answering, you slide a little closer.
His arm settles around you with the same easy certainty it'd had resting on the back of your chair all evening.
The conversation slows.
Not because you've run out of things to say.
Just because neither of you seems particularly interested in talking anymore.
You look up at him.
He's already looking at you.
"...What?" you ask, smiling.
"Nothin'."
"You're staring now."
"I know."
"What's going on in there?" you ask, echoing him from earlier, tapping lightly against his temple.
He smiles to himself.
"...Observing."
"Oh?"
"What're you observing?"
His eyes travel over your face, slower than they probably should.
"...That I think," he says quietly, "you're very good at this whole courtship thing too."
Your breath catches.
You don't remember who kisses who first. Only that somewhere between smiling and laughing, you're suddenly close enough that there's no room left for anything except him.
By the time you realise you've shifted again, you're straddling his lap, your skirt riding higher over your thighs, your knees braced either side of him.
Jack's hands settle carefully at your waist, then drift slowly up your sides as if he's still asking permission with every inch.
“I have a question,” you ask, voice soft.
Jack nods, a hum as his gaze flickers between the two of you, where your hands trail over his henley, manicured nails sweet against the dark cotton, to your glossed looking lips that curl into a small smile, curious.
“How many girls do you cook for?” You wonder, dry yet earnest.
Jack smiles a bit at that, the question seemingly so naive to him. “Lost count.”
“Damn,” you hum. “Thought I was special.”
“You are special,” he murmurs, his hand sliding higher beneath the hem of your skirt until his broad palm settles warm against the inside of your thigh. It makes you shift instinctively, your body finding him before your mind catches up. He feels himself harden beneath you and lets out the smallest breath through his nose.
“I've never cooked for a lawyer before.”
You laugh softly, already a little breathless.
“Can't say I can say the same about doctors.”
“No kidding,” Jack hums.
His hand travels a little farther until his palm cups you gently through the lace of your underwear. He doesn't rush. Just holds you there for a second, feeling the warmth that's already soaked through the fabric.
Your lips part before you can stop yourself. A quiet gasp escapes you as your hips tilt almost involuntarily into his hand.
Jack watches every reaction like he's studying something important.
“Tell me more,” he says, voice low.
“Um...” You swallow, trying to gather a coherent thought. “When I was... doing my first junior associate placement... about a year ago... it was with the legal department at UPMC Passavant.”
He nods once, clearly knowing the hospital.
“North Hills,” he murmurs.
“Mhm.”
His thumb presses just a little more firmly through the damp lace before slowly dragging the fabric aside.
The first glide of his fingers against your slick folds makes your breath catch altogether. You let out a shaky breath as you try to push yourself further onto his fingers.
“No, no,” Jack murmurs. “Keep yourself still for me, alright?” He instructs gently. “Tell me somethin’. These panties pink?”
You nod quickly as he moves a thumb over your clit, swiping against you, stilling your hips, obedient.
“Knew it,” he says. “Was it Richardson?”
You furrow your brows, brief, confused, replaced with a soft moan that has Jack struggling tto jst his hips right to yours.
“The doctor,” he says. “Senior resident of Neuro. Used to work with him few years back. Seems like your type.”
“What’s-what’s that supposed to mean?” You moan as he almost casually shoves a finger inside, then another, pumping in and out of you.
“You know, organised, kind of nerdy, bad handwriting,” he lists off.
“I don’t-I don’t have bad handwriting what are you–” You begin. “Jesus, Fuck- right there.”
Jack smiles a bit at that, a slow nod. “So, yes?”
You shake your head. “No- I didn’t- It wasn’t him. It was Thompson. Um… He’s- fuck, I can’t remember-”
“-Oh, Fred Thompson? From Ortho.” Jack recalls.
“Can we talk about this another time,” you try, completely focused on how he pumps his fingers in and out of you, eager, deep, thumb rubbing sweetly over your clit.
“No, no, please. I mean, well, you brought it up,” he reminds. “I went to Med School with Fred. Shit, kid, he’s pretty old for you don’t you think?”
You can’t answer, whimpers and moans blending like music to his ears as he smiles at you, a nod again.
“Guess I was right. You do have a type.” He shrugs, maybe a bit of pride or relief, or fascination. Maybe all.
“Jack, please,” you moan softly.
Jack’s voice stays low and warm as he watches you nod. “Atta girl. You want more?” His thumb strokes your cheek once before he pulls back. “Sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.” He gives your hip a gentle squeeze. “Up you go.”
You exhale, a small, impatient sound, lips still wet from his mouth. He chuckles under his breath.
“My room’s the first door on the left. Give me a second, yeah?” He brushes a last kiss across your collarbone as you slide off his lap.
“Don’t take too long,” you answer, fingers grazing his jaw before you turn and head down the hall. You feel his eyes on your back; behind you he clears his throat, palm dragging over his face as he stays seated.
Halfway to the bedroom you pause, reach behind yourself, and start the zipper of your dress. The soft rasp of it carries. Jack is on his feet before the sound even fades, following like instinct has taken over.
His door stands open. You perch on the edge of the bed, dress slipping down your arms inch by inch, gaze lifted to meet his when he steps inside. He swallows hard, crosses the room in three strides, and stops in front of you.
“This okay?” he asks, voice rough, one hand resting over the fabric still clinging to your waist.
You nod.
He eases the dress lower, the material whispering against your skin. His mouth finds yours again, guiding you backward until your spine meets the sheets. The dress comes away in one smooth tug; cool air brushes your ribs while his palms, warm and sure, slide upward, thumbs tracing the lace edge of your bra.
You almost panic when Jack lets out a low chuckle.
"What?" you murmur immediately.
You're suddenly aware of everything at once—of the matching lace set, of the soft light from the bedside lamp, of the way he's looking at you. Your skin feels warm beneath his attention.
"Nothing, sweetheart," he says, smiling. "It's cute."
His fingers hook lightly beneath the strap of your bra. The set is pink, delicate, decorated with tiny bows where the straps meet the cups and a small gemstone set at the center. Your tits flush against the material. The matching panties have the same details.
Jack studies it with an expression that makes your face heat.
"Looks like somebody gift-wrapped you," he murmurs.
You groan softly and cover your face.
"Oh my God."
"What?" he asks, entirely unapologetic.
"That's such an old man thing to say."
Despite himself, he's grinning.
You roll your eyes.
"I usually rotate between pink, white, and black," you admit. "Just in case a doctor ever has to see me unexpectedly."
Jack lets out a laugh at that.
"On behalf of the medical profession, your dedication to preparedness is appreciated."
You snort.
"A real public service." He adds.
His hand settles against your waist, warm and steady.
"Though I gotta say," he continues, shaking his head, "I've treated gunshot wounds, car crashes, industrial accidents. Never once have I looked at a patient and thought, ‘Thank God they coordinated.’"
You laugh despite yourself.
The smile lingers at the corner of his mouth. For a moment, neither of you says anything. The room feels quieter than before.
Your pulse kicks a little harder under the weight of his attention. His hands are rough and hasty over you, smart and well travelled as his gaze flicks between where his hands land over your cunt and your face as your lids flutter a bit, hips immediately coming to meet his wrist, panties wet.
His gaze drifts between your face and the growing impatience written all over it, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Stop teasing," you sigh, shifting instinctively toward him.
"Not teasin'," he murmurs, sounding entirely unconvinced himself.
You give him a look. "Categorically," you say, "you are teasing."
A quiet laugh rumbles out of him.
"Jesus," he mutters, dipping his head to brush a kiss against your collarbone. "I get it. You went to law school."
"I did."
"What now?" he asks, another absent-minded kiss lower, seemingly just appreciating your figure, the bare skin, the pink lace that hugs snugly against you, fingers trailing over the little bow above your panties. "You gonna cite a statute that says I have a legal obligation to sleep with you?"
"Uh-huh."
"That right?"
"The Stop Teasing Me and Fuck Me Already Act of 2026."
He huffs a laugh against your skin. "Never heard of that one."
"Pennsylvania state legislation," you say with complete confidence. "Section twenty-seven, subsection five, paragraph C."
He raises an eyebrow. "Go ‘head then, you’ve committed yourself now."
You clear your throat dramatically, adopting your best courtroom voice. "'Any physician found to be deliberately provoking his very patient, pretty, sweetheart, super chill… vaguely colleague not really colleague who has had a big crush on him for months… shall, without unnecessary delay, cease all smug behaviour and—'" You dissolve into a grin. "'—do something useful.'"
Jack actually laughs this time, shaking his head.He moves, kisses over your chest, lips harsh and tongue dragging over your tits. He feels you hitch your breath as he squeezes at your breasts, lips soft and stubble scratchy, his breath warm against your skin as he chuckles.
"I'm interpreting legislative intent here, it’s- this is what four years of college does to someone. I know that was a hundred years ago for you but, you know.."
"Think you’re fabricating legislative intent." He murmurs, kissing further down over your sternum, taking his sweet time.
"I'm advocating for my client."
"Yeah? Who’s the client?" He moves his hand to further spread your legs apart as his finger traces loosely over the growing wet patch on your panties.
You point to yourself. "Me. Obviously."
"Obviously." He repeats with mild mocking.
"She's suffering."
He snorts.
"From what, exactly?"
You shuffle onto your elbows, back raised now as you look down at him. "Unreasonable delay."
Jack closes his eyes for a brief second, rubbing a hand over his jaw as though he's gathering the patience to deal with opposing counsel.
“Bossy,” he remarks. “No patience.”
“Jack-” You whine.
“Want you to ask me nicely now,” he says, kissing at your inner thigh. “Come on. No more lawyer talk.”
He didn’t think you’d be so demanding. It checks out, in hindsight. You’re a particular kind of person.
“Jack, please just-” you cut yourself off with a frustrated whine as he pulls down your panties, slowly, caught off guard when you quickly replace his hands, and kick them off at the corner of the room.
You inhale sharply as he looks at your slightly credulous. A beat of quiet passes at your clear eagerness.
“Eager,” he murmurs, mockingly.
“Please, Jack,” you try. “Fuck me.”
He nods, brows furrowed, earnest. “I can do that f’ you.” He adds jokingly–
“Can’t say I’ve ever had a woman beg me to fuck her using fake legislation.”
You smile at that, lips dropping open as he moves his finger over your wetness, thumb rubbing in circles at your clit.
His long, thick fingers plunge in and out of your dripping cunt, stretching you deliciously with each thrust. The wet sounds of your arousal fill the room, mingling with your needy moans.
"There we go," Jack groans, curling his fingers to hit the sweet spot inside you. “That feels good doesn’t it?”
You can barely do anything else but nod, moving your face into the pillows.
“No, no, come on, baby, look at me,” Jack insists, he moves another hand to beneath you jaw, roughly forcing you to look at him. You whimper, feeling as his fingers fill you up, pumping faster.
He adds a third finger, scissoring them to open you up further. His thumb moves to your clit, rubbing firm circles over the sensitive bud.
“Oh fuck, fuck, Jack," You keen, feeling your orgasm building fast. "Please, please, please." You blabber, his grip on your jaw loosening until his fingers end up near your lips, and you take them into your mouth, moaning over his fingers, feeling as he stutters a bit at the sight.
“Shit,” Jack murmurs at the sight.
“Gonna-” You let loose of his fingers briefly, keeping them close to your lips as you moan. “Gonna come, fuck, please, don’t-” You whine.
Your pussy spasms around him as you come with a scream, juices gushing out to coat his hand. He works you through it, milking every last drop until you're a boneless, shaking mess.
He moves his hand away from your mouth, going back over your sensitive core, feeling as you whimper at that, them bringing it back to your lips, watching as you briefly hesitate before opening your mouth and sucking yourself clean off of his fingers, tongue wrapping over, as you take his digits deeper.
Jack almost chuckles at the sight of your neediness.
Before you can catch your breath, he's moving down your body, settling between your spread thighs. You feel his hot breath on your sensitive flesh, making you shiver.
"You let me know how it feels, sweetheart," he kisses your inner thighs.
His mouth latches onto your pussy, licking long stripes from entrance to clit. He sucks the sensitive bundle between his lips, flicking it rapidly with the tip of his tongue.
You cry out, hands fisting in his hair as he devours you. His stubble scratches deliciously against your thighs as he eats you out like a starving man.
"Jack… Jack, please, fuck," You keen, hips bucking into his face. "Mm, oh god. Oh, fucking- Jack… Please, please."
He groans in response, the vibrations shooting straight to your core. He plunges his tongue inside you, fucking you with the slick muscle as his nose rubs against your clit.
He seals his lips around your clit again, sucking hard as two fingers plunge into your cunt. He curls them just right to hit that magic spot inside you as his tongue flicks over the swollen bud.
It doesn't take long for the dual stimulation to send you careening over the edge again. Your pussy clamps down on his fingers as you come with a scream, juices flooding his mouth.
He laps it up eagerly, working you through your orgasm until you're a boneless mess beneath him.
You pull him back up by his shirt, your knuckles white as you grip the cotton, while your other hand hooks firmly into his belt loops to yank him flush against you. Your lips meet in a sloppy, desperate collision, tongues swiping and tangling with a hunger that tastes of anticipation.
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” you mutter against his mouth, the words vibrating between you.
“That right?” Jack murmurs, a low rumble in his chest. He lets out a sharp groan when you sink your teeth into his bottom lip, dragging it down just enough to sting before you slide your hands under his hem, urging him to strip.
You lean back on the mattress, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips as he stands at the edge of the bed. He pulls the shirt over his head in one fluid motion, and you take a moment to simply admire him. He has the rugged look of a man who spends his days under the sun; his chest and shoulders are a map of golden freckles and sunkissed skin, marked by the pale lines of tan-lines above his elbows and the faint, faded burns across the crest of his shoulders.
Your gaze drops as his fingers move to his belt. Moving with a slow, deliberate grace, you crawl forward on your knees, spreading them wide beneath you. You reach out, your fingers brushing over his as you take over the task, looking up at him through a veil of long lashes.
“Let me,” you murmur.
Jack doesn't speak; he simply nods, his hand sliding into your hair. He pats your head gently, his eyes darkening as he watches you deftly slide the leather through the loops. As the belt falls away, you let your palm press firmly against the denim of his jeans, feeling the heavy, pulsing heat of him beneath the fabric.
“This is what I was thinkin’ about,” he says suddenly, his voice dropping to a sweet, soft rasp.
You press a lingering kiss to the bulge of his crotch, undoing the button and sliding the zipper down until your mouth is grazing the cotton of his boxers. You pull the denim and fabric down in one motion, humming a questioning what? as you glance back up at him.
“In that… meetin’, or whatever,” he explains, his breath hitching. “All I could think about was you. What you’d be like. Bossy as I imagined.”
You smile against his skin, trailing a line of wet kisses up the snail trail of hair leading over his stomach. His grip in your hair tightens, not painfully, but with a possessive urgency, guiding you back down toward his cock. You hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and peel them away, freeing his hard length.
“You’re nicer than I imagined,” you tease, before sliding your tongue in one long, slow stroke from the base to the very tip.
Jack hisses, his hips jerking forward instinctively. He guides you gently, his fingers curling into your scalp as you take him into your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the head, savoring the salty taste of pre-cum before sliding deep, your throat tightening around him. You focus on the sensation—the way he tastes, the way his thighs tremble slightly as you suck him with a rhythmic, vacuum-like pressure.
You use your hand to stroke the base, your thumb rubbing over his balls while your mouth works the shaft, alternating between deep, guttural swallows and teasing licks at the rim.
He lets out a strangled sound, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Jesus—yeah, atta girl, just like that. Fuckin’ hell, making a mess on me, aren’t you, kid? Christ…” He mutters, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
He watches with hooded eyes as your drool mixes with his pre-cum, the glistening fluid sliding over his length in thick, wet streaks. Your eyes are watering, the depth of your throat making you gasp for air, but you don't stop.
He groans, his hips twitching. “Shit, sweetheart, I’m gonna come, alright?”
You nod frantically, sliding the underside of your tongue along the sensitive underside of his shaft, the sudden, soft wetness making him grip your hair with a possessive force.
“Fuck,” he groans.
He suddenly yanks you off him, his fingers locked in your hair, forcing your head back so you have to look up at him. He leans down, crashing his lips against yours in a rough, demanding kiss. It’s sloppy and desperate, your tongues clashing as he trails wet, biting kisses from your lips to your chin and down your jawline.
He pulls back just an inch, his eyes focused. “Turn around. Ass up. You can do that for me?” he instructs, the tone shifting from sweet to a command.
You hesitate. You clear your throat, trying to regain some control.
He hums, briefly worried, checking in “You wanna stop?”
You shake your head quickly, your voice a bit breathless. “Want you to finish in my mouth.”
He chuckles, worry leaving, the sound vibrating in his chest. “Yeah? You want it right here?” He reaches out, his hand cupping your jaw, and shoves a thick finger into your mouth. You take it instinctively, your tongue swirling around the digit just as you had his cock, your eyes fluttering. He watches you, a look of amusement and hunger on his face. “Patience, baby. I wanna feel you first.”
You let out a small whine, but he shuts you up by forcibly turning you over. He drags you by your shoulders, the friction of the sheets against your skin heating you up, until he pushes you down. Your face is pressed firmly into the mattress, your back arching as he forces you into a deep, presenting curve, your ass thrust high in the air.
He smiles, the sound of his zipper finishing its descent echoing in the room. He kicks his jeans into the corner, completely naked now, and his large, calloused hand comes down to knead the soft flesh of your ass. “How’s this feel? That alright?” He checks.
You nod into the pillow.
“Words.” He says simply, lightly tapping your ass. “Wanna know what you want what you don’t want, alright?”
He leans over your figure, kissing at your spine as he presses the head of his cock over your folds, hearing you whine a bit at the tease of the feeling.
“Anything,” you mutter.
He chuckles a bit, lips over your skin. “Anything? I don’t know about that, pinkie pie.”
You don’t even care about the stupid nickname in that moment, whining into the pillow as you try to push yourself back onto his cock, his tip slipping into you briefly, the two of you moaning at the feeling before he pulls out.
“So sweet, yet so bossy,” He murmurs. “How’s this?” He slides his hand around your throat. “Words, again, now. Go.”
“I like that,” you murmur. “Just fuck me already, please.”
“Please. There we go, just need some manners there,” Jack chuckles. “Touch yourself first for me.”
You moan, groaned and frustrated.
“Poor girl,” Jack almost chuckles, teasing as he keeps you face down, pussy dripping for him as he lightly taps his cock of your wet folds. “Life’s so tough for you, isn’t it.”
You oblige his instructions and move your hand down to your pussy, rubbing over your clit, making eye contact with him as his hand that stays on your throat keeps you looking at him, gently applying a firm, steady pressure.
“You tell me stop the second you don’t like it anymore, alright?” Jack murmurs. You nod at that, understanding his words but also focused on bringing yourself to the edge. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Better than me?”
Jack’s jeans hit the floor with a dull thud. He stepped out of them and kicked them aside, the thick length of his cock already half-hard and heavy between his legs. His palm landed on your ass, kneading the soft flesh with slow, possessive squeezes.
“How’s that feel?” he asked, voice low and even. “Tell me.”
You mumbled something into the pillow. His hand came down in a light, warning tap.
“Words,” he reminded you. “I need to hear what you want and what you don’t.”
You lifted your face just enough to answer. “It’s good. I like it.”
“That’s my girl.” He leaned over you, pressing slow kisses down your spine while the blunt head of his cock dragged through your slick folds. Every pass over your clit made you twitch and whine. He didn’t push in—just teased, letting the tip catch at your entrance before slipping away again.
“Anything I want, huh?” he murmured against your skin. “Careful with that, sweetheart. I might take you up on it.”
You pushed your hips back, trying to force him inside. The head of his cock slipped in for one brief, perfect second before he pulled out again. Both of you groaned.
“Needy little thing,” he chuckled. “So sweet and so damn bossy at the same time.”
His hand slid around your throat, fingers settling with firm, controlled pressure. He didn’t squeeze hard—just enough to make you feel it.
“Talk to me,” he said. “You like that?”
“Yes,” you breathed. “Please, Jack… just fuck me.”
He gave your throat a gentle squeeze. “Please. There it is. Manners and everything.” His thumb stroked the side of your neck. “Touch yourself for me first. Let me watch.”
You whined in protest but slid your hand between your legs anyway, fingers finding your clit. You rubbed slow circles while his cock rested heavy against your folds, tapping lightly, keeping you on edge.
“Poor girl,” he teased, voice warm. “Life’s so hard when Daddy won’t give you what you want right away.”
Your fingers moved faster. He watched, eyes dark, hand still resting on your throat so you couldn’t look away.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he asked. “Better than me?”
You shook your head hard, moaning. “No—fuck—no, nothing’s better than you.”
He hummed in approval. “Good girl.”
Without warning he drove his cock into you in one smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt. Your moan broke into a whimper as he bottomed out, his hips flush against your ass. He stayed there for a second, letting you feel every inch, then started moving—hard, steady strokes that made the bed creak.
His chest pressed to your back, skin slapping with every thrust. One hand stayed on your throat while the other gripped your hip, pulling you back onto him.
“That’s it,” he growled. “Take it. Such a good girl for me, pinkie pie. So fucking tight.”
You clawed at the sheets, voice breaking into desperate moans. He angled his hips and the new depth made your vision spark.
“Please,” you begged, not even sure what you were asking for. “Please—harder—”
He gave you exactly what you asked for, pounding into you with deep, relentless strokes. His hand tightened around your throat just enough to make your head float, the lack of air mixing with the brutal pleasure until your thoughts scattered.
“Come on my cock,” he ordered, voice rough. “Be a good girl and come for me.”
Your orgasm hit hard. Your pussy clenched around him in rhythmic pulses, thighs shaking as you cried out into the sheets. Jack groaned, fucking you through it, hips stuttering as your walls milked him.
“Fuck—there she goes,” he panted. “So fucking tight when you come. That’s my girl.”
He didn’t stop right away. He kept thrusting slow and deep while you trembled, letting you ride out every aftershock. Only when your moans turned soft and shaky did he pull out.
“C’mere,” he murmured, voice gentler now. “On your knees for me, pinkie pie.”
You let him guide you upright. Your legs felt weak. Mascara streaked your cheeks and your lips were swollen and glossy. Jack cupped your face with both hands, thumbs brushing away the tears.
“Beautiful,” he said quietly. “Look at you.”
You leaned into his touch, then dropped your gaze to his cock—still hard, slick with your cum. Without being told, you opened your mouth and took him deep in one smooth motion. Jack’s hand found your hair, fingers tightening as you swallowed around him.
“Shit,” he hissed. “That’s it. Good girl. So good at that, aren’t you?”
You bobbed your head, sucking hard, tongue working the underside. He watched you with heavy eyes, hips rocking gently into your throat. It didn’t take long. His grip tightened and he came with a low groan, hot pulses filling your mouth. You swallowed what you could, some of it spilling over your lips and down your chin.
Jack pulled out slowly, then used two thick fingers to push the mess back between your lips. You moaned around his fingers, sucking them clean.
He leaned down and kissed you, tasting himself on your tongue. The kiss turned deep and slow. He eased you onto your back, climbing over you with a quiet grunt as his prosthetic knee hit the mattress.
“Still with me?” he asked, brushing hair from your face.
You nodded, dazed and pliant under him.
“Good,” he murmured, settling between your thighs again.
You lay there for a moment before you straddle him again.
"Bathroom," you announce, pointing a finger at him. "And no moving."
Jack lets out a tired laugh.
He reaches out, squeezing your thigh as you climb off the bed.
"The ensuite's through there."
He nods toward the door tucked beside the wardrobe.
You lean down for one quick kiss before padding across the room, stealing one of his old Army band T-shirts from the back of a chair on the way. It hangs almost to mid-thigh when you pull it on.
When you step back into the bedroom a few minutes later, Jack is sitting on the edge of the mattress in a fresh pair of sweatpants.
His prosthetic is still on.
He'd rolled his pant leg up and was loosening the suspension system with practiced, absent-minded movements, the routine clearly one he'd repeated thousands of times.
You stop in the doorway.
"...Can I help?"
Jack glances up.
"You don't have to."
You walk over anyway, settling onto the floor in front of him. "I want to."
He studies you for a second before giving the smallest nod.
He taps the socket just below his knee.
"First, release the suspension." He shows you the small release mechanism with two fingers. "This one uses a locking pin."
You watch carefully. He presses the release with his thumb.
"Now support the socket while you slide it off. Slow's easier."
You follow his instructions carefully, one hand steadying the prosthesis while the other eases it forward.
It comes free with a soft mechanical click. Lighter than you'd expected.
"Heavier than it looks?" Jack guesses.
"A little."
He nods.
"Carbon fiber helps."
You set it gently against the bedframe exactly where he points.
Then your attention drifts to the silicone liner still covering the residual limb.
"And this?"
"I peel the liner off."
He rolls it down carefully, turning it inside out as he removes it.
The skin underneath is slightly pink where the socket had pressed throughout the day. Nothing dramatic. Just the marks left behind by twelve hours on his feet.
You frown instinctively. "Does it hurt?"
"Not today."
He rubs absentmindedly over the skin.
"Some days it gets irritated. Sweat's usually the bigger enemy."
Jack nods.
"I’ll clean the liner later. "He gestures toward the bathroom. "Wash the limb. Let everything dry. Same process in reverse for putting it back on, pretty much."
You nod thoughtfully, taking it all in.
A quiet settles between you.
You glance at the prosthesis resting beside the bed as he resettles in bed.
"So..."
He raises an eyebrow.
"...Can I ask something without you making fun of me?"
"I make no promises."
You smile as you climb back in bed, back besides him, curled up over him. A beat.
"Does it have a name?"
Jack looks genuinely offended. "What?"
"A lot of people name things."
"My truck has a name."
"Exactly."
"My leg does not."
"You've never called it anything?"
"No."
You think for a moment.
"...Lieutenant Dan?"
Jack groans so dramatically he has to hide his face in one hand.
"Absolutely not."
You beam.
"I'll workshop it."
"Please don't."
"I've got at least six more ideas."
Jack reaches down, hooks a hand behind your neck, and pulls you close enough to kiss the top of your head.
He smiles into your hair.
"Thank you."
You wake to the feeling of something soft brushing across your shoulder.
For one blissful, half-conscious second, you assume it's Jack.
Then something furry smacks directly across your face.
Jack is many things. Furry isn't one of them.
Your eyes crack open.
A scruffy brown tabby stands proudly on Jack's pillow, bright green eyes fixed on yours.
You stare at the cat.
The cat stares at you.
A long beat passes.
Without breaking eye contact, it slowly turns around and drapes its tail directly over your nose.
"Oh."
The cat blinks.
You blink.
Just the two of you, apparently waking up together.
Neither of you looks particularly thrilled by the arrangement.
You glance toward the other side of the bed.
Empty.
The sheets are cold.
Your brows knit together.
Jack never mentioned owning a cat.
There hadn't been a litter tray. No food bowls. No scratching post. No toys scattered around the apartment.
He'd spent twenty minutes explaining the thermostat.
He'd lectured you on why olive oil belonged in a dark cupboard.
He'd somehow found time to explain the difference between good and acceptable coffee.
Yet he'd forgotten to mention an entire animal?
The cat, deciding your internal investigation is taking too long, hops down onto your chest.
Immediately—
Prrrrrrrrrr.
Loud.
Violently loud.
"Well."
You cautiously scratch behind one ear.
The purring somehow doubles in volume.
"Oh."
Another scratch.
The cat practically melts into you.
"...You're easy."
Satisfied, it closes its eyes.
You smile despite yourself.
Maybe five more minutes.
You settle back into the pillow.
The cat immediately stands.
Tap.
One paw on your shoulder.
Tap.
Then again.
You crack one eye open.
The cat is staring.
Expectantly.
"...You're needy."
"Mrrp."
"So am I."
"Mrrrow."
The cat hops off the bed.
Walks three steps.
Looks back.
Waits.
Clearly expecting you to follow.
"...Seriously?"
"Mrrrow."
"That's emotional manipulation."
The cat says nothing.
Mostly because it's a cat.
You sigh dramatically.
"Fine."
You push yourself upright, wincing slightly as muscles protest from yesterday.
The cat is already waiting patiently beside the bedroom door.
"What?"
"Mrrrow."
"What do you want?"
"Mrrrow."
You scoop it into your arms.
It accepts this immediately, settling against your shoulder like you've known each other for years.
"Alright."
You scratch beneath its chin.
"Let's find out what's so urgent."
The moment you open the bedroom door, the smell hits you.
Coffee. Fresh coffee. Good coffee.
You follow the smell into the kitchen.
"...No, she isn't terminal," someone is saying. "Hospice probably makes more sense than another admission, but—"
You stop.
Jack sits at the dining table in an old henley, mug in one hand.
Across from him sits Michael Robby.
Also holding coffee.
Both men look up at exactly the same time.
Conversation stops.
Silence.
The cat meows.
"...Counselor," Robby says politely.
"...Doctor Robinavitch."
Another silence.
You slowly raise the cat in your arms.
Like Exhibit A.
"...Um."
Robby's eyes move from the cat...
...to you...
...to Jack...
...then carefully back to the cat.
The cat meows again.
You look between them.
"I think your cat's hungry."
A beat.
Robby points vaguely toward the furry creature.
"...Since when do you have a cat?"
"I don't."
The cat meows again.
"...Compelling argument," Robby says.
Jack sighs the sigh of a man who's apparently had this conversation before.
He stands, walks over, and gently lifts the cat from your arms.
The cat immediately starts purring.
Jack scratches under her chin before sliding open the balcony door.
Outside, tucked neatly beside one of the planters, sits a small stainless-steel bowl.
He fills it from a container on the counter.
Robby watches the exchange over the rim of his mug, lips twitching. You’re grateful for the cat to be the point of interest here rather than you.
"I didn't peg you for a cat man."
"I'm not."
Robby nods slowly.
"...She's your cat."
"She absolutely is not."
The cat finishes eating, wanders straight back inside, and rubs herself around Jack's prosthetic.
Robby raises one eyebrow.
Jack pretends not to notice.
“She’s just some stray that comes around every few days.” Jack explains.
You smile to yourself.
You yawn, rubbing one eye.
"I'm going back to bed." You look toward Robby. "Nice seeing you, Michael."
"You too, Counselor."
Jack crosses back over, pressing an absent-minded kiss to the top of your head as he passes. You still feel faintly self-conscious about the whole spent the night thing, but you let him. He smells like coffee and soap.
"I’ll be there soon."
"Don’t be too long." You whisper to him, making Jack chew the inside of his cheek to stop his smile as he clears his throat.
You disappear back toward the bedroom, closing the door behind you.
The apartment settles into silence again.
Robby waits until he hears the bedroom door click shut. Then takes another slow sip of coffee.
"...Don't." Jack begins.
“Didn’t say anything."
Jack pours himself another coffee.
"I thought you'd be gone before she woke up."
Robby nods toward the balcony.
"Instead you got cockblocked by a homeless cat."
Jack looks out through the glass.
The cat is sprawled across one of the balcony chairs like she pays rent.
"Yeah, well, Mittens has great timing."
Robby frowns. "What? Mittens? You named the cat?"
Jack busies himself with the coffee machine.
"Next question."
Robby grins.
"Anyway… the patient?"
Robby smiles into his mug.
You hear the front door click shut from where you're curled up in Jack's bed, the sheets gathered around your waist as you mindlessly scroll through your phone.
A moment later, his footsteps pad down the hallway.
He appears in the doorway wearing grey sweats and a faded black T-shirt, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck.
"Sorry about that," he murmurs.
You look up over the top of your phone. "That’s alright..." A smile tugs at your mouth. "Why didn't you tell me you had a cat?"
"Because I don't," Jack says automatically.
You raise an eyebrow. "...Mittens?"
He stops. He lets out a long sigh through his nose. "You heard that."
You grin. Jack shakes his head, resigned.
He crosses the room anyway.
You reach for him before he can say another word, fingers catching lightly at the back of his neck as you pull him down. He smiles into the kiss almost immediately, one hand bracing on the mattress beside you while the other settles instinctively against your waist.
It lasts only a few seconds. Comfortable. Easy.
As he starts to sit back, your attention catches on the silver band around his left hand.
Your smile softens. He looks down as you gently take his hand in both of yours.
Your thumb brushes lightly over the ring.
"You said you'd tell me."
Jack's expression changes almost imperceptibly.
The teasing slips away. He watches your fingers for a moment before instinctively turning the ring once around his finger, an old habit he clearly doesn't realize he's doing.
"She passed," he says quietly. "About five years ago." He swallows. "She was... a good woman."
A faint smile.
"Better than I deserved some days.” His eyes find yours again. "I just never really got around to taking it off."
You nod slowly, not rushing to fill the silence. "I don't think you have to."
His brows lift a fraction.
"With me, I mean."
Your thumb strokes gently over the ring once more. For a long moment, Jack just looks at you. Really looks at you. Then his free hand comes up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear with the same quiet care he'd shown a dozen times before.
You smile, though your eyes soften. "I'm sorry."
He gives the smallest shrug. "It's alright."
It isn't, entirely. You both know grief doesn't really become alright. It just becomes familiar.
After a moment, he exhales, as if deliberately setting the weight of the conversation down.
"I'd rather think about right now."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
You lean forward and press another gentle kiss to him.
"I have to get ready for work soon," you murmur.
He makes a dissatisfied noise. "No, you don't. You're one of the night crawlers."
You laugh. "I'm the night-crawler's litigation strategy."
He smiles despite himself.
"But I've got court this afternoon."
Jack's hands settle comfortably at your waist as he looks up at you. “You hate court."
"I do."
"You like me."
"I do."
"So." His mouth twitches. "Think we've established the correct priority."
You laugh, shaking your head.
He gives your side a light squeeze before smiling up at you. “How’s that for my case?”
“Yeah, alright. Could use some work.” You press a quick to the corner of his smug lips.
could read as stand alone, part one (linger) here, part two (strawberry) here, part three (optics), part four (luck), part five (orbit)
a/n: ironic that i spent all that time in exams, then holidays, and now im back at uni and i decide to finish this! seems like a good indicator to this next semester. i dont have much to write :3 i feel really iffy about this. i feel most proud of the little "stop teasing and fuck me already act" part i thought that was silly lol. i also liked doing that little flashback scene. sorry if the legal stuff is a bit iffy, im australian, and im still a first year, so i dont really know much about healthcare law i kind of just looked up some stuff and went from there lol. yeah idk i think i just felt a bit like this had no direction? no substance? i dont know, working on anaother part, but feeling like i might just do some other writings for now.. thanks for reading!
~ Warnings: 21+, rough sex, dubcon, implied consent, agegap, semi established relationship, secret relationship, forbidden, breath play/suffocation/smothering (not safe), free use, somnophilia, slight dacryphilia, pet play(if you squint) (puppy & mutt nickname used a lot), crybaby!reader, dom/sub elements, praise, degrading, (good girl nickname a lot), biting, gagging, spanking, slapping, lots of dirty talk, mean/grumpy!Jack (if you squint), orgasm torture/ruined orgasm, fluff
~ TLDR: Professor Abbot and you have had an inappropriate relationship for a few months now. When fall break rolls around Professor Abbot - Jack, invites you to spend it with him at his cabin in the woods. You accept.
~ Summary: Professor Abbot and you have had an inappropriate relationship for a few months now. After his wife divorced him, he seemed to take an unhealthy interest in you. You stay after hours to discuss your work. Sometimes he walks you to your apartment with a hand on your back. Sometimes he says things that make you shiver, things you know he'd get in trouble for. He's rough around the edges but somehow you pull out a different side of him. A side he only shows you, a side even his ex wife never got to see. When fall break rolls around Professor Abbot - Jack, invites you to spend it with him at his cabin in the woods. You accept.
~ Word Count: 10.6k
It's Thursday the last day of classes before fall break. You sit at your desk, scribbling in the corner of your paper as you wait for the bell to ring. You don't really have anything to be rushing off to yet you're still antsy. As your foot taps beneath your desk you stare down the center of the classroom to the man up front.
Professor Abbot stands at the board, giving us a reading assignment for the long weekend. A few quiet groans fill the air, the sounds of books closing and zippers gliding all mixing together. You could care less about the reading as you see Professor Abbot's biceps flex in his button up.
When class is dismissed you take your time packing up your things, waiting for most of your classmates to leave. When you start walking down the aisle you notice he's finally looking back at you. Your bag hangs in the crook of your elbow as you stand in front of him, his messy desk in between you. With the classroom empty now you wait for him to speak first. He doesn't though, instead he just eyes you up and down with thoughtful eyes and his signature scowl.
"Reading homework over Thanksgiving break? Really?" You ask, tilting your head with a smirk to match your sarcasm.
"It's two chapters." He rolls his eyes at you, a hidden smirk on his lips. He rolls his sleeves up before grabbing stacks of papers from his desk to organize.
"I thought I could come over tonight. Before your holiday plans." You suggest, thinking about how it's been a few days since the two of you have had alone time.
You're not really sure how it all started. One day he's asking you to hang back to discuss your work, he gives you extra advice and attention - and then all the sudden you're in his car late at night and he's buying you ice cream while touching your thigh. One day he's avoiding eye contact while reviewing my work, the next he's calling you puppy and making you come like no one else possibly could. Of course you never protested, you've always had a little crush on him. It's been a few months now and you seem to spend most of your free time at his whim.
He bites his lip in thought, creasing his eyebrows at you as if he's deciding something. You stand tall, pretending that you're not wanting to rub your thighs together.
"Do you have plans?" He asks.
You hesitate but decide to answer honestly because you're he'd be able to tell otherwise. "No."
"Go home and pack a bag. I'll pick you up tonight." He instructs in that firm tone you just love.
"Where are you taking me, Professor?" You ask, anticipation all the sudden flooding your thoughts. He stands up straighter, his face turning a little grumpier and it makes you smirk.
"Baby, you know it's Jack when class isn't in session." He reminds you, as if you don't already know. But he's rounding his desk to step up on you now, so you're getting exactly what you want. His attention.
Jack stands tall in front of you, glaring because he knows he can't touch you here, especially with the door still open. But his eyes tell you what he's thinking, that he'd like to just shut you up already.
"Baby?" You ask, pouting your lip at him. You don't mind any pet name really, you're not picky in that sense. But one you never thought you'd like, one you'd never even heard of before him has a special place in your heart now.
He comes closer until his chest is practically brushing yours, his cheeks a little pink when you feel his fingers brush yours. He's as close as he can be without losing control.
"Puppyyyy." He drawls out in a whisper, his eyes flickering between yours. He watches you like a hawk when you grin up at him, blushing at your favorite pet name coming from your favorite set of lips. "You're spending the weekend with me, at my cabin. I'll pick you up in an hour and we'll drive up tonight." Jack tells me, his tone so stern and matter of fact you couldn't argue with him even if you wanted to.
You nod earnestly, biting your lip to hide the true size of your smile. The idea of spending the entire long weekend in a cabin, alone with Jack makes you flustered instantly. You two have been wanting more alone time, with true privacy, so you can explore one another more. It's just hard when you share an apartment with two other students. And since the divorce Jack has been in a short term rental while he builds his new house. It dawns on you that one day you might get to the house, when it's all finished.
Maybe that doesn't matter.
"Quit looking at me like that, y/n." He grumbles, his composure clearly slipping. Anticipation about the weekend settling over him right here in his classroom. "Go on. Get." He shoos you away, tapping your butt and winking as you stumble towards the door. "Be ready when I show up." He points a finger at you.
"Yes, sir." You whisper back as you step out of the room, waving goodbye until he disappears from your sight.
~*~*~*~
You sit on a bench by your front door with a carry on bag by your feet, waiting on a message from Jack to pop up. You don't mind waiting, the anticipation gives you something to look forward to.
Your roommates are already gone for the weekend, heading home to their family's for Thanksgiving. Part of you is grateful you'll be with Jack instead of your family this year. Most of you actually.
When Jack texts to let you know he's arrived you feel your heart lurch in your chest. You can't wait to see him again even though the last time was only just over an hour ago. His message is simple and straightforward, and you feel it all over.
Parked out front. Come.
You stand up immediately and rush out the door, locking up your apartment for the weekend. He waits for you with his arms crossed, leaning back on the passenger side door as you skip down the sidewalk. He takes the bag from your hands as soon as it's within reach, using his free hand to welcome your hug. He pecks your lips, the familiar warmth making you squirmy. His hand grips your waist tight as he holds you to his chest.
"You're so quick. - Good girl." He praises and you practically melt in his hold. You lay your head on his shoulder and kiss his neck gently instead of saying thank you. "Let's get you in the car. You can do your reading for class on the drive." He suggest but deep down you know you don't have a choice. And truthfully, you don't really want one.
He gets you settled in the passenger seat with a pillow, blanket and a bag of snacks he packed just for you. He buckles you in before handing you the book you're supposed to be reading, with a bookmark already on the right page. He drives with a firm hand on your thigh, redirecting your attention back to the reading when you get distracted.
But it's easy to once you're up in the mountains, the trees are so green and lush you can't help staring. Your feet rest on the dash, the book open in your lap but you're watching the scenery fly by. A few moments pass before Jack realizes, this time getting more stern about it.
"You're not listening, hon. Read your book." He demands, nodding with his head towards the open pages. He reaches over and grabs your ankle, yanking your feet to his lap. He digs his thumb into the center, massaging gently. You feel the pleasant pressure all the way up your leg.
"It's so pretty out." You whine a little. "Can't I read at the cabin?" You look over to him with your best doe eyes. He glances between you and the road, his jaw clicking as he squeezes your foot tighter.
"Read. Out loud." He's curt and demanding, you know better than to keep pushing him. So, you clear your throat and start speaking the words on the page. You only get through one page before you feel his fingers dancing up your thigh.
You try to ignore it, stuttering over a few words before finding your groove. His warm touch makes you shiver. When you glance over at him his focus stays on the road entirely. Even when his finger slips into the loose leg of your linen shorts. You try to ignore, acting just as casual as him.
But you can't. Your hips squirm and you lose your place on the page. Jack teases the lace of your panties, you lose your breath and quit speaking altogether for a moment.
"Keep reading, puppy. Go on." He encourages, the pads of his fingers meeting your clit. Chills cover your entire body, you squirm in our seat as you try your best to keep reading.
You stutter through it, losing and catching your breath every other sentence. He only touches you enough to make you squirm, enough to ruin your panties but not enough.
You make it through a few more pages, sweat brimming your brow as it becomes increasingly harder to focus. His fingers are all over your clit and it's becoming too much. You need him inside of you already.
Somehow you make it through the rest of that chapter, internally grateful that's all you have to do for now. You slam the book closed in a huff, throwing your head back on the seat.
"There. I'm done - Please, Jack." You start to beg, grabbing wrist to try and force him to touch you more. He stiffens against you, your protests and yanking useless against his strength.
"Keep begging, puppy. You know how much I love the sound of it." He grumbles, trying to focus on the road.
"Please," You moan, grinding yourself into his fingers as your heels slide over his thighs. You can feel his muscle tensing as he presses the gas and brake peddle.
He finally slides a finger in your slick cunt and you melt into your seat. It's exactly what you need. He slides in and out, all his teasing makes you wet enough there's no resistance. He curls his finger in just the right spot, the one only he's ever been able to find.
"That's it, that's it." He coos when you start to clench around him. He slides a second finger in and it jumpstarts your orgasm. You writhe and whine, your joints tingly as you ride it out. You collapse in your seat when it all fizzles out, your chest heaving as your search for your breath.
Jack reaches to grab your arm, rotating your body to lay your head in his lap instead of your feet. You can feel his cock, hard and stiff, against your cheek as he pets your tousled hair away from your face.
"Sweet thing, you just couldn't help yourself, could you? Can't resist the chance to come for me, hm?" He coos gently at you, his rough fingers scratching your scalp and caressing your cheek.
"Never." You whisper, admitting just how wrapped up in him you are.
"Rest your eyes, hon. We'll be there soon."
⋆˚꩜｡
You arrive to the cabin just after sunset, there's even a little orange still left on the horizon as Jack carries you inside. You hold onto him tight, yawning as you look around the area, still trying to wake up from your nap.
The cabin is nice and secluded, lush green trees hang over the roof and surrounding paths. There's a stone path he takes you down to get to the cabin, propping you up over his shoulder so he can fumble with the keys. Once you're both inside he sets you down and then turns back for your bags.
You take a moment to look around, admiring the rustic furniture and natural wood walls. It's cozy and handsome, just like Jack.
He comes back moments later with the bags, setting them to the side so he can latch the door closed. He walks forward, grabbing your hand on the way to the kitchen. He grabs you by the hips to lift you up on the center counter.
"We'll go to the store tomorrow for groceries. Tonight it's frozen pizza and beer." He tells you like a warning.
"That works for me." You giggle, letting your feet dangle as you watch him step around the kitchen; preheating the oven and digging around in the freezer. A few minutes pass in silence as you spectate, your mind running wild with thoughts of how you ended up here.
This situation is not only uncommon but also wrong. You both know that but it doesn't seem to discourage either of you. You're discrete on campus, you haven't spoken a word to any of your friends. They'd probably freak out, especially after seeing the shiny, gray hairs spreading from his sideburns. They just don't get it like you do.
Somehow, things progressed and now you're comfortable with him, you actually quite like him and the way he treats you.
"When is your house done?" You ask.
"After the holidays. Then I can get my stuff out of storage and get my mustang back from that crazy woman." He grumbles a little as he speaks, the mention of his ex wife making him tense.
I don't know much and I don't ask, it's not really my business. He was divorced long before we got involved. I know they grew apart and started resenting each other.
Jack steps closer and you reach for him, guiding him to stand between your legs as you rest your arms on his shoulders. His hands rest on your hips and you instantly feel him relax. His eyelids get heavy as he looks up at you and you blush from the intensity of his gaze.
"Will you touch me on your mustang like you did in your truck?" You ask, hoping to distract him. And it works, he smirks, blushing and leaning in to kiss your lips.
"You're a filthy thing." He huffs through a chuckle. You kiss him a little more, enjoying the warmth of your bodies being so close together.
When you pull away you look at him deeply your mind thinking even deeper. Your fingers slip through his short, graying curls.
"What made you pick me?" You ask, looking at his lips to avoid his heavy gaze. He makes up for it by gripping your hips tighter, pulling you closer to him.
"Pick you?" He asks to clarify.
"Yeah. Why did you pick me to - touch? And to bring here?" You ask further, curiosity getting the best of you.
"I didn't pick you. I'm drawn to you. You happened to me." He clarifies earnestly and it makes your belly twinge with butterflies. You don't want to say anything and mess up the moment so you just lean in and kiss him.
After a moments of passionate kissing - and a little grinding - Jack carries you back to the couch. He hands you a flannel blanket and the remote to the little satellite TV in the corner. Moments later he returns with crispy pizza from the oven and cold beer from the fridge.
He opens the beer for you, holding the bottle and your jaw to give you your first swig. You as you gulp it down, wiping your mouth on the back of your hand when he sets the bottle on the coffee table.
You share the pizza with him, sipping on your beers as the tv hums. When you're full and the perfect amount of buzzed you lay your head in Jack's lap. He pulls your shirt up a little, his palm flattening over your belly as he gently massages you.
It's blissful under his care, you reminisce on it the whole time you lay in his lap.
⋆˚꩜｡
You wake up in the same bed as Jack, his wood bed in the upstairs loft with cotton sheets and more flannel blankets. It's the coziest bed you've ever slept in and with the body heat from Jack cuddling you so close, you never want to leave.
He stretches against your back, groaning loudly before letting out a hefty sigh. His muscular arm falls over your waist and he pulls you closer to his chest.
"I could get used to this." He whispers, sounding groggy and starstruck. You hum happily, scooting back into him further and gripping his arm. He groans into your shoulder as his hips rut forward to meet you. His cock, large and proud, presses into your ass.
It makes you shudder, blushing into the blanket as you push back again. You know you're testing him by teasing but you just can't help it. You love the way he feels and sounds.
"Be careful, hon. It's too early to start that." He warns, his gravely voice giving you chills. Despite the urge to keep pushing his boundaries you settle down, letting him cuddle you until you both felt like getting up for the day.
He whips up a small breakfast of eggs and toast, rewarding you with freezer burnt, chocolate ice cream for eating everything on your plate. After breakfast you ride with him to the closest town and you shop for the rest of the weekend.
Neither of you say but you both feel it, the relief of being far away enough from campus that you can go out together like this. You keep a hand around his bicep the whole trip, he loves it, kissing your knuckles every so often.
After getting the groceries put away you end up on the couch again. Jack sits with his arms crossed and legs spread. You're curled up next to him, playing with the ruffles on your socks.
You're restless, you can't seem to sit still. Maybe it's because you aren't cuddling him, maybe you're just horny and don't know how to say it. You look over at Jack who's giving the television a grump-face. You find it endearing.
Something comes over you in the heat of the moment and you're acting before thinking; you lurch forward and sink your teeth into Jack's taught biceps. He flinches and pulls away, looking down at you with furrowed brows.
"What was that?" He asks, his voice makes you jump a little. He uncrosses his arms and rests his hands on the tops of his thighs as he gives you a stern look.
You go in for his bicep again, biting down on a different area, this time harder than the last. He jumps and grunts, one his hands nudging my shoulder back.
"Why the fuck are you biting me?" He snaps, his brows sinking into a look of anger as his voice lowers to match. You stare at one another for a few seconds, waiting on each other to act first.
You move first, going back in for a third bite. But Jack is quicker this time, he catches you by the throat to stop you. You resist, pulling at his wrist and swinging at his chest.
He lets go long enough to wrestle your arms, reach for your wrists. You continue to fight back, giggling as you fight with him. As soon as he gets a good hold on you, you manage to slip out just long enough to get pinned again.
"What has gotten in to you?!" Jack strains as he attempts to tame your outburst. In the midst of it all your arm slips from his hold and you end up slapping the side of his face. His eyes flash and he reacts before you can even see a full thought behind his eyes. His palm lands across your face in a too-quick retaliation.
You yelp as the impact sends you sliding off the couch onto your ass. Your palms hit the thin rug sitting on the hardwood behind you to break the fall. You stare up at him with glossy eyes and a burning cheek, he's frozen, not sure of he should to you or not.
Another something unknowing washes over you, maybe it's the mess in your panties or the adrenaline in your veins but the next thing you know you're reach for him.
You shuffle on your knees to grab his neck, pulling his lips to your lips and his body over your body as you lay back onto the rug. The hardwood strains against your spine as his body weight settles on top of you.
"This is what you want, huh?" He taunts, grabbing you by the throat and slamming your head back down on the hardwood floor. You yelp but he muffles it with a hand over your mouth. "You want it like this?" He continues, grinding his hard cock between your legs until your panties are out of place and soaking.
"Mhm." You hum behind his palm, squirming beneath his warm body.
He keeps one hand on your mouth as he leans back to expose himself. His cock always give you a little shiver when you see it, so big and pretty.
"I'm gonna fuck you raw, puppy, you hear me?" Jack growls, his pupils blown out so far you can almost see your own reflection. "Claim you as mine." He adds in a whisper, kissing down the side of your neck and grinding his hips again.
You whine, lifting your hips to meet his thrusts. You feel his bare shaft graze your clit every few strokes as it continues to mess up your panties.
"Spread your legs." He demands, nudging them apart. You let your knees fall open, giving him full access. "Good girl." He praises, touching your thighs with his free hand. He dances his fingers up your core, sliding your panties to the side and your long t-shirt up your torso. "Look at your pretty pussy, already dripping for me. - Jesus christ." His finger play in your arousal a moment before spreading the mess on his tip for lubrication.
He thrusts deep inside of you in one fell swoop, starting a relentless pace instantly. You squeal and whine, the feeling of him pounding into you makes you dizzy and tingly. All the noises forced out of you get muffled against his palm as he continues to fuck you. Your head bounces off the rug every few thrusts, your fingers wrapped around his wrists as you watch his face.
He's lost in his pleasure, watching you like he owns you. His thrusts are harsh and bruising and you love every last second of it.
Jack leans down so you're chest to chest, his thrusts shortening length but not potency as he cages you in. "You pathetic mutt, you wanna get fucked like this because you know you deserve it. Don't you?" He growls, brushing his nose against mine. "You know you need it - to be put in your fucking place. Hm?" He taunts.
Your legs hang open as your muscles start to go limp, the force from his thrusts taking a toll on your body. Tears prick your eyes and stream down the side of your face, the blur your vision and cool down your face when you nod 'yes'.
"That's fucking right, baby." He moans with a satisfied grin. He grabs your knee and pushes it up so he can reach deeper and get closer to your chest. You squeal under his hand again, blinking fast to clear the tears so you can see his face.
He's practically feral as he pounds into you, your spine and hips aching against the floorboards. Jack reaches places inside you you never thought existed, you start to become light headed as it all catches up to you.
Small sobs start bubbling in your chest, your breathing becoming erratic. You can't get enough air in through your nose when Jack is fucking you this fast and this deep. Your skin turns cold and hot back and forth, the pressure becoming almost unbearable.
He removes his hand from your mouth so he can touch your clit, you jolt instantly. You gasp for full breaths, choking down sobs from the overstimulation.
"Let it out, hon, cry for me." He coos, kissing your cheek as he works you closer to the edge. He kisses you through your cries and you feel your heart bursting in your chest. "I need you to come, puppy."
His words are enough to have that similar build up staring in your belly. He slows his pace just enough for your body to find a more reasonable pace and rhythm. His fingers swirl in tight circles over your wet clit, making you tighten around him.
"Take deep breaths." He whispers, pecking your lips while coaxing you into your orgasm. You breath heavy with your chest, letting your body writhe into my climax at its own pace. "Good girl, come all over me." Jack encourages, touching and kissing you all over while he fucks you through the waves of it.
The euphoric feeling seems to get better and better with him, it's like he learns you and your body a little better each time.
You lay limp on the floor, gasping for air as you come down from your orgasm while Jack continues to ruin you.
"I'm gonna come so deep inside of you, puppy. - You'll never get rid of me." His hips stutter and eventually he's laying on top of me trying to catch his breath too. His large pecks press to your breasts and you feel his rapid heartbeat. Your hands are on his sides, clinging tight to feel grounded.
When he's caught his breath he gently pulls out of you and scoops you up in his arms. Your panties and tank top aren't even covering you at this point, but you pay no mind. Instead, you nuzzle into Jack's neck as he carries you up the stairs.
He passes the bed and goes for the bathroom, setting you on the counter before turning the water on. He slips his sweatpants and boxers all the way off as the tub fills with water.
You watch the steam puff into the air around him as he turns back for you. He wiggles you out of your disheveled clothes before pick you up and taking you to the bath. You get in together, him sitting against the back and you with your back to his chest.
The water is warm and comfortable, you lull your head back on his shoulder and feel almost like you could fall asleep. He massages your arms and shoulders, making you feel dizzy all over again. It's tender, he touches you like it's something he's meant to do.
"Don't fall asleep, hon. Not yet. Let me get you cleaned up first." He says softly, kissing your shoulder and reaching for the soap.
"I like it here, with you, Professor." You mumble sleepily, admitting only a fraction of what he make you feel.
"Me too, puppy." He responds sweetly, kissing your lips to seal it.
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The next morning you wake up in Jack's arms just like you did before, snuggled close to his chest and extra warm against his skin. But it's early, the sun is barely cresting over the horizon as you stir in his arms. After your bath Jack didn't put you in any pajamas, instead you both slept naked.
You secretly hope you do this every night you're together now.
Jack breathes heavy in his sleep, his chubby fingers twitching over your bare stomach and it makes you blush. Even in his sleep he works you up to know end, maybe you're insatiable or maybe he has some sort of spell over you. But you don't care.
You nuzzle your head further into the pillow you're sharing with him, squeezing your eyes shut and beckoning sleep to return, just long enough to put you out of your horny misery. But it doesn't work, you can't ignore the ache between your legs growing as his warm breath travels down your spine over and over again.
The skin of your bare thighs is warm and smooth as you rub them together, trying anything to numb the aching between them. It's only a dull relief, and quite honestly it's working you up more. You whine a little, biting your lip to hold it in so you don't wake Jack.
He stirs a little behind you, groaning and shifting his hips forward, his clearly hard cock rubbing into your back. It gives you chills and you feel yourself get wetter, especially when his arm lifts up your body to rest between your shoulder and jaw.
Your clit throbs so intensely it buzzes through your whole body. It's unbearable, you're nearly in tears trying to ignore the arousal building in your core. You're weak, you can't fight it off with Jack so close and warm and smelling like himself.
The choice is lost in your brain when you slip a hand between your legs and start playing with your clit. You sink your teeth gently into his un-tensed bicep, the taste of his smooth skin egging you on. The relief sparks through your core and up your spine, your whole body tensing up as you spread your arousal over your clit for more lubrication.
Your eyes water, warm tears trickling down the side of your face as you hold your breath around his bicep. It feels so good, you needed this so bad. Your hips shift harder the more you touch yourself, the pleasure building and forcing your legs farther apart.
In the midst of chasing your orgasm you get carried away with your teeth in Jack's arm. You bite down hard when your fingers find the perfect pattern to lead you to the edge. You hear Jack huff behind you, shuffling in his sleep. You know you should calm down, release your bite and let your orgasm subside. You know you should just wait on him but you're too far in now, too worked up, too desparate.
So, you don't bother controlling yourself. Jack stirs behind you, this time more aggressivley as you bite down again, your hips bouncing off his cock as you ride your own fingers. You whine and pant, barely even noticing the noises he's making now.
He groans, waking up in a little daze as he tries to move his arm away. But you don't budge, whining when he tries to take away your chew toy. He hisses when your sharp teeth dig deeper, you feel his already hard cock twitch against you and it spurs you on.
Your orgasm approaches quickly and you're so excited for the release you've needed all night. Jack catches on quick though, snatching your wrist with a hold tight enough to make you wince. When your orgasm dwindles away from the lack of touch you cry out in pain, grinding your hips into nothing as you chase the lost sensation.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" He grumbles, his voice gravelly and you can tell he just woke up. He lets go of your wrist to grab your face, yanking your face to the side so you can see his sleepy glare. You don't answer, instead you give him your best bedroom eyes through your frustrated tears. "Huh?" He squeezes your jaw tighter when you don't answer and you sniffle while grinding your ass back into him.
He realizes your predicament, looking up and down your flushed, naked body, still writhing as you chase an orgasm that was nearly yours. But he doesn't look sympathetic, no, he looks devious. He glares at you, grabbing your throat and rutting his hips forward just to tease you.
"Couldn't even wait for me to wake up, could you, puppy?" He taunts, his hard cock leaving a warm wet spot on your ass as he grinds into you. You're whining like you do, shaking your head 'no', not even bothering to hide how desparate you are. "You know better than to touch yourself without my permission." He warns, squeezing your throat tighter, making you light headed.
"I didn't want to wake you, sir." You whisper, batting your eyelashes for effect.
"You impatient, pathetic mutt." He sneers, his nose brushing yours as he pecks your lips. It's only long enough to steal a few of your tears before he lets go of your neck and sits up behind you.
He grabs you by your forearms to roll you on your stomach, your head to the side so you can see him kneel next to you. His fat cock hangs between his legs and you resist the urge to reach for it. But you know it might ruin your chances of getting stuffed with it later so you control yourself for once.
Jack straddles the backs of your thighs, petting your messy hair away from your face as his other hand gropes your ass. His hands are rough and methodic, you'd barely be able to tell he'd just woken up.
"You're ungrateful too, aren't you, puppy? I fuck you whenever you want and your ungrateful ass can't even wait for me to get a full night's rest." He spanks one of your ass cheeks with a flat, open palm, the noise reverberating through the room. You yelp from the sting but it's muffled when Jack presses your face into the pillow you'd just been laying together on.
"I'm sorry." You gasp, trying to turn your face out of the pillows. He lets you for a moment, to catch your breath some as he glares down at you. "I'm sorry, sir." You start to get teary eyed again.
"You should be, I trained you better than this." He grumbles, smacking your ass again, hard enough that you're yelping and blinking tears away. "After your little outburt last night and now this, I'm starting to think you need to be put in your fucking place." His words come out tight and punctated. He's clearly dissappointed in you and you can't stand it. You want to make it up to him and behave better but the aching between your legs makes it nearly impossible to focus on anything but relieving it.
He backhands your cheek to show you he means business, the impact bounces your head on the mattress as you let out a pained cry. He chuckles at your tears, wiping them up with his thump despite you flinching away from him. "Keep crying, puppy, god, it makes me so hard for you." He groans, licking your tears from his thumb and rubbing his fat cock between your butt cheeks. "Tell me who you belong to." He demands, ruttung his hips to fuck himself between your plump ass cheeks, his precum lubbing up his shaft along with the mess from your pussy.
"You, Jack!." You say through broken breaths, trying to hold in your sobs but it's no use. You really are pathetic, you're a mess and you need him to fix you.
"Who does this pretty little pussy belong to?" He continues to taunt you, smearing your tears all over the side of your face with his thumb.
"You! It's yours." You cough out as he puts more of his body weight on you. Your chest is heavy as it's pressed into the mattress but you don't mind, Jack's body weight keeps you grounded and you can't help enjoy how dizzy it makes you.
"Is that why you're crying, puppy? 'Cause your pussy needs it's owner to claim it anytime you get antsy, huh?" His taunting works you up, you continue whimpering into the pillow even though it's true. He makes you an easy, gooey, needy mess with just one look.
"Mhm." You hum, unable to get enough air in your lungs to form words.
Jack grabs the back of your thighs and nudges them apart so he can lower himself between them, he pressed his blunt head to your sopping wet entrance and sinks into you so fast the air gets caught in your lungs on the way out.
You're choking and sputtering, the wind knocked out of you as he fucks you fast and hard with no warning. He taps the side of your face with the back of his knuckles to get your attention and you do what you can to peak back at him as he leans over you.
"Fuck! Your cunt is soaking wet, you're already dripping on the bed." His voice is still deep and gravelly but there is nothing sleepy about the way Jack is fucking you right now. Sounds of your skin slapping and your wet pussy being stuffed over and over fill the room.
You're so dizzy you can't see straight and you're not quite sure if you're taking full breaths or not. But it doesn't matter because you know Jack will take care of you. He pounds into you so hard your stomach aches, broken sobs being forced out of you from the impact.
"Tell me you're not going to touch yourself without my permission again." He demands, breathless himself from the force of his thrusts. His hands grab your hips for balance, sliding your mostly limp body up and down his shaft. "Tell me a stupid mutt like you knows how to listen." He's panting through his demands but you can tell he's not going to run out of stamina anytime soon.
"I w-won't, sir. I'll wait f-for you." You stutter out, losing your breath while tears soak your face and the hair on your cheeks. The back of his hand swipe across your face again, the tingling dulling out as you start to feel incoherent. You're dizzy and light-headed, your body is like jelly and your joints tingle with the threat of numbness.
"I know, baby, I know you try to be good for me. You're just so filthy you can't help it." He coos, grunting between his words as he continues to pound into you. "It's like you need to be split open on my cock all the time, huh? Like you aren't whole without your owner so deep you can't breathe." He whispers, arching down over your back to kiss you damp cheek.
His hips still thrusts with brute force as you whine about how he's right, about how you need him and his cock all the time. You mean it with your whole heart, so much that for a split second you wonder how you two are going to go back to normal when class starts again.
"You'll never have to want for anything as long as you're mine." He grumbles, nibbling at your shoulder, forcing you to arch deeper for him. "Will you be my good girl so I can keep taking care of you?" He begs, as if your answer would be anything other than a resounding yes, so you say it for him.
"I'm your good girl, Jack, sir. I'll be so good for you." You're practically whispering, the weight and force of him keeping you from regulating your breathing.
He hums happily into your neck, thrusting in time with his kisses as he cages you in. You start to clench around him as your orgasm builds again, your hips writhing all on their own and you chase it. Jack feels your pussy react and changes his pace, all the build up dissapating.
You cry out just like the first time he ruined your orgasm, sobbing like the cry baby you are because you just can't handle it.
"You're not getting off that easy, hon." Jack grumbles, threatening this torture on you. And he follows through. He fucks your pussy just the way you need for just long enough to have the build up returning. As soon as you feel like you may finally fall over that beloved edge, he slows down. You continue to sob, the frustration turning to pain as your pussy weeps along with your eyes. He does this to a few more times, you lose count after the third.
Considering how fuzzy your brain is you're suprised you can even still make out the pain of losing your orgasm over and over. But it stings and aches every time it's stolen prematurely and Jack gets off on every last second of your misery.
His eyes are wide as he watches you closely, like he's comtemplating something. His thrusts slow down just enough that you can start to make out a clear picture of him.
"Do you trust me?" He whispers, rocking into you slower now as he brushes the hair from your face. You nod vigorously, slow blinking up at him while his fingers dance along your inflamed cheek. "Be the obedient puppy you are and relax, hm? Trust me…" He whispers.
There's a brief halt to his movements as he places his hand over your mouth, pinching your nostrils shut with his thumb and pointer finger. You attempt to breathe in and obviously it doesn't work. Your eyes widen as he starts rocking in and out of you again, slower this time so he has time to gauge your response and watch you close.
Jack continues to hold his hand over your nose and mouth as he fucks you, you try not to panic, the pleasure fighting with the pressure in your chest. The need for air sits heavy in your lungs, your throat tightening as you try to focus on how his cock slips in and out of you. Considering everything else he's put your body through this morning it only takes about 30 seconds before you start to gag and hiccup.
Jack looks at you with furrowed brows, likes he's worried about how turned on he is over this. The look in his eyes is so full of adoration you feel it searing into your chest, all the way to your heart where he sits, comfortably. He watches you like a hawk as you start to convulse, your eyes roll back in your head before your body finally gives out.
You go limp in a second, your body like a doll on the mattress under Jack's muscular body. Jack removes his hand from your mouth, grabbing both your hips as he continues to fuck you. His mouth hangs open as he watches you slide up and down the bed, making a mess of the sheets and pillows.
He checks to make sure you're breathing, once confirmed he forces your back to arche and hits an angle that he's usually too big for. He throbs inside your pussy, hitting you so deep it makes his spine ache, you'd usually tell him it's too much at this point and he'd make sure not to give you every inch all at once. But now - with you passed out and still clenching around his cock - he's the deepest he's ever been.
His heart nearly bursts out of his chest because of your beauty and dedication. He can't call it love but it's something stronger, something better. He has a sweet, needy little puppy who trusts him enough to use her body even when she has no control over it. The connection forming between you two is something beyond special, he knows it'll bond him to you forever and it only spurs him on.
He's not sure how to reconcil the fact that this is all happening with his student. You're smart, wondeful, beautiful, funny, the light of his life if he's being honest with himself. You graduate in the spring which is only six or so months away, he could keep you satisfied that long and then you wouldn't have to be secret. You wouldn't have to leave town to spend time together in public.
When the time is right Jack will tell you how he feels, when he can say it proudly and without having to hide you. For now though, he doesn't mind that you're his special secret puppy. He couldn't be happier about it actually.
You start to stir moments later, your breath quickening as you come to. Your eyes blink open, immedietly filling with tears, at the same time a sob rips out of your chest. You're disoriented for a few seconds, unsure of where you are or what's happening as your body flashes hot and cold.
It doesn't take long for you to feel the impact of Jack's cock hitting your sensitive walls and his warm hands massaging up and down your spine. You suck cold air into your lungs, relishing in the feeling of control of your own breath. Your head pounds in a way that tingles rather than aches and you know he's spelled you - you know exactly where you are and you know you'll never get enough of whatever it is he does to you.
Jack kisses your face, running his hands under your arms to grope your breasts. "Ohhh, baby, you have no idea what you do to me." He whispers, pinching your nipples and licking your lips as you moan and pant. "My good girl knows how to take me, you do it so well." He praises and it gives you chills. Your pussy is beyond raw but you'd never ask him to stop, you'd let him fuck you forever if that's what he asked of you.
"Take deep breaths for me, puppy, - You poor thing. You're so pretty when you're fucked senseless, but I need you to breathe and come back to earth a little bit. - Can you do that for me?" He's sweeter now, rocking his hips just enough to keep himself hard. "Can you come back to me?"
He keeps deep eye conact with as you slowly nod your head 'yes', giving him a tired smile so he knows you're not completely out of it anymore. He guides you through a few sets of deep breathing until you've settled your heart beat and regained some feeling in your joints. His cock moves in and out of you at the same pace as your breathing while Jack pets your head and kisses your cheek.
"Atta girl. Look at you, puppy. You're so strong." He praises and you blush all over, unable to form full sentences. His hips start thrusting faster once you've caught your breath, shoving his hand between your hip and the bed until he finds your clit. "You can come now, you've earned it. - Just relax and breathe, puppy, I'll take care of you." He promises, kissing your lips as he swirls his fingers over your clit.
He fucks you at a steady pace, gauging what you need as he works you into it. You're incredibly sensitive but he knows just how to angle himself inside you to hit the best spots. He talks sweet to you, making sure you're breathing full breaths the whole time.
Your orgasm pulses through you so strong you start to convulse again, you scream for Jack, your sir, your owner, and he muffle your noises with his mouth. He gets himself drunk off your moans, whimpers and pleas as he fucks you through your orgasm. Every wave of pleasure is matched by a skilled stroke of his cock, swirl of his fingers and kiss of his lips. He truly knows just how to take care of you.
"Oh, my sweet puppy, you did so well. You make me so proud, -fuck, hon - I'm so proud." Jack praises you in gentle coos, petting your head gently and kissing your face all over. "Your cunt was made for me, you'ew make me come like no one ever has - not even myself. - Fuck, baby, m'gonna come, gonna come so deep inside you. Tell me you want me to fill this cunt to the brim." He babbles on, clearly getting so close he's losing his mind a little.
"Please, please, Jack, I wanna feel how warm you are." You beg, encouraging him. He ruts his hips in an odd fashion, stuttering and moaning as he comes and fills you just like you wanted. You feel every last warm sprut coat your walls and it makes you nearly come all over again.
Jack grunts, his hips hitting your ass with so much force you wonder how much more it would take for you to melt into the mattress. When he's finished he pulls out of you quick and turns you over on your back, laying next to you before dragging you under his arm. You cuddle close, swinging your leg over his waist and touch his face as you both catch your breath.
He kisses your temple a few times, squeezing tight to his chest. He sniffs your scalp for the comforting scent of you sweat and shampoo mixing together. He commits it to memory so he can think about it when they're not under the same roof anymore.
A few minutes pass where you both just lay comfortably in one another's arms, you feel as at peace with him. You'll be trying to make sense of the things he does to you for weeks to come and why you like them for even longer but - it's all worth it.
"My sweet puppy, please promise you won't ever let anyone else touch you like this, - like you let me touch you. I need to be the only one." Jack asks of you, his eyes closed as he faces the ceiling, his hands touching your body with strength and passion.
Your heart swell in your chest like it often does when you're with him, you hold him tight back, nuzzling your face into his peck. You let his scent soak into your skin and your heartbeat catch up to his.
"I wouldn't dream of it." You whisper, meaning it more than either of you truly undertsand.
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Jack gives you the pampering of a lifetime after you manage to drag yourselves out of bed. You're adorned with special soaps when you share a bath again. His rough hands are gentle as they wash your hair and body. He dries you by hand with a towel, kissing any marks on your skin he left behind and touching you with tendrness.
When your hair is braided and he's put you in nothing but an old t-shirt of his, he carries you downstairs for breakfast. You sit in a barstool on the oppisite side of Jack as he cooks for you. Your body still feels quite weak even after all of Jack's touching and massaging, you're sure it'll take a day or two to fully recover.
"I don't want to go home tomorrow." You admit, playing with the ends of your shirt as your bare feet kick back and forth. You mean it, you want to stay in this cabin where no one can get you. Where no one can judge the fact that you're falling for your disgustingly older professor - and maybe he's even falling for you too a little bit - you think to yourself.
Jack spins from the stove top to look at you, his face gentle as he approaches you. He leans down on his elbows so you're closer to eye level from across the island counter.
"It's because you're so spoiled up here." He grins and so do you.
"Well, of course." A hint of honesty in your words. Jack thinks hard for a moment, tilting his head at you as if he's deciding what to say next.
"I promise to spoil you like this when we go back home too. - I think I'd like you to stay over on the weekends. You know, if you're not busy." Jack offers and you melt in your seat, blushing like an idiot when you see him doing the same.
"I'd like that too, sir." You say through a grin, biting your lip to hold back a giggle. "You mean, like, when your house is done, right?" You ask to clarify.
Jack slides a few panackes onto a plate and set it in front of you. He's smirking ever so slightly as he spins around to grab the scrambled egg pan and scrape some next to the pancakes. You watch his face closely because you can tell he's stalling, pouring your glass of milk at a liesurely pace just like pulling the bacon from another pan.
Once, your plate is full he rests his hands on the counter top edge, looking at you with a more firm smile now. "I don't think I can wait that long. My apartment isn't all bad…" He shrugs, as if he's worried you may not agree to it.
"Yeah, okay. I'll have to figure out what to tell my roommates but - yes." Your heart flutters a little in your chest, you can't hide your blush. Jack reaches across the island to touch your face, his thumb caressing your cheek.
"Eat your food, puppy. I want a clean plate." He raises his brows at you to solidify his command. You lean into his palm, nodding your head 'yes' before placing a kiss to his palm. He pulls away to fix his own plate, coming to sit next to you while you both eat. You two talk about maybe going on a hike for the day, maybe fishing down by the lake. By the time you're full and can't eat anymore it's still undecided.
You push your plate away, sighing with satisfaction and smiling over at Jack. "Thank you so much." He scowls at your plate, looking back to you expectantly.
"You're not finished." He points to the few bites of pancake left on your plate. You look between it and him, smiling sheepishly.
"I'm full." You tell him, rubbing your stomach to prove it.
"Do as you're told, puppy. Finish your food." He's more stern now, sliding the plate closer to you as he picks up your fork. "Come one, I'll help." He encourages, bringing a fork full to your lips. "Good girl." He coos, watching your throat swallow his homemade food. Once he's fed you the last few bites you feel too full.
Your eyes are a little heavy and you feel ready for a nap even though you've only been up for a couple hours. But you sit up straight, smiling at Jack while you thank him again for the meal. He scoops you up and carries you to the couch, setting you down with a pillow under your head. Jack curls up behind you, pulling you tight to his chest as you settle in the little spoon position.
"I know a pretty trail we can walk through later. I'll pack us lunches before we go." He tells you quietly, rubbing up and down your arm as you pretend to watch the reruns playing on the tv.
You groan at the mention of more food, squirming for a moment as you try to fight off the effects of the food coma he forced upon you. His large hand engulfs your bloated belly, massage you gently and kissing the skin under your ear.
"Keep resting, hon. I know we had a busy morning." He whispers. You snuggle back into his chest, soaking up his warmth and sweetness as he touches you back into a light sleep.
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You're sound asleep on the couch as Jack's little spoon, you've been like this for the better part of an hour. The clock under the tv shines the time in green - 10:45 AM. Jack touches your belly underneath his shirt that your wear so well. He can't help how worked up you make him. He finds himself in the same position you were in earlier this morning.
He looks down at your sleeping face, kissing your pinked cheeks to feel your sleepy warmth. He knows he's in too deep with you but he'll find a way to rationalize it until you graduate, then he won't have to feel guilty or perverted about how he feels for you.
His hand ventures up your torso to cup your perked breast, he squeezes gently, massaging you gently a while nuzzling his nose in your hair. Your scent drives him crazy, he can't help it when his hip push forward, grinding his half hard cock into your back. He pinches your nipple, rolling it between his thumb and pointer finger until you squirm.
But it doesn't wake you, you're still tired from this morning and too full from breakfast. He continues to play with your nipple gently, placing his cock between your legs so he can feel you get wetter and wetter. He slowly starts to shift his hips, fucking your thighs and using your arousal as lube.
When he's made a certain mess of your thighs and his cock he reaches down to angle himself upward, the blunt head of his cock pressing to your soaking wet entrance. Part of him is surprised he can handle so much of this, he's just grateful he hasn't lost his stamina with age. In fact, he's sure you're his personal form of viagra.
Jack kisses the hot flesh of your neck as he slowly slides himself into you, groaning softly and groping your tit for comfort. He whimpers into your skin as he pulls out and sinks back in, his pace slow and soft. You grip him so well even in your sleep, it nearly brings him to tears.
You start to stir heavier now, the sensation of his fat cock stretch you out setting off your nerve endings. At first you think you're having the most intense sex dream of your life but then you realize you're not dreaming, you're just incredibly groggy and full.
You're barely concious as it starts to register, the swaying of your body and burning between your legs, Jack's cock is in fact deep inside you - and not just in your dream. You blink your eyes open, gasping for air and reaching behind you for his hip.
"Jack!" You cry, wiggling against him as tears prick your eyes.
"Oh, puppy, I'm so sorry." He coos, kissing your face and fucking you deeper, forcing more cries out of you. "You're just so beautiful sleeping in my shirt - I couldn't help myself, I needed your pussy wrapped around me again." He explains, making his excuses.
"I'm too sensitive!" You try to tell him, crying into your arm as your pussy throbs. You're so sore and raw you can barely handle it. In face, you're not sure you can. Jack tries to comfort you, touching your face and belly with his gruff hands, slowing his pace down some as he finds your lips.
"I know, baby, but I need you. I need this pussy. I can't stop." He whines, confessing to you his lack of control. You want to please him, you always want to please him but it's just too much this time.
"I'm so sorry, Jack!" You say through a broken, sleepy sob as your grip the couch cushion for dear life. "I can't take it, I can't." You whine, being honest about how sore he's made your pussy.
"I can't stop, puppy." He admits, sounding a bit worried himself as he keeps pounding into while you two spoon. Your sobs turn hysterical, you blabber on and on about how it hurts and you can't take it. But Jack doesn't stop, like he confessed, he can't.
He grabs the pillow your sleepy head had been resting on, pressing it over your face with force. You squirm at first, tyring to move away from it to see and breathe but Jack tames your body. He holds you to his chest under his arm as the other hand keep the pillow smushed to your face.
"It's okay, puppy, just relax. I promise I'll take care of you" He coos in your ear, his thrusts making your body buzz as you start to get dizzy. "That's it, sweet thing, shhh. Go back to sleep, baby." His voice soothes you as your vision blurs over and you go limp for him again.
He holds you close and tight, pumping his cock in and out of your pussy at a relentless pace now that you're out. He throws the pillow somewhere to the floor and checks to make sure you're breathing even in your unconcious state.
Your body moves like a ragdoll in front of him, swaying uncontrolabbly every thrusts but he uses his hold to keep you on the couch with him. He's all the sudden closer than he anticipated considering your state. He didn't expect you to be so sore but he should've, he should've thought about it before sinking into you and not being about to stop.
You looks just as peace as you did when you were sleeping not too long ago, taking his cock like a sleepy angel. He fucks you at whatever angle and speed he'd like, taking advantage of your altereted state to get what he wants.
He doesn't experiment for too long, determined to come before you wake back up so you don't have to be in pain while he finishes. Even in your sleep and even when you're too sore to take it, your pussy swallows him up like that was it's only purpose in life. He fucks you so deep, pressing his hand against your belly to feel the depth of his reach.
He hits his own palm over and over again as he presses on your stomach, you flutter around him at you start to stir and it sends him over the edge before he's truly expecting it. His hips stutter as his orgasm rips through him, he pumps every last drop of his come inside your sensitive cunt, practically in tears himself from the intensity.
He stops his thrusts moments before your eyes flutter open and you start gasping for air again. He touches your faces, tapping your cheek to get your atenttion quickly. "Jesus christ, puppy, you made me come so hard. You're so fucking good." He coos, his words fuzzy as you try to pull yourself back to reality. "Thank you so much, god, puppy, thank you." He rambles, panting into your shoulder as he touches you gently to comfort and ground you. "Can you talk to me, hon?"
"I love please you." You whisper, groggy and disoriented but you mean it.
"You do it so well." He promises, turning your head to the side so he can kiss your mouth. He's slow and languid, his tongue hypnotizing you. "I have to pull out, okay? Take a deep breath for me." He warns and you listen, inhaling and exhaling in time with him sliding his half hard cock from your swollen cunt.
He cuddles you for a while, touching you and kissing you until you've fully come back down to earth. He keeps a hand over your chest and every so often you catch him counting the pace of your heart beat. At some point your grab the back of his hand and look back at him.
"Why are you doing that?" You ask.
"I have to make sure you're breathing right." He tells you very matter of fact, nudging your face forward so he can nuzzle into your neck. You two lay like that for a little while longer, until you've both calmed down and settled. "Think you'll still be up for that hike?" Jack asks around Noon, mostly teasing as he massages your shoulder.
You look back at him with determination, batting your lashes and scooting back into him. "Anything for you, sir." He catches your lips at the end of your sentence, taming any attitude that might have been creeping up in you.
"I can't want to have you like this every weekend." He murmurs and you internally agree. You can't wait to give yourself to him like this two days every week.
Summary: A code black leaves you trapped inside the Pitt with an unstable explosive and Jack helplessly watching from the other side of the glass. With neither of you knowing how the night will end, the feelings you have both been avoiding become impossible to ignore.
Pairing: Dr Jack Abbott x F!Reader
Warnings: Bomb and explosive threat, blast injuries, blood and medical gore, serious injuries, emergency medical procedures, hospital evacuation, near-death situations, panic and anxiety, emotional distress, trauma and its aftermath, protective Jack, angst and hurt/comfort.
Warnings vary between parts. Please read the individual warnings included at the beginning of each chapter.
♡ synopsis: you were only supposed to housesit for robby, but the moment you ask him to stay, he takes you to mean for good—not just until the next morning like you did in actuality so he could get some rest. seizing the moment, he puts all his cards on the table once he has you in his bed, professing his every loving feeling while inside of you.
♡ content: angst, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, projection, robby is obsessed, robby's mommy issues makes an appearance, he suckles at her breasts, oral (f receiving), fingering, cuddling
♡ a/n: a sort of au of right where i need to be, had robby chosen to stick around
Robby waits momentarily in the entryway to the employee lounge watching as you flit from the sink to the fridge and finally to the round table shoved against the wall before stepping over the threshold and clicking the door shut behind himself.
"Got a minute?"
Halting your unwrapping efforts, you eye him with a raised, curious brow and wiggle your Snickers bar at him. "Promise you won't tell first."
He forces a smile that doesn't quite reach his tired eyes, then bows his head. "Promise, sweetheart."
Dragging a chair back—an action which you mimic—you each seat yourselves across from one another.
"What's up?" you ask quietly before taking a bite out of your less than healthy snack. But after the day's whole back-to-the-Stone-Age fiasco, you can use the pick-me-up.
"I'm sorry that I'm asking so last minute, but I wasn't entirely sure about whether I'd be taking off tonight..." Robby shakes his head, then lifts his chin to meet your awaiting gaze. "I'd like for you to housesit for me while I'm away. If it wouldn't be an imposition."
You swallow a chocolatey bite rather thickly and run your thumbs nervously over smooth plastic wrapper. "Oh."
He tilts his head slightly. "Oh?"
"Sorry," you bleat suddenly. "You've just taken me by surprise, I guess. Would you not rather Abbot look after it for you? Or Noelle?"
His jaw feathers. "Abbot's got enough going on; wouldn't wanna put another thing on his plate. I want you to. I'm comfortable with my choice."
Robby doesn't bother acknowledging your Noelle comment. He scarcely managed to retain his focus when she came down earlier to talk to him—his sole concern being the act of catching up to you before the night was through and you headed home for the evening.
He couldn't lose this chance.
It would've been preferable for him to have asked this some weeks ago so you could make timely preparations to fulfill his request, but you suppose looking in on his abode every other day won't really be putting you out. You'll just swing by after work three or four times a week to ensure all is well before heading home. "Yeah, I can do that. It's no problem," you comply, coupled with a reassuring nod.
Robby sighs a breath of relief.
Settling a warm, heavy hand over your knee, he brushes his thumb over the cap of it. "Thank you. You're taking a weight off my shoulders with this."
Placing your half-eaten candy bar atop a loose napkin, you awkwardly pat the back of his hand. "Don't mention it."
Slipping his hand from beneath yours, Robby rests his palm atop the back of it before curling his fingers around the extremity. "You wanna follow me home after?" Overturning your hand, he traces the pad of his thumb along your heart line. "I'll give you a quick tour. Make sure you understand how everything works."
His eyes flit to yours in wait.
You smile. "Sounds good to me."
He isn't acting right... But he hasn't been for some time now. You and Jack have spoken about it, but only minimally since he didn't exactly seem too keen on acknowledging that his best friend is clearly going through a dire mental health crisis right now... Like he doesn't live in denial of his own problems.
He calls taking a bullet through the shoulder coping. You call it dancing with death.
When you saw the two of them speaking, followed by a tender embrace in one of the trauma bays not but a couple of hours ago, you had hoped that whatever Jack said to Robby finally managed to get through to him—that it would serve to halt his self-destructive plans—but with the pair of you now standing just outside his bedroom, with his back turned to the foyer, which leads to a front door he still means to walk out of, you fear that that isn't the case at all.
"When do you think you'll be back?" you ask quietly.
Robby swallows thickly and tightens the fist shoved in his pocket; the only thing left to keep him grounded. Because if he removes it—touches you the way he's always meant to—he'll never make it to the Badlands.
And then you'll be stuck.
Clearing his throat, he shrugs slumped shoulders. "Not sure yet. Awhile."
Rocking forward onto the balls of your feet, you nod halfheartedly. "Are you sure you've got everything? Long trip, just wanna make sure you're prepared for it."
The corner of his lip twitches. Always looking out for him. Always. It's no wonder as to how he fell so completely in love with you.
You've always been so selfless; loving; kind; purehearted.
"Think so. I've got my wallet if not. Buy it on the road if need be." Speaking of— Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out a leather billfold and slips a rarely used credit card from it which he extends to you with slightly trembling fingers.
Don't let her see how scared I am to leave her behind.
"Incase anything goes out while I'm away and needs replaced. Just... Never know."
When your fingertips brush against his, he bites back a wince.
Pulling the small plastic card back to you, you study the Mastercard logo printed in the bottom corner before tucking it into your scrub pocket. "Ok, thank you. I'll put in my own wallet for safekeeping until you get back."
Glancing to the darkened bedroom, he blinks back brimming tears. "Use it for anything you need. Doesn't have to just be for an emergency here. I, uh—" he coughs to cover the sob crawling its way up his constricting throat. "I have no problem with—with knowing I'm helping to take care of you. Since you're doing this for me in return."
You don't bother arguing. You'd never dream of using his money, or anyone else's for that matter, on frivolous things like nail polish or iced coffee. It's his savings and should be used strictly on himself, or his belongings and home. "I appreciate that, Robby."
Dropping his chin to his chest, Robby tucks his hands into the pockets of his hoody and sniffles quietly. "Guess that's it then."
Your heart now hammering, you search your mind in a panic for an excuse to keep him here overnight. If he insists on leaving, fine, but why can't it at least wait until morning? During daylight, and after he's gotten a few hours of shuteye.
"Could always wait until tomorrow," you suggest cautiously. "Three months is plenty of time for a road trip. No reason you have to leave right this second. It's not like you're going to miss anything, Buffalo Jump isn't going anywhere."
His brows knit together. You're... You're asking him to stay? Now? After all this time?
Robby lifts his head, leaving his glassy eyes to flit between yours he's so many times over welcomely lost himself within the warm depths of.
Then again, until today, he was managing to hold himself together rather well. Or, he was able to portray himself as being such, anyway: relatively maintained and functional. Even if it was with liquid glue and cheap duct tape.
He swallows down the lump in his throat. "Do you want me to stay?"
Resting a steady palm atop his jacketed forearm, you give the limb a slight squeeze. "I think it'd be better to wait until morning, yeah."
All it takes is a brush of your shoulder against his in the ED, and his old knees nearly buckle beneath him every time contact is made between you. Now here you stand holding him to the Earth. You can't really expect him to tell you no in anything when you've got him like this, can you?
You're the only weakness he's got left.
Everything else he cares about just... Doesn't seem quite so important—pertinent, even—in this moment. Or as of late in general. Shaking his head, he exhales through his nose and a pained smile flashes across his features. "That's not what I'm asking."
You remain quiet, waiting for him to elaborate.
"Do you want me to stay?" he repeats.
You fail to understand why what you do or don't want matters to him insofar as the next choice he makes, but if it stays his hand just for tonight, then... "Yes. I want you to stay."
His world tilts on its axis, and in an instant, Robby sees clearly for the first time in years. Sees... That his missing piece has been right here in front of him the whole time. Had he not been so blind, so selfish, so self-centered, then all this pain and sorrow could've been prevented.
Not even his own, but yours from keeping the two of you apart the way he has. How could he have ever thought it was the better choice when your soul has been screaming for his own every fucking day in need; its other half?
"I'm so sorry, baby," he rasps before advancing on you.
Cradling your face between calloused palms, Robby handles you with utter gentility—like fine China—before pressing his lips to yours.
When your back bumps against the wall, you stare at his closed eyes with open ones of utter shock. He's kissing you. Robby—your superior and attending—is kissing you. Full-on, open-mouthed, passionately-searching-tongue kissing you. Was this some spur of the moment decision, or...? Why did he apologize before? Because he knows it's wrong, or some other reason you'll have to figure out later?
"I've waited for so long," Robby sighs—his warm breath that smells of peppermint fanning across the bridge of your nose, all the way to your cheeks. "No one else could ever compare to you."
Nipping his way down your chin, Robby peppers your neck in hot, wet kisses before trailing the speared tip of his tongue along your clavicle. Gripping the curve of your hips in either of his large hands, he pulls your rigid body flush against his own of sturdiness and languid warmth before continuing. "You set such impossibly high standards for me, sweetheart."
Easing a palm past the hem of your top, he circles around to your back and unclasps your bra in one fluid motion. "God," he groans against the swell of your breast which his coarse beard scratches against, leaving a feel of hot, crackling embers in its wake. "I can't believe this is finally happening between us."
Swiftly taking your hand in his, he guides you along into the bedroom. Kicking the door shut behind the pair of you, you're barely granted a moment to catch your breath—or your mind that's racing away from you, for that matter—before he shrugs off his hoody, followed by tugging off his scrub top and long-sleeve shirt under it, leaving them forgotten on the floor next to his socked feet.
Your mouth goes dry at the sight of him. Bare-chested, he's so much more this way.
Nearly stumbling over your own two feet while the thing between your legs takes the driver's seat, you stagger forward and back into his arms. Lifting each of your hands, you settle damp palms atop soft pecs smattered with thick, dark curls of hair. Sliding lower, you swallow down pooling saliva and carefully knead your fingers against the overhang of his gut. "Robby," you sigh, suddenly unsure of yourself—what the two of you are even doing here.
Cupping the base of your scalp, he tilts your head back. "Michael." He brushes a thumb over your bottom lip. "You're the only one I'll let call me that."
You pop open the button at the top of his Carhartts. "Michael," you utter; just to see how the foreign name tastes upon your tongue. Foreign, because you've never used it before. Not for him.
A watery laugh breaks past his lips. "Say that again."
Muttering the name while he carefully traces the bend of your cupid's bow with each of his thumbs, his crow's feet wrinkle when a smile bends his own lips upwards.
When he presses them to yours a second time, you welcome it. Opening your mouth with his own, he continues holding fast to you while his opposite hand works eagerly at his zipper as if he can't get inside of you fast enough.
He's so afraid that this is all just a dream and he'll wake up like he has a hundred times before, full of disappointment and acheful longing.
Clutching at wide shoulders, you card your fingers in unkempt hair and hold fast to the man before you.
Shoving his pants down his thighs until they finally pool around his ankles, Robby kicks them to the side along with the rest of his clothing and palms his developing erection over his briefs before guiding you back toward the bed.
When the backs of your knees knock against the edge of a king-sized mattress, reality bleeds sharply back into focus—slicing through the dark of Robby's disorderly bedroom like a flash of silver lightening.
What the hell are you doing?
Pulling at the tidy bow on the front of your pants with a frustrated grunt, Robby shoves the garment down to your ankles before practically yanking your top off over your head. Sliding your bra down your arms, he leaves it forgotten on the plush rug you stand atop before maneuvering his hand into your panties and circling your swollen clit with the pad of his middle finger.
Cursing quietly, he eases the digit between your fluttering walls. Curling it upward, you gasp quietly and he dips his head to suck a taught nipple into his mouth. Rolling it between his teeth, he slips a second finger inside before lapping at your breast and tracing your areola with the pad of his salivating tongue. "So perfect," he mutters. "For me. You always have been."
With a palm flat against the small of your back, Robby guides you slowly onto his bed. Falling back against it with a soft bounce, you watch him from between spread, quivering legs. With bated breath caught within your lungs, he encourages briefs that're now saturated with drops of precum past strong thighs, thus revealing the thick length of his veiny erection, complete with a healthy tuft of hair resting above the swollen shaft.
You've never seen such a masculine specimen in all your young life.
Fisting himself in his hand, his chest heaves with deep breaths of barely contained excitement.
Gripping your left knee, he slides his hand up your thigh and his chin wobbles. "You have no idea how long I've waited for you, sweetheart."
Nodding toward the headboard, Robby grants you instruction with affectionate, unguarded eyes. "Scoot back for me, baby."
Shoving against a mess of dark blue sheets and a wrinkled comforter that smells of his woodsy cologne—musky, with hints of sharp cedar—your head falls back against a pile of fluffy pillows, leaving you wholly at his mercy.
"Jesus Christ." Following the curve of your waist with his free hand, Robby licks his lips before dragging the bottom one between his teeth. "Better than I imagined."
Cupping your cheek, he brushes his thumb over your glistening lips. "I need to know what you taste like. I've wanted to so many times..." he huffs a laugh. "This almost doesn't seem real."
Slightly lifting your hips in response while he tugs off your panties with fingers hooked over the waistband, you remain quiet in response.
Lying down at the foot of the bed, Robby alternates between your right and left inner thighs—planting messy kisses upon each while slowly working his way closer and closer to the pot of honey that lies between. "You don't understand what you mean to me," he whispers. Dragging his index finger between your slick folds, he admires the color of you; the shape; the scent.
His, his, his.
Finally.
Dipping his head, he swipes an enthusiastic tongue through your slit. When your back arches off the bed, he dives deeper. Working at your perfect nub with careful nibbles, he wraps one arm around your thigh to keep you steady while his other goes searching for yours. Once he makes contact with a hand that has sheets tightly twisted within it, he pulls the fabric from your grip before repositioning it in his hair.
When your fingers tremble against his scalp, he moans wantonly against your opening. "S'fuckin' long," he drawls. Swirling his tongue along your labia, he drinks up your plentiful juices as if it's the finest wine.
If he could fucking bottle and drink you, he would.
Squeezing your eyes shut, you tangle your fingers in his soft hair and sink your nails into his scalp. When your hips buck before long, he withdraws.
You open your mouth to protest, but words fall away when he settles his weight atop you.
"Rob—"
Swiping his swollen tip against your engorged entrance, Robby lifts your leg over his hip and onto his back before sinking inside with painstaking tenderness.
You didn't get a chance ask him about protection.
He never wanted anything between the two of you. Not here. Not like this. Not ever.
You've never had unprotected sex before. You didn't mean to.
Robby can't believe how easily your bodies work in tandem—how you seem able to match his every move with no effort even needing to be applied. How you both want the exact same things.
Inch by inch, he eases between your thighs, cursing quietly at how well you're taking him. Nevertheless, he pauses once he's bottomed out to grant you a moment to adjust. But it hardly seems necessary—it's like you were made to fit him. Perfectly.
"I didn't believe in soulmates until you," he mumbles into the hollow of your neck.
A tear slips from the corner of your eye. This isn't the Robby you know who's always collected and able. The chief who all others look to for certainty and guidance.
Who... Always has his mind about him.
Rocking his hips against yours, Robby knocks your knee to the side before settling into a steady, pleasant rhythm. His hand moves up your arm that's thrown over a pillow above your head to twine your fingers together. Kissing you again with firm resolve, his tongue slides along the twist of yours, followed by diving deeper until you're both lost in a land of breathless passion.
Resting his forehead against yours, a tear slides down his cheek and dribbles onto yours. "Fifty-five years was more than worth the wait for you, sweetheart."
Puckered lips are pressed to your flushed cheek. "I'm sorry I wasted all those years that we otherwise could've spent together. I was just scared."
You want to ask him to slow down—it's too much at once—all the touching and kissing and confessions, but every time you think you've gathered the courage, he speaks again.
"Thank you for waiting for me so patiently." Circling his hips, your jaw falls open and you moan into his freckled shoulder.
"I love you," utters Robby. "The only woman I ever have. The others were just..."
"R-Robby—"
Caressing your chin, he tilts your head to the side until you're looking into his eyes. "Michael, sweetheart. Please. It's okay, I want you to."
Cupping his cheek that's wet with tears, you swallow down the protestations you meant to speak aloud. "Michael."
His cock squelches from how aroused you've become. With each plunge of his member that's so completely filled you, you find your orgasm growing closer.
"What is it, honey?" he swallows thickly; nervously. He needs to set your assumptions straight. "I want you to know that when I was with them—" he kisses the tip of your nose. "There was only one face I saw."
You shake your head—not wanting to hear this—then tug his lips back down to your own with fingers submerged in his beard. "Close," you whisper into his open mouth.
"Please," Robby begs quietly; his shoulder blades shifting from behind aged, tanned skin as he works at your body. "Tell me the same."
Your lashes flutter as you stare up at him through blurry eyes. "Wha—"
"I love you," he repeats.
But you don't. Not like that. Maybe as a friend, or—
"I love you," he presses. When your walls squeeze around him, he knows you feel the same. Your body can't lie; refuses to. Taking your hand again, he presses it overtop of his thundering heart. "Have since we first met. You're my other half, I know it now."
"I—"
He nods reassuringly, just once. Slowly, gently. "I'm right here, angel."
Just do it. "I love you."
Suddenly, his face crumples and he breaks into a fit of unexpected sobs. Burying himself between your breasts, Robby shudders and his heavy belly heaves as broken sobs wrack through his body.
Unsure of what else to do, you cradle the back of his head and quietly shoosh him.
This is well above your paygrade.
"I-It's okay, R—" you sigh, then start again. "You're safe, Michael. It's alright."
"Fuck." Nuzzling closer, Robby drags the bridge of his nose along your hammering carotid. "She left. I was just a kid."
Your brows bow together in confusion.
"But not you," he continues breathlessly with a suddenly stirring cock. "You're too maternal."
Moving your hand to the middle of his back, you begin considering how the hell you're going to get him off of you.
"Michael—"
"I know. We're both so close." He lifts his head, cups your cheek, and crushes his lips to yours. Snapping his hips, Robby grinds his pelvis against your own. "Come with me, baby."
Each time his pubic hair brushes against your exposed, sensitive clit, you've been curling your toes and tightening your muscles in preparation of an orgasm... Until he talks again.
Slinging your arms over his shoulders, you push his head down to your lips to keep his mouth otherwise occupied.
Racing toward your shared finished with gyrating hips and breathless abandon, only the sound of slapping skin, Robby's occasional cries, and a quietly knocking headboard interrupt an unreal silence you had never thought you would find yourself within.
Tossing your head back, a pretty whimper crawls past your lips before bubbling into existence.
Smoothing a hand across your brow, Robby watches with wide, vulnerable eyes as you come undone in his bed, his arms, his home, against his body while a part of him is buried inside you.
It's too much.
His dream come true.
"Fuck, Y/N," he groans from behind clenched teeth. His cock twitches and spurts, releasing hot cum inside of you.
God, let it take hold. Let me have her forever; give us a family. She deserves that.
Robby tremulates and his breath grows ragged. Collapsing atop you in a heap of sweaty limbs once he's emptied himself, he says it over and over again until it's a garbled mess that bleeds together—Iloveyou, Iloveyou, Iloveyou.
Clenching your jaw to keep from bawling due to a sense of panic, you shut your eyes and wait. For him to stop, or let you leave, or fall asleep, you... You don't know. He shouldn't be alone like this, though.
Curling an arm around your waist, in one smooth movement, Robby has turned you onto your side. When his cock slips out of you, cum dribbles out and over your thigh.
When he sucks a nipple into his mouth, your initial response is to assume that he's trying to make himself ready again... Until he starts to suckle.
Is he... Does he have a—a fetish?
Maybe—
"Can you rub my head, sweetheart?"
When you tilt your chin to study him, you find that his face has gone soft and his eyes droop sleepily.
"Relaxes me," he explains. "I'm fucking exhausted after today." Kissing your breast, he licks your opposite nipple. "Be nice to fall asleep in your arms."
Draping an arm around his shoulders, you slide your dominant hand into his hair and do as requested, and he promptly begins to favor your other nipple.
"Promise you'll stay," he mutters between wet, contented sucks.
You rest your cheek against the top of his head. Even if you wanted to leave, you're far too beat to feel safe behind the wheel. "Promise."
He hums happily.
It isn't even a handful of minutes later before quiet snores rumble through Robby's chest and past his parted lips. Staring at the window across the room clad with blackout curtains, you blink back pooling tears, unaware that the dying smartphone in your bag has an awaiting text from Jack.
Hey honey, can we talk? Getting shot today put some things into perspective for me. Let me know when ur free.
Summary: Known throughout the hospital for your efficient, kind nature as the new attending psychiatrist, you've never worked with Ortho before. Never had a reason for a consult, but one day when you run into The Shark down in the ED, you find that the ideas people hold are not true. A lesson you should know better than anyone. And you fall in love, but you always hold a piece back from him because what if he hurts you the way you've been hurt before? (12k)
Pairing: Brendon "The Shark" Park x fem!wheelchair user!reader
TW: Reader's nickname is Wheels; it has emotional and descriptive elements surrounding the chair and the idea of disability (it's based on my experience so if my emotions translate too much, I'm sorry); mentions of fear of people due to ableist experiences; angst; Brendon does make a mistake; mentions of doubting due to ableism; mentions of sex but no description; it's emotional; reader's condition and reason for the chair is never given so I hope whatever your condition is that it translates well; I think that's it.
Credits & A/N: GIF by @hoechlin; I got really emotional writing this so I hope it's good and yeah...I hope it's something you can see yourself in and understand but everyone's experience and situation is different so...I hope it's enough.
You could hear that faint ringing in your ears, the one that came from people, from living in this world that continually let you down. Because here you were, sitting in your chair, trying to discuss these people’s daughter and her condition and they were looking at you like you were less, like you couldn’t possibly be a doctor because you required a chair to get around.
“Your daughter suffered a psychotic episode,” you say, looking down at your hands, the ones that are folded together in your lap, fingers clenched together so tightly you were surprised that your knuckles hadn’t split through the skin and caused another problem. This was why you didn’t work days. “Because of that, I’m admitting her in a 72 hour psych hold.”
“You need our permission,” the father says, his voice deep, angry, but the kind of angry that is not borne from worry, but from shame. You knew these kinds of people, had dealt with too many of them to count, the ones who viewed mental health as a lie, getting help for anything at all weakness.
“No, I don’t,” you tell him, lips pressing together in a thin line as you draw in a deep breath, that hospital scent of sanitizer and blood filling your lungs, a kind of calming measure, this place you’d been more times than you cared to admit as both doctor and patient. “Your daughter is a danger to herself and others and I am under the legal obligation to admit her. A stay longer than 72 hours would, however, require guardian permission, yes.”
“How can you expect us to tr—” he’s cut off by his wife’s hand on his arm, a wide-eyed look on her face like someone caught off guard because the thought they’re thinking is being said aloud when it shouldn’t be.
“You think because I’m in a chair that I am less capable?” you ask, your tone still even and calm, words nothing but professional even as rage boils in your blood, veins searing from the adrenaline that’s pumping through your body, propelled along by the fact that this is happening. That the laws of the 70s seem to be making a fucking comeback, that the rights that were fought for are just disappearing because people can’t fucking understand.
“Yes,” the father says, his eyes narrowing on you, wrinkles on his face deepening as he scowls, that middle-class able-bodied white man ego in full force.
“Sir,” you begin, swallowing hard and trying to calm down even when you shouldn’t have to calm down. You should be able to make noise, to fight for your right to be seen as a person, yet you still have to bite your tongue when dealing with people like this because the world was made for them and not for you and you have to fight to try and change the shape of the world, but in the meantime, you have to play along. “I will have you know that I more than capable of diagnosing and treating your daughter. I am an attending psychiatrist and I graduated top of my class at Johns Hopkins Medical School. I do not need an able body to do my job, in fact I’m better at my job because of my disability because I understand trauma and changing realities. I am not sitting in a place of privilege judging things that I have no possible way of understanding. If I were a surgeon, perhaps this conversation would be more important as I talked you through how the surgical chair works and doesn’t impact my ability to do my job, but seeing as that is not what we are dealing with, there is no reason to doubt me. But it doesn’t matter if you do, because I do not need your permission to treat your daughter right now. If you’re going to continue to create a hostile environment for me, I invite us to shelve this discussion until closer to the end of your daughter’s mandatory hold. Are you going to continue to create a hostile environment, Mr. Jefferson?”
You can see the rage in the man’s face, that twisting and shifting and sneering, the ruddy tint to his cheeks, the way he hates being called out not only by a woman but by someone he sees as even lesser than himself, a person in a wheelchair. It was a small blessing, that a vast majority of people weren’t like him, but that didn’t make them much better.
“No,” he grits out, practically pushing the word from between his clenched teeth, a muscle in his neck pushing out against the skin and you force a smile, the kind that is fake but doesn’t look it, the one you’ve had to practice ever since you ended up in this chair, the one that shuts down the people who think they have any right to tell you what to do.
“Wonderful,” you reply, twisting in your seat, a twinge in your abdomen setting off at the motion as you reach into your bag, drawing forth the documents of transfer. The ones that, if they sign, will admit their daughter to your care until such time that you find she is no longer a danger to herself or others. “Now, your daughter needs help and I know you know that. These papers,” you explain, wheeling yourself forwards with one hand, the cool feel of the painted metal rim sliding along your palm a grounding feeling as you hand the papers to the mother, “will place her in my care until I find that she’s not a danger to anyone—including herself.”
“How long will that be?” her mother asks, her voice soft, the kind of softness that typically comes from softening the edges of someone else.
“No telling, but I’m always hopeful that it’s never long. Do you want to sign today or would you like more time to decide?”
This could not be happening, not today, not after that shitshow of Emma Jefferson’s parents, your blood still boiling, roiling, ears still ringing with the faintest sound.
But of course, it would be today that your wheel gets stuck on an errant gurney, the arm going between the spokes of your one wheel, in a crooked way, a way that you can’t get around by just backing up and off. No, rather it’s slipped through them when you shifted to make way for Santos who was running through the ED.
And spokes are expensive too. Each wheel costs around two-hundred and fifty dollars and getting a spoke replaced? Even more.
“Fuck,” you whisper, that feeling of burning and clawing and stinging overwhelming you, your throat thickening because all you want to do is scream; scream until you have nothing left to scream. Cry until you have nothing left to cry because you deserve to be able to feel, but you can’t because where does that put you?
You can’t cry or scream or break down without people seeing you as broken and that is not what you are. You are not broken, you are whole, just with a body that is different, needs that are different but that does not make you broken, that does not make you less, yet if you show anything you know that’s exactly what they’ll see in you.
Broken.
People want to pretend that it’s not like that, that the world is meant for everyone, that they don’t act any differently around you, around other disabled people, but that’s not the truth. That’s the lie they tell themselves so they can sleep at night, pretending that they’re good, they’re kind. They don’t judge. They don’t sneer or act like you’re less than. Oh no, they’re supportive.
Code for cloying and condescending.
You pull on your right wheel, the free one, twisting yourself to orient to the right, the arm of the gurney twingingon your spoke, the sharp metallic sound of metal on metal echoing in a way that makes you cringe, seize up even as you pull, ever so gently on the left wheel, aware of the thin pizza slice of your spoke and the width of the arm, the thin space of turning radius you have, your grip on your rim light, more just a guiding force.
The worst part of this, the worst part always, is that as you’re trying to maneuver yourself off of the errant metal arm, maneuver yourself to freedom, everyone just walks past you. As if you’re nothing more than background decoration, clever furniture designed to make the hospital look progressive and that’s all.
“Shit,” you hiss as the feeling of a spoke being hit shakes through your chair, through your body, your face twisting, vision less clear from the squint of your eyes. Your chair is a part of you, it is a limb to you and when it gets hit or stuck, you can almost feel the pain as if were really a flesh and blood limb because it is how you get around in the world.
“You need help there?” you hear a voice call out, one deep and you can feel that automatic tense of your body, the one built from the ableism you’ve been exposed to, the that typically comes from voices like that.
But you can’t deny that you do need help.
And asking for help is not weakness—even if others will see it that way. But, you can’t live your life thinking about how others will perceive you either.
“Yeah, actually,” you answer, your voice sounding tired, the words scraping against your throat, the kind of feeling you have when you speak after screaming and even though you haven’t physically screamed out loud to everyone else, you’ve been screaming to yourself for a long time. And that has a toll too.
“Let me,” they say and you feel hands brush against yours on your rims, their hands moving and shifting, lifting a bit until you’re free, the arm of the gurney no longer stuck through your spokes and not a single one broken.
“Thank you,” you say, pulling on your right wheel sharply, the left gently, guiding, your chair spinning right around, the person who stopped to help standing there before you, tall and broad and strong. Strong body, strong jaw, strong nose. Very roman.
“That happen often?” he asks, your eyes dropping to his name card, the doctor label, the designation of orthopedic surgery just above it.
“Oh, yeah,” you tell him, shrugging, lips pressing together as you try to wave it off, make it no big deal, play it away so that no one ever knows that it hurts. So, they never see you bleed. “I’m the bull in the inaccessible china shop.” He lets out a laugh at that, one short and sharp and deep, the kind of laugh that comes when someone wasn’t expecting to or wanting to find amusement, but does anyway.
That’s the best kind of laugh really, especially since not many people find the humour when you make jokes that call out the rest of the world. You haven’t had many men laugh at those kinds of jokes, rather they almost always seem ready with a lecture as to tell you how easy you have it and how accessible the world really is as if they have the right to tell you that. But not him…no, he laughed.
“I haven’t seen you around here before,” he says, his thin lips curving up in a small smile, the kind of smile that is unsure, ocean blue eyes twinkling as he rocks on his feet, your hands anchored on the cool metal of your rims, your second limbs.
“Smooth,” you say, pushing past that well still inside of you, the one that always is there, the one that you can ignore most times, the well of rage and irritation and just plain fucking exasperation. Except that right now, it’s not that hard to ignore it and push it aside. “Real smooth.”
“What?” he says, his brows drawing together, head tilting, confusion shining in his eyes. You press your lips together as you rock your chair back and forth fidgeting with it, waiting, watching as understanding blooms in his ocean eyes, cheeks going just slightly pink, just the slightest hint of embarrassment shining in them as he lifts a hand to his mouth, pulling it down, fingers rubbing at his jaw. “I…I was not hitting on you.”
“Wow,” you say, schooling your face in its carefully neutral expression, your poker face. “You really know how to make a girl feel good.” His face falls, just collapses into an expression of horror, cheeks no longer dusted pink but rather red, ruddy almost, his eyes widening. He seems like the kind of person who never has his feet knocked out from under him, whose ground is always steady, yet here you are. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as you roll backwards just a bit, just enough that you’re not craning your neck all the up at this giant of a man. “Relax, please, I’m just messing around, Dr…” you squint at his name card, making out the black squiggles into words, “Park.”
“Oh,” he breathes out, the sound less of a word and more of a sigh, one of relief. One that carries weight and yet a lightness at the same time.
“And you haven’t seen me around because a) I’m the new attending psychiatrist and b) I’m night shift, typically. I’m just covering for Dr. Jefferson today,” you tell him and he nods, lips curving up again, in the kind of smile that seems outside of his awareness, just one that happens.
“While,” he says, stepping forwards, stepping beside you and you curse internally at how tall he is, looking up at him, getting a particularly unflattering view of his nostrils that makes you want to laugh even when you know that you can’t but honestly he’s standing right in front of you. And he’s like six feet! “I’ll walk with you to the elevator then.”
“Walk with me?” you ask, lips curving up in a smile, this man making it far too easy to mess with him even if it’s a little mean. “Don’t you mean beside me? Because I’m not walking if you haven’t noticed, Dr. Park.”
“Ha-ha,” he says, face expressionless, arms crossing, biceps flexing at the motion. “You’re fucking with me again, right?”
“How quickly you learn!” you say, reaching forwards, reaching up, holding your hand out for a high-five, one he actually returns, the slap loud and crisp and a solid 7 on the scale of good high-fives that you and Matteo have created. “Fucking with people is kind of my love language.”
“So, you love me?” he asks, his lips pressing together, but not into the thin line of irritation or anger, but rather the line of someone trying to fight back a smile.
“Maybe I do,” you tell him, your eyebrows wiggling and eyes wide, the gasp you take dramatic and stupid, but it makes him laugh again as you spin back to the way you were facing when you got stuck, his body stepping up beside you. “No, I actually just think you’re cool. Not many people laugh at my inaccessible china shop joke, so…”
“So, I’m like a chosen one, then,” he says and you nod, the movement solemn, even as you’re fighting to hold your face in a neutral expression, fighting against the smile and the laugh that want to escape.
“Yes, Dr. Park,” you tell him, closing your eyes for a moment as you bite your lip, trying to suppress your laugh. “You’re the chosen one.” You roll yourself forwards, the motion so easy and normal, the smooth metal sliding along your hands, the push happening as the wheels slow, keeping a constant rhythm, subtle course adjustments of push and pull around the people and beds, into the fray of the ED.
“I always knew I was special,” Dr. Park says from beside you and you glance up and over at him, lips pulling into the smile, the one that you can’t suppress no matter how hard you’ve been trying.
“Well—” you cut yourself off when you see Matteo step out, his attention on McKay, his hands moving with his gestures, his very emphatic gestures. “One sec,” you tell Park and he nods, stepping back to lean against the wall in-between two patient rooms as you wheel towards Matteo, no longer constraining your speed, instead just there due to the fast wheeling you prefer to do. “Matty!”
“Oh, hey, Wheels,” Matteo says when he turns around, a lazy grin pulling at his lips. “What’s up with you? When you did get down?”
“Shut it,” you tell him, wheeling right up to him and jabbing your finger into his chest. He laughs, pushing your hand away, as your eyebrows raise, irritation whirling in your gut. “You walked past me when I was stuck!”
“Did you ask for help?” he counters and you cant your head at him, lips pressing thin, a singular brow arched.
“Did you a) ask if I needed help or b) even notice I was there?” you reply, tone arch as your lips purse together, arms crossing, muscles flexing as his face falls, the kind of falling when he knows you’re right, when he feels bad.
“Sorry,” he says and you nod, unfolding your arms and holding out your hand for a shake which he obliges, his palm warm against yours as you shake, the violent kind where both of you squeeze the other’s hand past the limits, the up-down motion shaky, jerky.
“I forgive you,” you tell him, pulling your hand back from him and giving it a shake, loosening the now compressed bones before placing both hands back on your wheels and turning around.
“Hey, wait! Wheels!” he calls out and you draw in a deep breath, the scent of antiseptic, blood and cigarette smoke heavy in the air as you turn around, glance over your shoulder to look at Matty.
“What?”
“Why is Park the Shark waiting for you?” he asks and you look back at Dr. Park, the unfairly tall man, who stands, attention on you, sharp and focused and strong.
“He helped me when no one else did,” you tell Matteo and you can’t see him, but you can imagine the look on his face, the contemplative one he has. The one he has when he’s considering things.
“Hmm,” Matty hums behind you and you look back over at him, noticing the way his finger drums on his forearm, a rhythm that you know because it’s the one he has when he’s assessing every guy you’ve dated.
“Stop,” you order him and he startles, jumping slightly, looking back at you, confusion shining in his eyes, eyes that you know well, the eyes of your best friend. “No assessing him. I order you to stop.”
“But—”
“No!” you cut in, lifting your hand to your mouth, miming zipping your lips and then tossing away a key. “You stop. That’s what that gesture meant, okay?”
“I thought it meant you would finally shut up,” he counters and you roll your eyes, wheeling forwards again with one hand, holding the other up, the middle finger aimed at him for a moment before the hand finds its wheel, straightening out your path.
“All good?” Park asks you and you nod, wheeling towards the elevator with him, conscious of the small distance between you, the way he stands like he’s tense, like he’s worried. Almost like he cares far too much what others think of him.
“Why do they call you Park the Shark?” you ask him as you roll to a stop before the shiny metal doors of the elevator, reaching over and pressing the down button, his body tensed, biceps flexing again, attention locked on the doors.
“They don’t know me,” he whispers, glancing over at you, face drawn into a scowl, one that softens at the edges when he looks at you. “They don’t try.”
“Fair,” you tell him. “Not everything is what people assume, right?” He nods, his attention focused on you, stare unwavering and you swallow hard, nerves racing in a way that is strange and foreign and not entirely welcome but not unwelcome either.
“You going up to psychiatry?” he asks.
“Nope,” you tell him, shaking your head along with your words, hands still gripping your rims because otherwise you’ll feel unmoored, like you should be doing something even though you have nothing to do. “I’m on my break now so I’m going down for coffee.” The doors slide open, a few people getting off, the elevator cab thankfully empty enough for the two of you to slip inside, you pulling on your wheel, turning right around to face the door. “You want to join me?” you ask him, a whim, but mostly because you like talking with him, you like the way that everything seems a little quieter talking with him.
You don’t want the conversation to end.
“Yes!” he blurts out, his voice far too loud and far too fast for the small enclosed space of the elevator cab, but it’s wonderful because a smile blooms across your face, one of genuine enjoyment as you glance back over at him, taking note of the redness in his cheeks.
“Cool,” you whisper, your voice quiet, but pleased and he looks down and over at you, his lips curving into a mirror of your smile.
“Cool,” he echoes as the elevator beeps with the next floor.
The autumn air is crisp as the breeze glides along your skin, a whispered kiss, carrying the scent of diesel exhaust, cinnamon and that strange coolness that has no name yet a scent in the breeze nonetheless.
The sidewalk is crowded, but Brendon walks ahead of you and you have to admit that he’s a wonderful push bumper, getting people out of your way, the crowd parting around him more effectively than they’ve ever parted for you. And isn’t that one of the worst things? That people never consider to move out of your way, instead make it extremely hard for you to go anywhere because they insist on walking in packs?
“Where is the shop?” Brendon calls out to you, glancing over his shoulder, your gaze really only falling his dark blue eyes, a bit of yellow sun glinting in them like light cutting through darker water in those strange streaks.
“Just across the street,” you answer, wheeling faster, wheeling up beside him as he hits the pedestrian button at the light, the hand still solid red as you turn around, preparing to back down onto the street. “Can you tell me when we can go across?”
“Why are you backwards?” he asks, his brows drawn together in confusion and you sigh, the sigh one that cuts through you, not out of anger but of understanding. The tiring understanding.
"Look at the way the sidewalk and the road connect,” you tell him and he does, gaze flicking back to you, “that big dip between them can cause serious damage to a chair. I had friend whose footrest got broken off completely. It cracked. Because of the sidewalk. It also means that depending on your chair, the smaller front wheels can get stuck so I back down or sometimes pop a wheelie down but that takes more skill.”
“I didn’t know that,” he whispers and you shrug as he nods, waving you forwards with his hands and you back down, pulling on your right wheel abruptly, spinning right around and becwheeling fast across the crosswalk, pulling on your left wheel, the turn fluid as you back up onto the sidewalk just outside of the coffee shop.
“Most people don’t know,” you tell Brendon when he’s up on the sidewalk, following you as you press the wheelchair button (he may be there and could open the door but it’s the principle of being able to do things by yourself. If there was no button, you sure as hell would be pulling that door open yourself because you’re just that stubborn).
“Wait…are you the new head of the accessibility committee at the hospital? The one pushing for the new measures?” he asks and you can feel that proud smile as it grows across your face and you nod.
“Yep, that’s me,” you tell him, slipping into the store, the wide open store with high tables suited for your chair, ones you can slip right under no matter the kind of armrests you have and a counter that’s the perfect height so you can roll up and pay without having to go sideways and pull the card reader as far away as it will go.
“That’s really cool,” he says and you glance back at him, your brows knitting together.
“Cool? It’s not cool, Dr. Park, that I have to fight for the world to provide what should have been provided long ago. It’s not cool, it’s necessary because if I don’t try to change the world, what are we leaving for the future disabled people but a world that still likes to pretend they don’t exist?”
“I meant that it’s cool that you’re fighting because a lot of people go along with things. So…it’s more so that you’re cool,” he says and you swallow hard, a strange, foreign lump in your throat like the kind that comes when you want to cry out of happiness from external validation and shit you should not be this affected but you are.
You’re blaming it on the fact that he’s hot.
“Well,” you tell him, regaining your composure, wheeling up to the counter, “I can’t fault your logic because you’re right. I am cool. Now, what do you want? I’m buying.”
“You know, you’re really strong,” Brendon says, his voice light, still carrying the sound of his laughter, the two of you seated at a table near the back, by the window.
“Duh,” you reply, the sound drawn out, pulling another laugh from Brendon, the sound of it strangely addicting, “I propel my entire body weight forwards every day. You gym bros want to be me.” He’s still laughing, laughing harder at the rest of your sentence, his hand tightening around his cup, the plastic crinkling.
“Yeah, yeah, we do,” he agrees when he’s calmed down, when his laugh has slowed to a stop and he’s looking at you with clear blue eyes, eyes that seem like they’re seeing you. You not a figure or stereotype or fetish but you and isn’t it strange that you can’t remember the last time that happened?
“Okay, lightening round, are you ready?” you ask, your hands slapping the tabletop and he nods, adjusting in his seat, sitting up straighter, miming being serious even as his eyes twinkle with mirth.
“Shoot.”
“Why ortho?” you ask and he pauses, considering, the sight making you snap your fingers at him.
“What? I’m thinking,” he says and you shake your head, disappointment in the gesture, the kind of head shake that a mother gives when her child has done something disappointing.
“Lightening round,” you remind him. “No thinking. So, why ortho?”
“Because I like the idea that I’m fixing things that have broken. Because it’s the only time you can because people can’t be fixed like that and we’re not really broken, just not quite right but on my table there is broken and whole. You know?” he says and you nod, the gesture solemn even as your stomach twists and your heart pinches with feelings you don’t know how to name.
“Why psychiatry?” he counters and you don’t even have to think. Because you know, it’s engrained in your being, always has been.
“Because I’m still trying to figure out myself. And isn’t that why all of us become psychiatrists? We’re all just looking for answers to ourselves. Helping people along the way…well, that’s the icing on the cake,” you tell him, one eyebrow quirking at him as you lift your coffee cup up, wrapping your lips around the straw and sucking in a mouthful of vanilla and coffee and cream.
“I don’t know if that’s the whole truth,” Brendon says and you narrow your eyes at him, arching one brow in question. “But I’ll let it slide.”
“Raccoon,” you cry out and he blinks, freezing for a second before readjusting.
“Bandit.”
“Eye mask.”
“Sleep. Are we just playing a game of word association right now?” he asks and you nod, while he rolls his eyes, affection in the gesture already.
“Bed.”
“Pillow.”
“Tired.”
“Work.”
“Coffee.”
“Cup.”
“Water.”
“Wa—” he cuts himself off, expression confused, wondering because he’s totally lost the thread of the game.
“Do you yield? Do I win the game?” you ask, wiggling your brows up and down, surprising him as he snorts, eyes closing for a moment as he nods, the movement reluctant.
“Fine,” he says, the word harsh, but tone soft as if he can’t actually sound harsh to you, his lips curving up as your phone beeps out a rhythm of windchimes, electronic and slightly off of the real sound.
“My break’s up,” you tell him, that feeling of regret, seizing you as you pull your phone from your sweater pocket, turning the reminder off, slipping it back in, hands drifting to your wheels as you look at Brendon, his face frozen in an expression of something you don’t quite know how to name but you would almost say regret.
“I don’t want this conversation to be over,” he whispers and you understand what he means, can understand his expression now, the regret over something that can’t be helped, the sheer chance of something that is magical when it happens.
“I don’t either,” you tell him and he looks at you, his lips curving down, just slightly as he pushes up, rising, his hand still clenched around the thin plastic cup. “So, what about dinner?”
“YES!” he blurts out, his cheeks mottling, his muscles tensing like he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for you to yell pranked ya or something like that. Like he’s still waiting for you to take it all back.
“I’ll tell you where, then.”
“A taco truck, really?” you hear Brendon call out and you spin yourself around, arms crossing as you watch him walk towards you, dressed in jeans and a dark grey t-shirt, plaid jacket on and it’s unfair really how good he looks. Both in scrubs and normal clothes. He’s like a fucking Greek god lookalike.
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, Bren,” you call out and freeze for just a moment, the nickname having slipped off your tongue like it was nothing even when it’s kind of everything because you don’t nickname your dates. Except this one.
“It just doesn’t scream first date to me,” he says, holding out a hand to you, one which you stare at suspiciously.
“What’s the hand for?”
“I want to hold your hand,” he says, the words slow as if he doesn’t know how you don’t understand.
“And how am I expected to wheel myself?” you counter and he looks at you, thought in his blue eyes before he nods, stepping around behind you, his one hand settling on the back of your chair, curling down, fingers brushing the top of your back in a way that makes you shiver. But in a good way.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers, bending down, his breath skating along the shell of your ear as he pushes you forwards with one hand, the other holding yours, his arm hanging down over your shoulder, your body alight from the contact.
“You’re a pest,” you tell him and he laughs, the sound rumbling through his body, the motion echoing to you through his hold on the chair, through his hold on your hand and you like it. You like it and that scares you because you’ve never had this before. Not really.
You’ve had dates that have gone nowhere because they say you do so well for a girl in a chair as if your chair makes you less, when really that thought is what makes it so hard to succeed, what makes you have to work twice as hard as everyone else even though you shouldn’t have to. You’ve had dates that really only happened because the guys have a fetish for disabilities, for people in chairs. You’ve had dates where a snide comment is made, where they’ve never looked into whether places are accessible or not, just believed that age old lie that everything is accessible when it very much is not.
But you’ve never had this: someone pushing you just so they can hold your hand. Someone who, yeah, sees the chair, but sees you more. Sees you, which includes the chair.
“What do you recommend?” Bren asks you, looking at the board outside the front of the truck, the handwritten sign decorated with chalk.
“You have to pick what calls to you,” you tell him.
“I already picked you,” he says and you turn in your seat, craning around to look at him, no doubt disbelief writ upon your face, nostrils flaring and eyebrow arching. He’s smiling, looking lighter than he did in the hospital, rather looking more alive than ever.
“I meant on the menu, jackass,” you tell him and he laughs at that, squeezing your hand once, the gesture making your breath hitch and body feel strange as you look at the menu, picking what you want, turning to the window. “Can I have the combo number two, please and thank you?”
“And a combo three,” Bren says and you look at him, narrowing your eyes, assessing him as you pull your wallet from your crossbody bag. “What? I want the combo three.”
“That’s cool. I’m just reassessing you with this newfound knowledge I have,” you tell him as you flip open your wallet, drawing forth your debit card, but he’s already tapping, paying, leaving a tip.
“First date,” he says.
“And?”
“I have a code. I pay for the first date, it’s what I always do.”
“And what if I have the same code? Hmm? What then?” you counter, the chef snorting as he ducks back and over to prep the tacos and sides ordered.
“Then mine wins,” he says and you roll your eyes, sliding your card back in your wallet and your wallet in your bag, muttering men under your breath. “And I heard that.”
“I meant for you to,” you say and Bren laughs again, the same deep, rumbling laugh he has that you know means he’s genuinely enjoying himself. Genuinely finding the humour in the situation. You don’t say anything else, rather sitting in the silence that rings with his laughter as you wait for your order, take it and wheel over to one of the picnic tables designed for wheelchairs.
You chose this park specifically because it’s accessible, because the picnic tables have one side for people to sit on and another for wheelchair users or for mobility aid users to set their things without feeling like they’re in the way of everyone else and having to deal with assholes.
It’s your rule. Bren has his moral about paying for the first date and everyone since your college days when you burned by dates before, hurt by their inconsideration, you choose the places for dates because at least you always check.
“Favourite movie,” Bren says, the two of you at the tables, tacos unwrapped, sides beside and drinks half-sipped.
“The Princess Bride,” you answer and he arches a brow while looking at you, popping the last bit of his taco in his mouth, shoving the wrapper and the side container back into the carry bag as he wipes his hands on a napkin. “What about you?” you ask, popping your own last bit into your mouth.
“Don’t judge me,” he says, “but I would have to go with When Harry met Sally.” You can feel your eyes widen, your mouth dropping open just slightly.
“No way,” you whisper and he nods, passing you the bag as you place your wrappers in it too, easier to place it in the waste disposal as a singular package, something you’ve learned through the years with your chair.
“Yep,” he says and you nod, the kind of nod that says respect.
“It’s a good movie,” you say, your gaze dropping from his eyes to the corner of his mouth where salsa rests in a small diagonal line drifting to his cheek. “And you have a little something here,” you tell him pointing. He reaches up, wiping, but missing it over and over and you sigh, reaching over, your abdomen pressing against the picnic table, your thumb brushing along the salsa on his cheek.
“There,” you tell him, holding it up before drawing it back, wiping it on a napkin. You look up to find him staring at you, the stare intent and electric, something so strong that you can feel it like a livewire over your skin. “Sorry, it’s just you kept missing it,” you say, noticing the pupil flare over his ocean blue eyes. “Did that turn you on?”
“Possibly,” he whispers and you can feel your eyebrows rising as you nod, lips curving up in a slight smirk.
“While, I don’t have sex on the first date, but you could get over here and kiss me,” you tell him and he wastes no time, rising and walking over to you, his arms dropping to rest on your chair’s armrests. “You’re gonna have to lower yourself. You’re way too fucking tall.”
“That can be arranged,” he whispers, kneeling down before you, knees pressing into the gravel, his face level with yours as he leans forwards, pressing his lips to yours in a soft, sweet, close-lipped kiss. It’s sweet and soft and kind, but it doesn’t stay that way, his mouth slanting, opening, yours following suite, his tongue gliding across your bottom lip, slipping inside your mouth, tracing the shape of yours, his one hand on the back of your head, pulling you closer, his lips gliding along yours, intent and focused, the taste of hope and trust and salsa permeating the kiss.
He pushes forwards, his leg bumping your footrests and your chair begins to move, the brakes not on. Your lips pull from his, hands drifting from around his neck where they’ve been resting, the pose from everyone 2000s teen movie, drifting to your wheels, pulling on them abruptly, aiming to rest. To stop.
“Sorry,” Bren whispers, his hand disentangling from the back of your head, from your hair, his eyes still pupil-blown, lips glistening with remnants of your lip oil.
“Don’t be,” you reply, lips curving up. “I liked it a lot. So much that it had me rolling.”
Bren: What about if we go dancing?
You: Dancing?
You: When?
Bren: Tonight???
You: I’ll text you the details of the place.
You: You better update me on wardrobe.
The dance floor is wide open and smooth, soft music pouring from the speakers, surrounding you as Brendon steps out ahead of you, offering you a hand, which you take, shaking your head affectionately at him.
“I watched a lot of YouTube videos,” he tells you, “so I know what to do.” He sounds so excited that your heart seems to swell as you nod, letting him pull you onto the floor, the pull guiding you into a small spin.
“So did I,” you tell him and he laughs as the song shifts, the tempo more relaxed, yet prettier and more even. Better.
He steps around you, his hand pulling you along with him, the two of you building a rhythm that includes you spinning and tilting and laughing. So much laughing. You spin around the floor, him never far behind, his body a bit stiff for the dance, but you were uncoordinated before you ended up in a chair and it didn’t change being in a chair.
It’s not a pretty dance. Neither of you are dancers, but that’s what makes it better, because it’s not choreographed or practiced, it’s spur of the moment, based off YouTube videos. It’s just real.
“Are you ready?” he asks you, his one hand on the back of your chair, the other reaching down to your footrests.
“For what?” you ask, but then he’s tipping your chair and you’re squealing, but laughing at the same time because yeah, it’s scary because it’s not in your control, but at the same time it is because if you told Brendon right now to stop, you know somehow that he would.
He rights you just as the song ends, applause sounding from the other patrons and you bow as best you can in your chair, a small smile creeping onto your face. You chose this place because you called and asked about the dance floor, if it was accessible and it is, but you didn’t expect applause. Not with the experiences you’ve been having.
It’s a pretty good feeling, the kind of good feeling that means tears sting your eyes irrationally, but sometimes it's just good to irrational.
"Hey, Bren,” you whisper as you follow him off the dance floor, wheeling beside him, your cheeks flushing with heat, the kind of fevered heat that comes from exertion, from pride, from happiness.
“Yeah,” he says, stopping by a table, sinking down upon a chair, looking at you with bright ocean eyes. It’s been a few weeks of coffee and dinner and kisses where he’s sitting or kneeling before you and you want more.
You just do.
And you know what? You’re allowed to want more.
“Do you want to go to my place?” you whisper and he blinks once, like he’s recalculating everything in his mind as he nods, the motion jerky and you can feel that strange feeling of desire and pleasure suffusing through your limbs, that giddy, light-headed feeling. “I’ll text you my address,” you whisper and he nods, rising and following you out of the club, stopping on the sidewalk, his hand grabbing yours and pulling you back to him as he crouches to your level, pressing a searing kiss to your lips. One like a promise.
“See you there, sweetheart.”
Brendon is gentle, impossibly gentle as he lifts you from your chair, laying you upon your bed, careful of your disability, constantly asking you if it’s okay, if it feels good, focusing on you.
He’s the first person to see you in a while. And not see past your chair, but just see you chair and all because the chair is a piece of you. It’s a limb and it’s important and it’s the way you move through the world. And he cares, but not in a way that’s negative.
He cares about you. Just you.
Which is why this is what you want. Which is why you let yourself want him. Because he treats you well, he watches fucking YouTube just to figure out how to dance with you. He cares and you haven’t that had in a very long time.
“Can I say something?” Bren asks, his body beside yours, arms around you, anchoring your back to his chest.
“Yes,” you whisper and he sighs, his breath skating along your skin, goosebumps erupting in its wake.
“I think I may love you,” he whispers, holding you tighter, but not tight enough to hurt you.
“I think I might too.”
“Pancakes or waffles?” he asks you, standing in your kitchen, the one designed to fit your chair, counters lowered just for that, opened underneath, yet there he stands, shirtless, pajama pants hung low on his hips, a bowl held to his side.
“Waffles,” you tell him, smiling at him, a wide kind of smile as he nods.
“I thought so.”
“Sometimes,” you hiss, wheeling into Bren’s office, closing his door behind you before you wheel up to his desk, your forehead resting down on the top, eyes closing, “I hate the world.”
“What happened, sweets?” he asks you and you lift your head, letting out a groan, the one that rumbles through your entire body, shaking you with the force of your pain, your wishes and wants and hopes and dreams. And nightmares. Your waking nightmares.
“Just…” you pause, tears stinging your eyes, tears borne of frustration as you sigh, swallowing hard around the growing lump. “Do I seem like I can’t do my job?”
“What?!” he cries, his hands reaching for yours on the top of his desk, taking them and holding them, squeezing them tight as his eyes narrow, shadow, shutter. “What made you think that?”
“People,” you whisper, your chest tight, lungs burning and constricting as your throat thickens, swallowing hard, the bottom edge of your vision blurry from the tears stinging them, the tears that you just can’t let fall because it’s an admission of weakness. Because you’ve trained yourself to never give into the pain they cause because it just gives them the satisfaction of knowing that they got to you.
“What did they do?” he whispers, his body leaning towards, tilting towards you, ocean eyes wide, open and fierce and tender and a million other things that make you feel safe enough to let those tears fall, the water slipping down your cheeks in lazy tracks, a few drops landing on the polished wood top, a small sound like miniature raindrops when they hit it, puddling together.
“They just…they look at me like I can’t do my job. They have that hesitation when I introduce myself as if I can’t possibly be a doctor. And…sometimes I wonder if I do give off that vibe. Is it me?” You never voice these thoughts aloud, or you try not to, you typically save them for the dead of night, crying out to some kind of deity, some god that you long ago stopped believing in.
“Hey,” Bren says, his voice a whisper, soft and tender, his hands letting go of yours, instead reaching for your cheeks, wiping away the tears with his thumbs. “You know it’s not you. Don’t let the world make you think what they do. Show them. Show them what you already know about yourself.”
“Sometimes,” you whisper, swallowing hard, swallowing down the tears, the fears, the worry, “I wish I didn’t have to work so fucking hard, you know. I wish they could just see me and not my chair.”
“That’s why you work though, right,” he says and your eyes narrow at him, brows furrowing. “So, that the next generation doesn’t have to deal with what you have. You show them now, so the next group doesn’t have too.”
“You have a good memory, sir,” you tell him, your lips curving up in not quite a smile but not a frown, rather an expression that doesn’t quite fit what you’re feeling, but has happened nonetheless.
“What brought it on?” he asks and you sigh, looking up and away at the crack in the wall, the kind of surface crack that shows dark among the lightness of the walls. That’s how you feel most days, like you’re some neutral colour, some normal colour, but with a crack running through you letting in just a little bit of darkness.
You can still see the teenage girl on the hospital bed in the ER, her wrists bandaged, pulse a steady, slow metronome, scars covering her body, a lifetime of harm to silence the darkness in her head. She was so pale, her skin grey, eyes closed, only the motion of her eyes behind the lids a sign she was alive, so still and weak and hurting.
You can still see her parents, the ones arguing against you, against what you said, against the hold you had to put. The mother yelling that you were projecting and you understand in some distant part of yourself that she was hurting, but there’s a difference between hurting and hurting others. And she crossed the line because it broke you just a little bit. Because it’s not the first time someone’s said that, but it is the first time it caught you off guard.
It is the first time in a long time that it’s hurt that much. That it’s made you doubt that much.
“A mother accused me of projecting my own emotions onto her daughter. Claimed I was wrong,” you whisper and Brendon stands from his chair, pushing back and he steps around, kneeling before you, level with you as he reaches forwards, his arms around your upper body, yours around his as he hugs you. His grip is tender and strong, but not hard. Just…a reminder.
“She’s the one who’s wrong,” he whispers and you draw in a deep breath, nodding against his shoulder, letting go of him and wheeling yourself back just a bit to look at him, lips only pursed a slight amount.
“I know,” you tell him. “It’s just sometimes…” you trail off, throat thickening again, thousands of thoughts racing through your head as he reaches forwards for your hand, squeezing it just once.
“Sometime knowing doesn’t change the feeling, right?” he asks and you nod, that feeling of being seen overwhelming you for a moment before you look down, look away and nod.
“I best get back to it,” you whisper and he nods, standing, going back around to sit behind his desk, eyes still on you, still watching as you spin around, wheeling back to the door, pausing just once, hand on the silver doorknob. “And Bren,” you call out, glancing over your shoulder at him, “you were right that the reason I told you I do this job was wrong. I do it for them, for the kids. The ones who feel like no one is there to listen. The ones who have no one they trust. I do it for them, so they have someone. I can be that someone for them and that’s why I do it.”
You like this, the warmth of sitting beside Brendon on the couch, his arms around you, a movie playing on the screen, Matteo sitting in your chair, the lift chair you saved up for because it makes transferring easier, but tonight you didn’t care about easy.
“She’s dancing on the table,” Brendon whispers, his tone flat in the way he has when he doesn’t quite believe what he’s seeing. “Why is she dancing on the table?”
“She’s drunk,” Matty says, glancing over, his old-fashioned bottle of Coke halfway to his mouth, face twisted in incredulity. “Have you not been watching?”
“I just don’t get it,” Bren says, looking from Matty to the TV where Kat is now about to hit her head on the chandelier.
“Why are with him again?” Matty asks you, his eyebrows knitting together as he sighs before tipping his bottle against his lips, swallowing some of the Coke just as Kat falls down.
“Because he’s great in bed,” you reply, face schooled into your carefully innocent expression, Brendon letting out a soft laugh beside you, one soft enough that only you can really hear it, and really, in truth, only feel it, the shake of his chest against you.
“Jesus, Wheels!” Matteo says, his face wrinkling up at that, nose scrunching. “Keep it suitable for work, okay?”
“Wow, Matty,” you tell him, struggling to keep your face neutral, lips twitching with the need to laugh, “get your head out of the gutter. I meant to sleep beside. What did you think I meant?” Matty glares at you, shaking his head, turning back to the TV, holding up a single finger to you.
“What? Don’t give her the middle finger,” Bren says and Matteo looks back at him, confusion writ upon his face, dark eyes looking at you with a question in them and you shrug, the two of you holding onto your straight faces before you dissolve into laughter. “What? What did I do?” Bren asks over the sound of the TV and Matty’s deep laugh mingling with your cackle.
“I know why you’re with him,” Matteo says once the two of you have calmed down. “I get it, Wheels.” In his eyes, those eyes you’ve known like the back of your hand for years, since the two of you were teenagers in a new city, learning the bounds together, you see that he does.
Because he knows that sometimes, all anyone wants, is someone to see them.
And Brendon sees you.
“I like this,” you whisper, your voice quiet in the stillness of the morning, your hands wrapped around your mug, the warmth of the coffee leaching into the coolness of your hands.
“Coffee?” Brendon asks, looking up from his tablet, looking up from the medical journal he’s been reading, his version of a morning paper. “I already knew that, sweets.”
“This meaning you and me in the mornings,” you whisper and he looks at you for a second with such awe in his face that it takes you by surprise. Even more surprise when he leans across the table, pressing his lips against yours in a kiss that is soft but has a heat lurking underneath it. A promise.
“I like it to,” he breathes, pressing his forehead against yours, one hand pressing against your thigh and the other cupping your face. “A lot.”
The restaurant doesn’t look very large from the outside, the tables crowded together in the glimpse you get through the large front windows, the doorway small. You worry it’s too small for your chair, but you take a deep breath, your hands leaving your wheels to straighten your shirt.
You trust Brendon. You know him. You trust that he called, that everything will be fine. He wanted to try this restaurant, but he wouldn’t do it at the expense of you and your safety and your well-being. Right?
But then why do you have this tightness in your chest, this sweat on your palms and that sinking feeling in your gut, the one that says this is just going to be a repeat of every night that has ever broken your heart before because you fall for people who cannot possibly understand what you’re going through.
“You okay?” Bren asks you, his hand reaching for yours and you look over at him, forcing a smile on your face, one made of plastic. That plastic look of fakeness, that reserve inside of yourself that you have to act like everything is fine, you’re not hurting. Because you can’t possibly hurt.
“Fine,” you tell him, nodding in that reassuring way you have, the one that works to silence people most of the time but Brendon only looks at you with disbelief in his eyes, but he reaches for your one hand, squeezing it before letting go.
It’s that, right there, that gesture that’s why you hope you’re wrong. Because you’ve never been with someone who shows affection so casually, who acts like touching you is no problem, who never shies away from PDA in public with you because he couldn’t care less what people think of him and you.
Yet, why do you feel like everything is wrong?
“You did call ahead right?” you ask him and he looks over at you, brows knitted together in confusion as he nods.
“I had to book us in,” he reminds you and you nod, breathing in, the motion shaky, your one hand back on the smooth metal of your rim, the other working itself in and out of a fist as Brendon begins to walk ahead, to get the door because of course there are no buttons. Why does it feel like everything is wrong?
Is it just because you gave up the control of picking the place? Is it because you still don’t trust people to check if places are accessible after all the times you’ve been burned before? Or…is your gut right?
Is this place really accessible or did Brendon forget to mention your wheelchair at all?
The lighting is dim and dark as you wheel inside through the narrow opening of the doorway, the carpeted floor thick and plush and resistance against your wheels in a way that you’re both used to and despise.
“Hello,” the hostess says, the emphasis on the end of the word coming when she sees you, sees the chair, her eyes widening, gaze darting away, panicked to the rest of the room and you know. You know that something is wrong.
“Hi,” Bren says, stepping up beside you, “table for two under the name Park.” The hostess looks back at her paper, finger sliding down, stopping when she finds it, nodding and smiling but the tense kind of smile that you get when things aren’t going according to plan.
“Of course,” she says, “right this way. Um…it may be a bit of a tight squeeze for you, ma’am.”
“Not the first time,” you tell her, the smile on your face wavering, shaking, becoming watery because it’s not humiliating to be disabled. It’s not. It’s your reality and you’ve grown used to it. It is who you are and honestly you likewho you are. You wouldn’t trade it, but it is humiliating to be with someone who doesn’t respect that. Who doesn’t think of that.
You follow Brendon who follows the hostess into the dining area, small tables lit by candles clustered together, the passages through narrow, narrow that even Brendon is having trouble slipping through and of course you’re having trouble, your chair bumping into tables and chairs, people looking back at you, aggrieved looks shot in your direction as if you should be more considerate as if your chair, your necessary mobility aid, is at fault in a restaurant barely designed for people to walk.
You can see that Brendon’s stopped up ahead at a table, your body relaxing because maybe everything is fine, but when you roll up, you see that the table is too low, your chair won’t slide right under it. It’s not designed for a wheelchair.
It’s not designed for you.
And Brendon didn’t consider that.
“Brendon,” you whisper, your teeth clenched together so tight that you can hear them as they squeak against each other. He looks at you, looks at the way you’re close to crying, irritation, frustration and that hot sting of humiliation pushing at you.
“What’s wrong?” he asks you, tone worried, face drawing together as you look at the table, your entire face pursing. Puckering like you’ve eaten something sour.
“I can’t fit at the table,” you tell him, pulling on your right wheel, turning around, preparing to leave, but his hand falls on the back of your chair and you pause.
“Give me a second,” he says and you pause, not turning around, every muscle in your body tensed and ready to flee, to wheel as fast as you can and get the hell out of here, the hell away from him because even after months he didn’t consider you. “We need a different table. She can’t fit here,” you hear him tell the hostess, his tone loud, fraying. Angry.
Angry? He’s the reason you’re in pain right now. He doesn’t have the right to be angry unless he’s angry at himself for fucking up.
“Sir,” the hostess says. “I have to ask to please lower your voice for others’ dining experiences and we don’t haveother tables.”
“You don’t have tables that will fit a wheelchair?” Brendon asks, his caustic searing edge rising in his voice.
“No, we’ve never had anyone in a chair here before,” she says and her voice is embarrassed and scared and upset. You get it, it’s not her fault, she works there but she didn’t design it. It’s why when you introduce measures or report places for inaccessibility, you report the institution not the individuals. It’s a line.
One Brendon’s crossing.
“You didn’t even consider the possibility that someone in a wheelchair would come in?” he asks her, that tone of Park the Shark in his voice, the one he has when he berates med students.
“Brendon,” you snap, whirling around, pulling hard and fast on your left wheel to face him, a lone tear slipping down your cheek. “I’m leaving.” And you do just that, turning back around and wheeling past the tables, not even feeling anything as people turn to glare at you, too concerned about themselves to realize that it’s not your fucking fault.
You push open the door with one hand, wheeling forwards with one wheel gently and surely, pushing yourself forwards and in turn the door, your footrests replacing your hand and then you’re free, pushing out into the evening air, the slight autumnal chill in the air, cooling and calming against your burning skin. The burn of humiliation.
The burn of feeling like an idiot because you trusted the wrong guy.
“I can’t believe you did that,” you hear Brendon say behind you, his surgeon tone still heavy in his voice. “We should hold them accountable. Isn’t that what you’re all about? Accountability and accessibility?”
“Brendon! There is a difference between fighting for change and fucking fighting for change!” you yell, pulling on your wheel, spinning around to face him, watch as he looks at you, anger writ across his face while yours is falling, collapsing, breaking. “I’m fucking humiliated right now, Brendon!”
“You shouldn’t be,” he says, the anger washing away to concern and that look is what hurts most because you want to think it’s genuine and maybe it is, but it doesn’t matter because he can’t get out of his own world to see yours. Even after all this time. “You deserve—”
“No shit!” you yell, holding up a hand to him, knowing you’re causing a scene but you could not care because everyone causes scenes and you have spent your life trying to disappear, to be invisible so that people don’t look at you like a freak because of your chair. You’re done. You’re fed up. Cause a scene, you don’t give a fuck anymore. “It’s not what I deserve that’s made me humiliated! It’s that I fucking trusted you and did you even check to see if it was accessible?!” The look on his face, the blanching, the look of a man who forgot, who never thought tells you what you thought. “That’s what I thought. Because I always do! It’s why I picked the places, but you still live in your world of able-bodied men where everything in the world bends to you! I live in the one where it only bends to keep me out! You will never understand the pain of existing in a world that likes to pretend you don’t! You never even tried! So, fuck off, Brendon because I…I trusted you!”
The tears are falling now, fast and heavy and you reach a hand to wipe them away, the gesture furious as you turn your wheels, turning away, wheeling away from him down the sidewalk, no real idea of where you are or where you’re going, only that you’re getting away from him.
“WAIT!” he calls out and you hear him following you and you pause, swallowing hard, your throat thick, chest burning and lungs constricting as you look at his tear-blurred form.
“No, Brendon,” you tell him, your face falling. “I know this is on me because I trusted you but I’m done! I’m done! Just…leave me alone!” He stops, his face falling like yours and you shake your head, spinning back around, wheeling off, around the corner, pulling your phone from your pocket, dialing the one person that you need.
The one who’s always there.
“Matty,” you whisper, your voice a cry. “I need you to pick me up.”
“Two minutes, Wheels,” he says, his voice a salve to your aching heart because even when your heart breaks, your best friend is still there. “Give me two minutes.”
Your eyes still feel puffy even a week later, but it doesn’t surprise you. What did surprise you was just how many tears you had in you, just how many tears you had to cry because it’s not the first time you’ve been hurt, yet somehow it hurt the most.
It hurt the most because trust was in the mix and he broke it. Shattered it. Destroyed you, really, but now…now it’s time to get a move on. To enjoy your day off, Matteo swinging by in a few hours for the two of you to go the farmer’s market, coffee and then, as always, the book store.
For now, you’re at your table, scrolling up on your tablet, reading through the article on recent tests of dopamine-like medications, similar to L. Dopa and their effects on specific conditions. You’re reading to try and forget, dull the pain and the memories by science and hope and possibilities. The beauty of an idea rather than the pain of your reality.
In the distance, you can hear the sound of the doorbell, the sound muted but present and you groan, your head falling back as you roll your eyes, wheeling away from your table, spinning around to cross the hall to your front door, the silver metal of the knob cool and smooth as you twist it, pulling it towards you as you move your chair backwards, a motion you’ve grown so used to that you don’t even question it, the screen door still between you and the person on your porch.
A person who is six feet tall with dark hair, ocean blue eyes, broad shoulders and an expression that you grew to knew. A person who brings everything you’ve been trying to forget back up again, the pain and sadness clawing at your throat.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” you ask, your words harsh and cutting even as you feel your face fall.
“We need to talk,” he says and you roll your eyes at him, shaking your head, your breaths less a sound than a curse all their own.
“No. We don’t,” you tell him, closing the door while moving your chair forwards, but he opens your screen door, the one you left unlocked for Matteo, his foot preventing you from closing the inside door. “Please, Brendon. Just leave.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not letting you push me away without at least listening to me,” he says and you sigh, swallowing around your thickening throat, letting go of the door and spinning your chair around, wheeling deeper into your house, leaving him to come in or leave you alone.
“I mean,” you say when you hear him close the door, his footsteps padding behind you, “I think your yelling at me that night was enough, but sure, I’ll be a masochist.”
He says your name then soft and delicate and pleading. No pet name, no nickname, just your name in completeness, in totality and it hurts more. Because it’s real, there’s a safety in a nickname, a separation between you and the person calling you because names have power and that nickname, pet name, it doesn’t. Not the same as your name.
Not the same as the name he just whispered like it was the most precious thing in the world.
Like you are.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry for the night and the yelling and the restaurant, but I was told it was accessible by one of the doctors at the hospital who recommended it to me. And they were wrong, but I made a mistakeand I had a bad reaction, but it doesn’t make me like everyone else.”
“Brendon,” you whisper, pulling on your wheel, smooth metal gripped tight in your hand, tears in your eyes, “you hurt me.”
“I know,” he says and you can see in his face, his pain. Can see around his eyes, the redness and the puffiness. Like he’s been crying too. “And you’re right that I don’t understand your pain, but you don’t understand mine either and why I reacted like that.”
“Your pain?” you ask him, unable to keep the incredulity out of your tone as he steps forwards, kneeling before you, his hands taking yours, grip firm and soft all at the same time.
“The pain of watching the person you love suffer and being unable to do anything about it,” he whispers and it’s like someone is choking you, your throat tight and thick and hard to swallow and breathe around.
“Bren…” you whisper and he lifts one hand to your cheek, cupping it between his hand, cradling you like you are the most precious thing in his entire world.
“I am right here and I am not going anywhere, sweets, because I love you and your fights are my fights and it was a mistake and please don’t let us be over because I made one mistake,” he whispers, his head dropping, his posture like a sinner kneeling at an altar, begging for forgiveness.
“Do you want to go to the farmer’s market?” you ask him with a watery laugh and he looks up at you, eyes wide, shock writ upon his perfect Roman features as he nods.
“You’re not giving up on us?” he whispers, voice shocked and you shrug, swallowing hard.
“No,” you whisper. “Because…yeah, you made a mistake, but you…you acknowledged that you did. And…I don’t want to lose you because I’m afraid. But if you do something like that again,” you tell him, your voice thick and watery, wavery with the stray tears slipping down your face, “we’re done for sure.”
“I never will,” he whispers and then he’s leaning forwards, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that is promises and truths and forevers rolled into one. Second chances.
And once again, he pushes too hard and your chair begins to roll away, the two of you laughing, the sound filling your house and for a moment, just a moment, it’s as perfect as can be.
“Hearts work just like the rest of the body, right?” you say, looking out over the crowd of people at the tables, looking at you, the bride, in your white dress, the one specifically tailored for your chair and still exactly as you always wanted it. “You know, they break and bleed and hurt but the heart…the heart does one thing that the rest of the body doesn’t. It always continues to beat, to have faith. To work and hope and love. No matter how broken it gets. So, in that way, hearts work the way bodies cannot. And I am forever grateful for that fact because if it weren’t for that…I wouldn’t be the…blushing bride today.” You look over at Brendon beside you, your hand squeezing his as he looks at you, his now wife, with tears glimmering in ocean blue eyes. “I wouldn’t be yours.”
Applause sounds as you pass the microphone over to Matteo, your man of honor, his speech next, but all you care about is Brendon. He lifts your hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, his grip clinging tight, a tear slipping from his face onto the skin of your palm.
“I love you,” he whispers when he lowers your hand.
“I love you too,” you tell him and he leans forwards, his forehead pressing against yours, one hand on your cheek.
“Thank you for not giving up on us,” he whispers and you lift your hand to his cheek in a mirror gesture of his.
“Always,” you promise because you weren’t lying. Your heart may be broken and bruised and bloody, but it has never stopped having hope and having faith.
Because your heart works the way your body doesn’t.
And isn’t that just the most beautiful thing of all?
AU - Modern - In which a best-selling author and a chef unexpectedly find love, but are then forced to confront a dark complication of living life in the public eye…
"Now tell me about you," he leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "I've been on your channel, you are a very talented chef."
"Oh, thank you," she hadn't expected him to visit her channel or watch her other videos.
"But you've never cooked anything from Dorne," he tilted his head to the side ever so slightly and she could feel her ovaries take notice. "Why is that?"
"No, I haven't. I think it's because I feel like I wouldn't do it justice. I've only had Dornish food a handful of times, I love it, but I would hate to screw it up."
Summary: When the Hand of the King is found in the bath with his niece, his wife goes straight to King Daeron II. What follows is a private, explosive confrontation that ends with exile, silence, and a carefully constructed lie told for the good of the realm.
Additional tags: fem!read; no use of Y/N; adultery; age gap; +18; MDNI
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The water was still warm.
Baelor sat with his head tipped back against the rim of the copper tub, eyes half-closed, the day’s weight temporarily gone from his shoulders. You stepped out of your shift and into the water without a word. He opened his eyes as you settled across his lap, skin sliding against skin. For a moment there was only the quiet sound of water and the way he looked at you — like a man who had been starving.
He kissed you deeply, one wet hand coming up to cradle the back of your neck. You kissed him back with the same hunger, the same reckless need that had lived between you for months in stolen hours and locked doors. A low, needy moan spilled from your mouth into his as you felt his cock harden against your cunt beneath the water, thick and insistent, already seeking heat.
Neither of you heard the outer door open.
Jena stood in the threshold of the bathing chamber and did not speak. The silence stretched long enough that Baelor finally broke the kiss and turned his head. Whatever he saw in his wife’s face drained the colour from his own.
She looked at the two of you for a long, still moment. Then she turned and walked out.
She did not close the door.
They came for you both within the hour.
You were given a dry robe and nothing else. Baelor was allowed a tunic and breeches. The Kingsguard who escorted you said nothing. The corridors of the Red Keep felt longer than usual. Every torch seemed too bright.
The solar of the King was already occupied when you were brought in.
Daeron II sat behind the heavy table, his crown resting on a cushion at his right hand. He looked older than he had that morning. Jena stood to the left of the table, spine straight, hands folded so tightly the knuckles had gone white. She did not look at you.
Baelor was directed to stand before his father. You were placed several paces behind him and to the side, near the wall. A single glance from the King made the rule clear without words: you would not speak.
Daeron’s voice was quiet and terrible.
“Explain.”
Baelor did not kneel. He stood as he always stood — tall, composed, the Hammer even now. “There is nothing to explain that my lady wife has not already told you.”
“I want to hear it from you.”
A muscle jumped in Baelor’s jaw. “I have been in a relationship with my niece for some time. Tonight Jena found us together.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Jena’s voice cut through it, low and shaking with the effort of control. “In the bath. Naked. Kissing her like a man kisses a wife.”
Daeron closed his eyes for a brief moment. When he opened them again, something in his face had hardened beyond anger into pure, cold necessity.
“You are Hand of the King,” he said. “You are my son. You are married. You have children. And you have chosen to risk all of it — the realm’s confidence in this family, the peace I have spent years building — for this.” His gaze flicked past Baelor to you, then away as if the sight itself offended him. “For her.”
Baelor’s hands curled at his sides. “I will not insult you by denying what I feel.”
“I am not asking what you feel.” Daeron’s voice rose for the first time. “I am telling you what you will do. The girl leaves the Red Keep at first light. She will be taken to a motherhouse far from this city and she will remain there. You will relinquish the Handship effective immediately. You will go to Dragonstone and remain there until I decide the realm can bear the sight of you again. Your wife and children will stay here under my protection.”
Baelor took a step forward. “Father—”
“No!” The word landed like a hammer blow. “You have already been heard. You will not be heard further on this matter. The scandal will be contained. There will be no public trial, no open accusation, no opportunity for the Blackfyre loyalists or the Faith to make a weapon of your shame. As far as the court is concerned, you have been sent to Dragonstone for rest after long service, and your niece has chosen a life of contemplation. That is the story. It is the only story that will be told.”
Jena spoke without looking at either of you. “I want her gone before the children wake.”
Daeron inclined his head once. “She will be.”
Baelor’s voice came out rough. “And if I refuse?”
The King looked at his son for a long time. When he answered, every word was precise.
“Then I will make the truth public myself, strip you of every title and honour you hold, and let the realm decide what to do with a Hand who cannot keep his oaths or his hands to himself. Choose carefully, Baelor. You have already cost this family enough for one night.”
The silence that followed belonged entirely to Daeron.
Baelor’s shoulders rose and fell once. The fight did not leave his face, but something in him recognised the wall he had driven them all against. He gave a single, sharp nod.
“As the King commands.”
Daeron’s gaze shifted to you for the first and last time.
“You will not attempt to see him. You will not write. You will not return to this Keep while I live. Do you understand?”
You were not permitted to answer, but the weight of the room demanded something. You lowered your eyes and nodded once.
Jena finally looked at you then. There was no triumph in her expression. Only a deep, exhausted disgust and the cold satisfaction of someone who had set a firebreak and watched it hold.
“Get her out of my sight,” she said.
The Kingsguard moved.
You were taken from the solar without another word allowed to leave your mouth. Behind you, the door closed on the King, the Hand, and the wife who had chosen the realm over the man she married.
By morning you were already on the road to the motherhouse, the Red Keep shrinking behind you under a pale sky.
Baelor left for Dragonstone the same day, stripped of the silver brooch that had sat at his breast for years.
The court was told a careful story about rest and contemplation. Most of them pretended to believe it. Some of them did not.
And in the space between what was said and what was known, the scandal lived on — quiet, poisonous, and unfinished.
pairing - brendon park x plus size f!reader
wc - 2.13k
summary - the first night you spend at your boyfriend, brendon park's, house ends with bloody sheets and a steamy shower.
cw - reader gets her period and leaks onto her shorts and the bed. reader is anxious. reader and brendon take a shower together and have shower sex, but it's a fade to black. reader is a decade or so younger than brendon, though ages aren't mentioned. reader is plus size, though her body type isn't referenced much.
a/n - it's the finale of park the shark week! this has been such a fun thing for me, and i truly appreciate every like, reblog, comment, and read. it means the world! i hope you enjoy this one, too. yes, it's a purely self-serving one because i just started my period, lmao. secret fact: this was the idea that originated "shark week" in my mind, haha. one of my very first brendon park notes reads, "brendon park 'shark week' but it has nothing to do with jaws and everything to do with you being on your period. you’re bloody, and like a true shark, brendon is attracted to it. (he loves period sex, idc)." so it feels fitting that it's the last day of the event! :)
shark divider from @sisterlucifergraphics
The bedroom is nearly pitch-black when your eyes pop open, the silence of the house heavy, only broken by the faint sound of the air conditioning lightly blowing. For a moment, you take in your surroundings, staring at the shadowy ceiling, slightly confused. The room smells like crisp linen and cedar, and the familiar scent brings to mind the memory of lying on Brendon’s couch. He must’ve carried you to bed after you fell asleep tucked against his side while watching a movie last night.
Suddenly, you feel a sticky sensation between your legs. An involuntary whimper escapes from your lips, panic surging hot and sharp in your body, snapping you immediately from the haze of sleep. You scramble off the edge of the mattress, your legs feeling a bit wobbly as you stumble blindly across the hardwood floors into the ensuite bathroom, quietly shutting the door behind you.
You flick on the light, squinting at the brightness. Your predictions are confirmed when you sit on the toilet. Your stomach plummets as you stare at the dark red patch that stands stark against the light pink fabric of your pajama shorts. Your period wasn’t supposed to start for five days, and you can’t help but feel a little betrayed by your own body when you take in the blood staining your clothes, damp between your legs as you hurry to clean yourself up.
Desperate to contain the mess, not wanting to cause a scene, you finish your business and start silently opening drawers and cabinets. Your fingers graze against stacks of clean hand towels, extra bottles of shampoo, face wash, searching every corner for a stray pad or tampon. When your hand hits a bottle of mouthwash, nearly knocking it over with a thud, you draw back, resigned to the fact that Brendon has nothing. To be expected, you suppose, but the panic of being trapped in your boyfriend’s bathroom in the middle of the night with zero supplies to keep you from bleeding everywhere makes your eyes sting.
You tiptoe back out into the darkness of the bedroom, hoping you might be able to find a pair of clean underwear that you can wrap some toilet paper around to quell the possibility of a further mess. But as you reach your side of the bed, your heart drops down into your stomach. Right in the center of Brendon’s crisp cream sheets sits a dark crimson stain.
You stare at it, your chest tightening. It’s so obvious against the pristine fabric that you feel like it has grown a pair of eyes to glare right back at you. You’d been looking forward to this for a week, daydreaming about a perfect cozy morning, tucked against Brendon in bed. Instead, you’ve ruined his bedding the very first night sleeping over.
Your eyes stay locked on the stain, willing it to go away with your mind, and you internally curse yourself for not having magical cleaning powers that can make it float off of the cream fabric and evaporate into the air like it never existed.
“Brendon?” Your voice cracks, tiny and trembling, just as sheepish as you feel.
You reach out, fingers trembling as you tap his shoulder lightly. He stirs a moment later, blinking sleepily up at you, but the second he notes your teary eyes and your meek stance, he sits up, entirely focused.
“Hey, hey, what’s wrong? What happened, baby?” He asks softly, his voice thick with concern, chest bare when the duvet falls to his waist.
“I am so, so sorry,” you sniffle, gesturing to your side of the bed with a shaking hand. “I go-got my period. It’s on the bed, and the sh-sheets are ruined. I didn’t mean to, Bren, I swear to you, I didn’t know-”
He doesn’t even spare a glance at the sheets, his focus entirely trained on you. He stands up, taking your hands into his own to gently stop them from anxiously fiddling with the hem of your oversized sleep shirt. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s completely okay. I’m not mad at you, baby.” He takes your face in both of his big hands, his thumbs brushing just underneath your eyes where tears have begun to pool, threatening to slip down your cheeks.
“But the sheets-” You repeat, bottom lip wobbling at the sight over his shoulder.
“The sheets can be cleaned. It’s just fabric. I’m not upset.” He steps back, leaning over to strip the fitted sheet off the corner of the bed for emphasis, and rolls it up so the blood is hidden from your eyes. “Go get in the shower and warm up. I’ll order whatever supplies you need, and I’ll get you some clothes to change into. You’re okay. Everything’s okay.”
You fiddle with the temperature gauge on the overly fancy shower when the water cascades down your shoulders, nearly burning you. Once it reaches a comfortable temperature, you step underneath the stream, letting the warmth soothe the tension knotting in your muscles. The heat quickly fills the glass shower, creating a steamy cocoon away from the rest of the apartment, and you tilt your head back, letting the water fall over your face as you try to rinse away the lingering shame from your chest, the sight of the stained sheets burned into your brain.
Tonight was the first planned night you were going to spend at Brendon’s place, and you had been anticipating it with much excitement, giddy at the prospect of getting to wake up next to him before spending a lazy morning in his bed, wrapped in his arms. Instead, you’d caused a bloody mess.
You reach for the body wash, squeezing it out, the familiar scent of Brendon’s soap filling the air, wrapping around you like a balm to your anxiety. You scrub thoroughly, focusing intently on the space between your legs, desperate to get completely clean as you let the hot water and steam push away the dull ache in your lower abdomen. Brendon handled the situation with the same calm he does everything, but even still, you can’t help but sigh, your forehead falling against the cool wall for a moment as the quiet of the bathroom settles over you.
After several minutes underneath the steady stream of the rainfall shower head, the tight embarrassment slowly begins to fade from your chest, and you let out slow breaths, grateful that your lungs are filling easier than before.
A soft knock on the glass shower door startles you from your thoughts, but you instantly relax when you see Brendon’s familiar face. He slides the door open just enough to be able to talk to you over the sound of the water, the steam pouring out into the cool air of the large bathroom. Behind him, a stack of clothes sits neatly folded on the bathroom counter: an oversized shirt branded with the University of Pittsburgh School of Medicine logo, a clean pair of boxers, and sweatpants. All of them are deep colors, and you immediately know he did that intentionally so you didn’t have to spend the rest of the day worrying about accidentally staining more of his things.
“The boxers are the only underwear I have,” he says, noticing your gaze. “I ordered a pack of pads and tampons, and there should be some underwear coming too.” He confirms quietly, his arms bracing the shower door above him, making the muscles in his biceps all the more obvious. “They will be here in twenty minutes, so you don’t need to worry.”
You let out a relieved breath. “Thank you, Bren.”
“Can I come in with you?” He asks softly, his voice tentative as he gives you room to decide. The gentleness in his tone makes your heart ache, and you wonder momentarily if you’ll ever get used to the tenderness he treats you with, especially when you don’t exactly feel deserving of it.
You nod, keeping your hands clasped together near your thighs. He makes quick work of his pajama pants before stepping into the large shower. He sits down on the built-in marble bench, and you realize instantly that he’s purposely lowering himself so he isn’t looming intimidatingly over you. You’re told to do it at work on a daily basis, and the tenderness of the gesture makes your chest tighten.
“I should’ve known,” you murmur, your voice muffled by the sound of the water cascading around you. You fix your gaze on the edge of the marble bench, unable to find the confidence needed to meet his own. “I had some cramping last night, but my period wasn’t due for another five days, so I thought it would be okay. The app is usually pretty accurate, and I just assumed.”
Brendon doesn’t respond, doesn’t fall into a clinical explanation of premenstrual symptoms or a lecture about how you’ve ruined his expensive sheets. He just reaches out wordlessly, his hands gentle as he tugs you closer to him. He guides you down onto his lap, helping you settle comfortably against him, your thighs slotted on the sides of his own.
“You couldn’t have predicted it,” he says softly, his thumb rubbing circles along your hip as he presses a kiss to your temple, then to your cheek. “I see blood every day at work. I promise you, I don’t care about a little bit of it here. A little period blood is like a drop in the sea compared to some of the surgeries I perform.”
He kisses along your jawbone before adding, “I already changed the sheets. The old ones will wash out just fine, so I don’t want you to feel guilty about that, okay?”
You nod, hollowing out your cheeks as you stare firmly at his chest, still struggling with the embarrassment that lingers in your own.
“Are you still cramping?” He asks softly, running his fingers along your back in a soothing pattern. When you tell him yes, he presses a big hand flat against your abdomen. The warmth settles right over your aching uterus as he softly massages the area, the heat from his palm immediately beginning to take the edge off of the cramps. The combination of his steady touch and the warm shower relieves the pain, and you let out a long breath, finally feeling the tension start to drain from your body.
Still, the voices in the back of your head are too stubborn to let you off easy, and you mutter an apology again, “I’m still really sorry. I wanted tonight to be fun and romantic, and I’ve ruined it all. You’re probably grossed out.”
Brendon tuts, his breath fanning out across your damp skin, as he leans in close to catch your gaze. “Baby, tonight has been fun. I’ve enjoyed every moment with you.” He presses his lips to your forehead, your jaw, leaving featherlight kisses all over your face before he leaves a lingering, but gentle one to your lips. “And trust me, looking at you right now, in my shower, on my lap, wrapped in my arms, I could not be further from grossed out.” He squeezes your hip for emphasis, and your cheeks heat.
You hide your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the comforting scent of him as the warm water continues to flow down your back. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and melt into his touch, your mind feeling clearer as the fog of anxiety dissipates with each affectionate kiss he presses to your skin. “I’m probably getting blood on you,” you whisper softly against his skin, your voice muffled by the sound of the cascading water.
He chuckles, a low and grounding sound that vibrates through his chest and into your own, as his arms tighten around you, tugging you flush against him as he speaks. “I’ll worry about the blood on me later, okay? You just relax.”
Brendon’s hand leaves your belly, moving around you, before it slides down and squeezes at the plush flesh of your ass, the other gripping your waist to keep you in place. His mouth falls onto your collarbone, pressing heated kisses on the skin, and you sigh breathily, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.
He nips at the skin of your shoulder, and you hum knowingly as his tongue flicks out to soothe the pain right after. “Bren, it’s messy.”
Your cheeks heat as he pulls away to look at you, gaze heavy, his strong hands holding onto your body tightly as he confidently replies, “Good thing we’re in the shower,” before diving back onto you, teeth grazing your skin like a shark that’s caught the scent of blood in the water.
⚚✈︎ CHAPTER TAGS: SMUT 18+ MDNI! , age difference, dom jack of course!, cunnilingus, he fucks you for the first time... and roughly at that, missionary, making out, fluff, angst.
⚚✈︎ CHAPTER SUMMARY: It's his birthday and you're leaving, but not before you gave him a little gift... by fucking his brains out.
AO3 | Wattpad | Spotify Playlist | The Long Way Home Masterlist
If someone would tell Jack he would be a happy, sexually sated man in the next few hours, he wouldn't have believed them.
In fact, Jack was unusually quiet when you picked him up at the end of his shift. He didn't even protest when you bypassed your usual diner, steering the heavy truck straight back toward his house instead of stopping for breakfast before bed. He wasn't in the mood for breakfast anyway. Jack was simply too distracted by the ticking clock in his own head to care about their routine. He sat in the passenger seat, staring out at the grey morning light, completely consumed by the heavy realization that your days in Pittsburgh were officially numbered.
When he unlocked the front door and stepped into the kitchen, his eyes immediately fell on a small, neatly frosted cake sitting on the counter.
“No one knows what kind of cake you like, so I went with a simple chocolate,” you said from behind him, kicking off your heels with a soft sigh of relief.
He let out a low, rough laugh and approached the counter. “Chocolate is perfect.”
But as he got closer, his eyes drifted past the cake. Sitting right next to it was a neat stack of legal documents, your passport, and a paper airline ticket. The sight of it felt like a sudden drop in altitude.
You walked up beside him, picking up a knife to cut the cake. “You’re distracted today. Or are you just tired?”
“Did you drop by the airport today?” he asked, his voice entirely flat, completely ignoring her question.
“Oh, yes I did,” you said, casting a proud look at the legal paperwork. “I definitely upped the price. I’m signing the final settlement paperwork tomorrow. I'm planning on giving your lawyer buddy a great fat tip as a thank you.”
“And you’re going home to Dallas in how many days?” he asked.
“About that…” you murmured, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips as you sliced into the chocolate frosting.
Jack didn't wait for you to finish. He leaned over and checked the date printed on the airline ticket. Two days. It was better than finding out she was leaving tomorrow, he supposed, but a sharp, biting wave of disappointment still washed over him.
He hated that you hadn't told him sooner.
“Okay,” he said, forcing his voice into a tone of careless nonchalance. “At least you chose an afternoon ticket. I could drive you to the airport before my shift starts.”
You stopped cutting the cake and turned to look at him, your eyebrows knitting together. “You sound upset.”
“I’m not,” he said, though he didn't look at her as he pulled out a kitchen stool and sat down. He rubbed a hand over his face, his exhaustingly long shift finally catching up to his pride. “But would you at least tell me why you're leaving so soon? Without telling me?”
You walked toward him, letting out a long, soft sigh. “I was hoping to keep it a secret until later today. I had a whole thing planned.”
“Tell me now,” he said, his eyes locking onto yours. After a heavy moment of silence, he added the ultimate card: “It’s my birthday. You kinda have to do as I say.”
You burst into a bright laugh, shaking your head at his stubbornness. Shifting your weight, you stepped into his space and sat sideways on his lap. The birthday cake was instantly and completely forgotten as Jack’s large hands automatically moved to grip your waist, anchoring you to him.
“You know how I never liked staying home in my dad’s old house?” you asked, your fingers gently tangling into the short hair at the back of his neck.
He did know you dislike living there. But you stayed there anyway because your father was sick, helping around whenever you were in town. He also knew you had wanted to move out ever since he died.
“Well, I’m selling the estate. I’ve been trying to for the last three months. Originally, I was planning on buying a house there, but my sister has been begging me to move to Pittsburgh. To be closer to family. To her.”
Jack’s eyebrow shot up in a sudden spike of sharp comprehension. “And?”
“Well, I was about to talk to her about it. That’s why I was coming to Pittsburgh in the first place. I took the job and flew here, planning to stay for a few days to discuss it, even scout the city,” you offered a small, sheepish smile. “And then the whole incident happened.”
“So you were planning on staying in Pittsburgh the whole time?” Jack asked, his chest tightening as his brain scrambled to reorganize everything he thought he knew. “You're planning on moving here and you didn't tell me? You could have just stayed here with me and—”
“That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you,” you interrupted gently, placing a hand against his chest.
“Why?”
“The first time my sister moved to Pittsburgh for Alan, I judged her really badly. I blamed her for leaving me in Dallas. I blamed her for leaving her job,” you admitted, your voice dropping to a softer, more vulnerable register. “And when she asked me to move too, I was considering it. I was all ears since I don't have anything left to tie me to Dallas anyway. But then I met you properly. And I didn't want my decision to be influenced by a guy I just met. I don’t want to be a hypocrite. I tried my absolute best not to let it cloud my judgment. If I was going to move to Pittsburgh, it needed to be because it was what’s best for me. Closer to my sister. Better opportunities. It didn’t really help my concentration when you practically forced me to keep you company, though. I’ve grown to like you a lot, Jack.”
A massive, unrestrained smile finally broke across Jack’s face. The heavy weight in his chest evaporated so fast it left him feeling almost lightheaded. His hand wrapped securely around your back, his thumb mindlessly caressing the soft skin beneath the hem of your blouse.
“So? What did you decide?”
“I decided to move here,” you said.
Before Jack could even open his mouth to suggest you move your bags straight into his master bedroom, you loudly cut him off, playfully clapping a hand over his mouth.
“My plan is to buy a house,” you continued firmly, your eyes bright with independence. “A good house. Maybe even build one from scratch. I’ve always wanted a place of my own, and the airline settlement and my cut from the old house are going to cover that.”
Jack chuckled against your palm, pulling your hand down from his lips. “Good. I support that.”
“I was originally supposed to stay in Dallas for another two to five months to finish the sale,” you said, leaning in closer until your lips were just a breath away from his. “That was the original plan. But I do happen to have a big fat crush on this doctor.”
“Yeah?” he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling purr.
“Yeah. And I was hoping I could come back a lot earlier. Sell the house quicker, pack up, and... maybe stay here with you while I look for my new place?”
Jack let out a loud, booming laugh of pure, unadulterated enjoyment. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his large frame shaking with relief and happiness as he squeezed you tightly against him. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes brimming with absolute fondness.
“You can stay here as long as you want,” he whispered, before finally leaning in to claim a sweet, celebratory birthday kiss.
He intended to keep it gentle—he really did—but the sheer, intoxicating relief of knowing you weren't leaving him behind went straight to his head. The kiss deepened instantly, his tongue sliding past your lips with a sudden, fierce possessiveness that completely derailed any lingering thoughts of chocolate cake.
Within seconds, the cozy kitchen atmosphere vanished, replaced by a sudden, electric desperation. Your hands scrambled for purchase against the fabric of his scrubs, your fingernails digging through into the hard muscle of his shoulders. Jack groaned into your mouth, his restraint snapping like a dry twig.
He slid his hands down to the undersides of your thighs and lifted you right off his lap in one seamless, explosive motion, prompting a breathless gasp from your throat as you instinctively locked your legs around his waist. You let out a rich, echoing laugh against his lips as he marched you out of the kitchen, your fingers tightening in his hair.
“Show-off,” you teased. “I forgot how ridiculous these beefy arms are.”
Jack grinned against your neck, his teeth grazing over your pulse point as he navigated the hallway by memory alone.
“You like the arms,” he rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against your skin. “I know that much.”
“I might,” you gasped as he carried you into his bedroom.
He didn't just lay you down; he fell onto the mattress right with you, the heavy, solid weight of his body settling between your thighs with a deliberate, crowded intensity that made your breath hitch.
The loose blouse you were wearing was already half-undone, his large, calloused hands sliding hungrily up your ribs, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He looked down at you, his dark eyes entirely blacked out by arousal, his chest heaving as his thumb traced the sharp line of your jaw.
His hands moved with a frantic, possessive energy, sliding under the hem of your blouse to find the bare skin of your waist. He began to trail a path of searing kisses from your jaw down to the hollow of your throat, his stubble grazing you in a way that made you whimper.
"Jack..." you breathed, your fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders, trying to pull him even closer, if that were even possible.
He answered by capturing your lips in a deep, demanding kiss, his tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that felt almost predatory. He was done being careful. The restraint he had practiced for months was being burned away by the sheer proximity of you.
As he moved, his hips began to grind slowly, deliberately, against yours. Even through the layers of your clothes, the heavy, solid weight of his arousal was unmistakable. He was hard, aching, and entirely focused on the way you reacted to him, the way your breath hitched, the way your eyes fluttered shut, and the way you arched your back to meet his every move.
Jack moved with a feverish efficiency, his hands usually so precise and steady in the operating room now trembling slightly with a raw, unbridled hunger as he stripped the clothes from your body. When he finally shed his own scrubs, the sight of him, broad shouldered and lean muscled, made your heart hammer against your ribs.
He didn't waste a second. He descended upon you. He kissed the curve of your shoulder, the swell of your breasts, and the soft skin of your stomach, his breath hot and ragged against your damp skin. Every time he moved, he ground his lower half against yours, the heavy, pulsing weight of his cock hard and insistent beneath the thin fabric of his boxers pressing into you with a punishing, beautiful pressure.
You were lost in the sensation, your head tossing back against the pillows as he worshiped every inch of you. Driven by a primal need to feel him truly, your hand slid down the hard line of his abdomen, your fingers searching for the waistband of his boxers.
"Jack... please," you whimpered, your palm cupping the thick, throbbing heat of him through the fabric.
As you gripped him, trying to tug the material down to release the tension, he let out a sound that was half groan, half growl. He arched his hips into your hand, a sharp, desperate movement that made you gasp.
"Don't..." he rasped, his eyes snapping open to meet yours, dark and completely consumed by you. "Don't tease me. Not when you know exactly what you're doing to me."
He caught your wrist, his grip firm but tender, pinning your hand against his hip for a moment as he hovered over you, his gaze burning into yours.
“Not teasing,” you said, breathless. “I want it too.”
The low, dark chuckle that vibrated in his chest was the most uninhibited sound you had ever heard from him. It wasn't a laugh of amusement, but one of pure, heady triumph the sound of a man who knew he had finally reached the point of no return.
"Good," he murmured, his voice a rough, velvet caress. "Because if you were teasing me, I think we’d both be in trouble."
He pulled back just enough to reach for the bedside table and taking out a condom, his movements efficient even in his state of heightened arousal. He didn't look away from you as he worked, his gaze locked onto yours with a heavy, possessive intensity.
He was watching the way your eyes widened, the way your chest rose and fell in shallow, frantic breaths. He wanted to see every flicker of pleasure, every moment of surrender.
As he rolled the latex over his length, his muscles rippled with the effort, his breathing still jagged and uneven. The sheer, raw masculinity of him was overwhelming, a force of nature that seemed to fill the entire room.
He moved back over you, his heavy weight settling between your thighs once more. This time, there was no fabric to act as a barrier, no layer of protection to dampen the sensation. As he guided himself toward you, his eyes searched yours, desperate and demanding.
"Tell me again," he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly command as he hovered at the very entrance of your heat. "Tell me you want this as much as I do."
“I want you too—”
The words were barely out of your mouth before he closed the distance. With a low, guttural sound of pure surrender, Jack drove himself into you in one smooth, powerful motion.
The sensation was overwhelming a sudden, breathtaking fullness that made your eyes fly open and your breath hitch in a silent, jagged gasp. He was thick and hot, stretching you perfectly, filling the ache that had been building between you. For a heartbeat, you both froze, suspended in the sheer, visceral intensity of the connection, your bodies adjusting to the incredible weight and heat of him.
"God," he groaned, his forehead crashing against yours as he waited for you to take him. His eyes were squeezed shut, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscles leaping in his neck. "You're so... perfect."
Then, he began to move.
It wasn't the careful, measured pace of the man who had been dating you for months; this was the Jack Abbot who took what he needed, the man driven by a primal, undeniable hunger. He pulled back almost entirely before driving home again, his thrusts deep, heavy, and unapologetically rhythmic.
“Fucking tight, honey,” he said in between kisses.
Each time he hit your center, a fresh wave of electricity surged through you, making your hips buck instinctively to meet him. The sound of your skin slapping against his, the frantic, ragged rhythm of your breathing, and the heavy, rhythmic creak of the mattress filled the room. He was relentless, his large hands sliding under your lower back to tilt your pelvis up, angling himself to drive even deeper, to claim every inch of you.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a wrecked, breathless rasp. He needed to see you. He needed to see the way your eyes clouded with pleasure, the way your lips parted as you lost yourself to him. He wanted to witness the exact moment you broke. “Good fucking girl. Wanted to do this for so fucking long. You had no idea. Fuck, just like that.”
In and out he went, your cunt squeezing him just right.
As he drove into you with that heavy, rhythmic intensity, Jack leaned forward, breaking the kiss to descend once more. He moved with a hungry, singular focus, his mouth trailing a path of searing heat down your throat to the swell of your breasts.
The sensation of his lips against your skin, combined with the deep, thudding friction of his hips, sent you into a state of pure, unadulterated sensory overload. When he reached your breasts, he didn't just kiss them; he claimed them. He took one nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak before he began to suckle with a fierce, demanding pressure that made your entire body arch off the mattress.
"Jack... oh god, Jack," you sobbed, your fingers tangling desperately in his hair, pulling him even closer as if you could merge your very souls through the contact.
He was relentless. He used his mouth to drive you toward the edge, his teeth grazing you just enough to elicit a sharp gasp, while his lower body continued its punishing, beautiful rhythm. He was hitting your sweet spot with every deep, powerful thrust, a calculated precision that felt both clinical and primal.
His large hand slid up from your hip, his thumb raking over your breast in a mirroring motion to the suction of his mouth, teasing you from both sides. The sheer scale of him the weight of his chest pressing you into the bed, the heat of his breath, the overwhelming fullness of him inside you was making your vision blur. You were drowning in him, caught in the gravity of a man who had finally, completely, lost all control.
"Fuck," he rasped, his voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel.
He wasn't going to let you go alone. Sensing the frantic, building tension in your body, he reached down, his large hand sliding between your grinding hips. His fingers found your clit, and the contact was like an explosion of white light behind your eyelids.
He began to work you with a ruthless, expert precision. He used his thumb to apply a heavy, rhythmic pressure, circling the sensitive nub in perfect synchronization with the deep, punishing thrusts of his hips.
The dual sensation was overwhelming. You were being filled and stretched by the heavy, hot weight of him, while at the same time, his hand was driving you toward a shattering climax. The friction was intense, the heat was suffocating, and the rhythm was relentless.
"That's it," he growled, his breath hot and frantic against your skin as he watched your face, his eyes dark with a terrifying, beautiful hunger. "Give it to me.”
The moment your internal muscles clamped around him in a desperate, pulsing squeeze, Jack’s composure didn't just crack, it shattered. A loud, uninhibited groan tore from his throat, a sound of pure, primal agony and ecstasy that seemed to vibrate through your very bones. He stiffened, his entire body turning to granite beneath you, his eyes rolling back for a split second as he fought to keep from finishing right then and there.
You pulled him into you with everything you had, your legs locking around his waist as if you were trying to fuse your bodies together. You were shaking, your breath coming in short, shallow hitches, your vision swimming in the aftermath of the release.
But the sensation of your climax the way you tightened around him, the way you sobbed his name was the final, fatal blow to Jack’s remaining restraint.
He let out a roar, a deep, primal sound of total surrender. His body went rigid, his muscles coiling with a strength that felt almost superhuman. He drove into you one last time, a deep, desperate thrust that seemed to reach your very soul, and then he broke.
You felt him stiffened. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his entire frame shuddering with the force of his orgasm, his breath coming in ragged, broken gasps.
For a long time, neither of you moved, the only sound in the room was the heavy, synchronized thudding of two hearts trying to find their rhythm again in the quiet, post storm heat of the bedroom.
+++
Two days later, the reality of the calendar caught up to them, and Jack found himself behind the wheel of his truck, driving you to the airport. The atmosphere was a strange mix of accomplishment and lingering transition; you had just finalized a massive, life-altering settlement from your airline the afternoon before, and by all accounts from Jack’s lawyer buddy, your sharp negotiations had made you the premier topic of gossip among the upper management back in Dallas.
During the drive over, the conversation turned away from legalities and toward the blank canvas of your future. You openly shared your lingering worries about your career, weighing the pros and cons of a recent job offer that had landed in your lap. Jack listened quietly, navigating the morning traffic while consciously managing his own tone to offer steady, objective advice without sounding entirely biased.
He ended up telling you to simply do what you wanted—to take your time and not rush into the next chapter just because the pages were turning. It was the healthiest, most grounded advice he could give, even if it took a great deal of self-control. The absolute truth was that he desperately wanted you to take the job offer for airline management right here in Pittsburgh. You were brilliant, your mind was terrifyingly neat with schedules, and your resume was staggering—you could speak sign language fluently, alongside two other spoken languages, and you already had the exact background needed to run a department. You were a catch for any corporate office, but he kept his fingers clenched tightly around the steering wheel and kept that particular selfish plea to himself.
Once inside the bustling terminal, the minutes began to slip away too quickly. Jack left you briefly by a row of terminal seats near your gate, stepping away to stand in a notoriously long line at a crowded coffee kiosk to grab two cups for the road.
As he waited for the barista, his eyes instinctively tracked back across the terminal to check on you. That was when he noticed someone approaching your seat. Jack immediately raised one of his heavy eyebrows, his clinical focus shifting into a sharp, protective alertness.
He could read the guy's profession from a mile away. The man was a commercial pilot, a fact made entirely obvious by the crisp, authoritative dark uniform and the pristine captain's hat he carried.
Jack wasn't a certified expert in body language, but it didn't take a degree to recognize that the interaction unfolding across the lobby was incredibly tense. The way the pilot stood was strange—rigid, slightly invading your personal space in a way that screamed old familiarity. And you were clearly, visibly uncomfortable. Your posture went completely defensive, and at one point, your eyes darted anxiously across the terminal to find Jack in the coffee line. The pilot’s gaze instantly followed your line of sight, his eyes locking onto Jack for a brief, cold second.
Jack didn't even get the chance to step out of line, let alone walk over to introduce himself or intervene, because the pilot abruptly turned on his heel and disappeared into the sea of moving passengers just as quickly as he had arrived.
By the time Jack walked back to you, balancing the two hot coffees, the space beside your seat was completely empty.
“Who was that?” Jack asked, his voice casual but his eyes searching your face.
“Marcus,” you said, your voice a little tight as you took your cup from him. “He told me he heard my father died. He was just... offering his condolences.”
Jack nodded slowly, letting the subject drop. He wasn't particularly interested in dissecting a random face from your past right now—not when you were about to board a plane and leave him for god knows how long.
He pulled you into his arms instead, focusing entirely on the soft, heartbreakingly sweet taste of your lips as you murmured your final goodbyes against his chest.
It was a perfect, lingering farewell. He watched your plane push back from the gate.
He didn't think about the encounter again until an hour later, when he was clocking in for his shift. A buried piece of data suddenly drifted to the surface of his mind. He remembered a quiet afternoon on his couch, and the specific list of your five ex-boyfriends.
⚚✈︎ CHAPTER TAGS: SMUT 18+ MDNI! , age difference, dom jack of course!, cunnilingus, he fucks you for the first time... and roughly at that, missionary, making out, fluff, angst.
⚚✈︎ CHAPTER SUMMARY: It's his birthday and you're leaving, but not before you gave him a little gift... by fucking his brains out.
AO3 | Wattpad | Spotify Playlist | The Long Way Home Masterlist
If someone would tell Jack he would be a happy, sexually sated man in the next few hours, he wouldn't have believed them.
In fact, Jack was unusually quiet when you picked him up at the end of his shift. He didn't even protest when you bypassed your usual diner, steering the heavy truck straight back toward his house instead of stopping for breakfast before bed. He wasn't in the mood for breakfast anyway. Jack was simply too distracted by the ticking clock in his own head to care about their routine. He sat in the passenger seat, staring out at the grey morning light, completely consumed by the heavy realization that your days in Pittsburgh were officially numbered.
When he unlocked the front door and stepped into the kitchen, his eyes immediately fell on a small, neatly frosted cake sitting on the counter.
“No one knows what kind of cake you like, so I went with a simple chocolate,” you said from behind him, kicking off your heels with a soft sigh of relief.
He let out a low, rough laugh and approached the counter. “Chocolate is perfect.”
But as he got closer, his eyes drifted past the cake. Sitting right next to it was a neat stack of legal documents, your passport, and a paper airline ticket. The sight of it felt like a sudden drop in altitude.
You walked up beside him, picking up a knife to cut the cake. “You’re distracted today. Or are you just tired?”
“Did you drop by the airport today?” he asked, his voice entirely flat, completely ignoring her question.
“Oh, yes I did,” you said, casting a proud look at the legal paperwork. “I definitely upped the price. I’m signing the final settlement paperwork tomorrow. I'm planning on giving your lawyer buddy a great fat tip as a thank you.”
“And you’re going home to Dallas in how many days?” he asked.
“About that…” you murmured, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips as you sliced into the chocolate frosting.
Jack didn't wait for you to finish. He leaned over and checked the date printed on the airline ticket. Two days. It was better than finding out she was leaving tomorrow, he supposed, but a sharp, biting wave of disappointment still washed over him.
He hated that you hadn't told him sooner.
“Okay,” he said, forcing his voice into a tone of careless nonchalance. “At least you chose an afternoon ticket. I could drive you to the airport before my shift starts.”
You stopped cutting the cake and turned to look at him, your eyebrows knitting together. “You sound upset.”
“I’m not,” he said, though he didn't look at her as he pulled out a kitchen stool and sat down. He rubbed a hand over his face, his exhaustingly long shift finally catching up to his pride. “But would you at least tell me why you're leaving so soon? Without telling me?”
You walked toward him, letting out a long, soft sigh. “I was hoping to keep it a secret until later today. I had a whole thing planned.”
“Tell me now,” he said, his eyes locking onto yours. After a heavy moment of silence, he added the ultimate card: “It’s my birthday. You kinda have to do as I say.”
You burst into a bright laugh, shaking your head at his stubbornness. Shifting your weight, you stepped into his space and sat sideways on his lap. The birthday cake was instantly and completely forgotten as Jack’s large hands automatically moved to grip your waist, anchoring you to him.
“You know how I never liked staying home in my dad’s old house?” you asked, your fingers gently tangling into the short hair at the back of his neck.
He did know you dislike living there. But you stayed there anyway because your father was sick, helping around whenever you were in town. He also knew you had wanted to move out ever since he died.
“Well, I’m selling the estate. I’ve been trying to for the last three months. Originally, I was planning on buying a house there, but my sister has been begging me to move to Pittsburgh. To be closer to family. To her.”
Jack’s eyebrow shot up in a sudden spike of sharp comprehension. “And?”
“Well, I was about to talk to her about it. That’s why I was coming to Pittsburgh in the first place. I took the job and flew here, planning to stay for a few days to discuss it, even scout the city,” you offered a small, sheepish smile. “And then the whole incident happened.”
“So you were planning on staying in Pittsburgh the whole time?” Jack asked, his chest tightening as his brain scrambled to reorganize everything he thought he knew. “You're planning on moving here and you didn't tell me? You could have just stayed here with me and—”
“That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you,” you interrupted gently, placing a hand against his chest.
“Why?”
“The first time my sister moved to Pittsburgh for Alan, I judged her really badly. I blamed her for leaving me in Dallas. I blamed her for leaving her job,” you admitted, your voice dropping to a softer, more vulnerable register. “And when she asked me to move too, I was considering it. I was all ears since I don't have anything left to tie me to Dallas anyway. But then I met you properly. And I didn't want my decision to be influenced by a guy I just met. I don’t want to be a hypocrite. I tried my absolute best not to let it cloud my judgment. If I was going to move to Pittsburgh, it needed to be because it was what’s best for me. Closer to my sister. Better opportunities. It didn’t really help my concentration when you practically forced me to keep you company, though. I’ve grown to like you a lot, Jack.”
A massive, unrestrained smile finally broke across Jack’s face. The heavy weight in his chest evaporated so fast it left him feeling almost lightheaded. His hand wrapped securely around your back, his thumb mindlessly caressing the soft skin beneath the hem of your blouse.
“So? What did you decide?”
“I decided to move here,” you said.
Before Jack could even open his mouth to suggest you move your bags straight into his master bedroom, you loudly cut him off, playfully clapping a hand over his mouth.
“My plan is to buy a house,” you continued firmly, your eyes bright with independence. “A good house. Maybe even build one from scratch. I’ve always wanted a place of my own, and the airline settlement and my cut from the old house are going to cover that.”
Jack chuckled against your palm, pulling your hand down from his lips. “Good. I support that.”
“I was originally supposed to stay in Dallas for another two to five months to finish the sale,” you said, leaning in closer until your lips were just a breath away from his. “That was the original plan. But I do happen to have a big fat crush on this doctor.”
“Yeah?” he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling purr.
“Yeah. And I was hoping I could come back a lot earlier. Sell the house quicker, pack up, and... maybe stay here with you while I look for my new place?”
Jack let out a loud, booming laugh of pure, unadulterated enjoyment. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his large frame shaking with relief and happiness as he squeezed you tightly against him. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes brimming with absolute fondness.
“You can stay here as long as you want,” he whispered, before finally leaning in to claim a sweet, celebratory birthday kiss.
He intended to keep it gentle—he really did—but the sheer, intoxicating relief of knowing you weren't leaving him behind went straight to his head. The kiss deepened instantly, his tongue sliding past your lips with a sudden, fierce possessiveness that completely derailed any lingering thoughts of chocolate cake.
Within seconds, the cozy kitchen atmosphere vanished, replaced by a sudden, electric desperation. Your hands scrambled for purchase against the fabric of his scrubs, your fingernails digging through into the hard muscle of his shoulders. Jack groaned into your mouth, his restraint snapping like a dry twig.
He slid his hands down to the undersides of your thighs and lifted you right off his lap in one seamless, explosive motion, prompting a breathless gasp from your throat as you instinctively locked your legs around his waist. You let out a rich, echoing laugh against his lips as he marched you out of the kitchen, your fingers tightening in his hair.
“Show-off,” you teased. “I forgot how ridiculous these beefy arms are.”
Jack grinned against your neck, his teeth grazing over your pulse point as he navigated the hallway by memory alone.
“You like the arms,” he rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against your skin. “I know that much.”
“I might,” you gasped as he carried you into his bedroom.
He didn't just lay you down; he fell onto the mattress right with you, the heavy, solid weight of his body settling between your thighs with a deliberate, crowded intensity that made your breath hitch.
The loose blouse you were wearing was already half-undone, his large, calloused hands sliding hungrily up your ribs, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He looked down at you, his dark eyes entirely blacked out by arousal, his chest heaving as his thumb traced the sharp line of your jaw.
His hands moved with a frantic, possessive energy, sliding under the hem of your blouse to find the bare skin of your waist. He began to trail a path of searing kisses from your jaw down to the hollow of your throat, his stubble grazing you in a way that made you whimper.
"Jack..." you breathed, your fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders, trying to pull him even closer, if that were even possible.
He answered by capturing your lips in a deep, demanding kiss, his tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that felt almost predatory. He was done being careful. The restraint he had practiced for months was being burned away by the sheer proximity of you.
As he moved, his hips began to grind slowly, deliberately, against yours. Even through the layers of your clothes, the heavy, solid weight of his arousal was unmistakable. He was hard, aching, and entirely focused on the way you reacted to him, the way your breath hitched, the way your eyes fluttered shut, and the way you arched your back to meet his every move.
Jack moved with a feverish efficiency, his hands usually so precise and steady in the operating room now trembling slightly with a raw, unbridled hunger as he stripped the clothes from your body. When he finally shed his own scrubs, the sight of him, broad shouldered and lean muscled, made your heart hammer against your ribs.
He didn't waste a second. He descended upon you. He kissed the curve of your shoulder, the swell of your breasts, and the soft skin of your stomach, his breath hot and ragged against your damp skin. Every time he moved, he ground his lower half against yours, the heavy, pulsing weight of his cock hard and insistent beneath the thin fabric of his boxers pressing into you with a punishing, beautiful pressure.
You were lost in the sensation, your head tossing back against the pillows as he worshiped every inch of you. Driven by a primal need to feel him truly, your hand slid down the hard line of his abdomen, your fingers searching for the waistband of his boxers.
"Jack... please," you whimpered, your palm cupping the thick, throbbing heat of him through the fabric.
As you gripped him, trying to tug the material down to release the tension, he let out a sound that was half groan, half growl. He arched his hips into your hand, a sharp, desperate movement that made you gasp.
"Don't..." he rasped, his eyes snapping open to meet yours, dark and completely consumed by you. "Don't tease me. Not when you know exactly what you're doing to me."
He caught your wrist, his grip firm but tender, pinning your hand against his hip for a moment as he hovered over you, his gaze burning into yours.
“Not teasing,” you said, breathless. “I want it too.”
The low, dark chuckle that vibrated in his chest was the most uninhibited sound you had ever heard from him. It wasn't a laugh of amusement, but one of pure, heady triumph the sound of a man who knew he had finally reached the point of no return.
"Good," he murmured, his voice a rough, velvet caress. "Because if you were teasing me, I think we’d both be in trouble."
He pulled back just enough to reach for the bedside table and taking out a condom, his movements efficient even in his state of heightened arousal. He didn't look away from you as he worked, his gaze locked onto yours with a heavy, possessive intensity.
He was watching the way your eyes widened, the way your chest rose and fell in shallow, frantic breaths. He wanted to see every flicker of pleasure, every moment of surrender.
As he rolled the latex over his length, his muscles rippled with the effort, his breathing still jagged and uneven. The sheer, raw masculinity of him was overwhelming, a force of nature that seemed to fill the entire room.
He moved back over you, his heavy weight settling between your thighs once more. This time, there was no fabric to act as a barrier, no layer of protection to dampen the sensation. As he guided himself toward you, his eyes searched yours, desperate and demanding.
"Tell me again," he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly command as he hovered at the very entrance of your heat. "Tell me you want this as much as I do."
“I want you too—”
The words were barely out of your mouth before he closed the distance. With a low, guttural sound of pure surrender, Jack drove himself into you in one smooth, powerful motion.
The sensation was overwhelming a sudden, breathtaking fullness that made your eyes fly open and your breath hitch in a silent, jagged gasp. He was thick and hot, stretching you perfectly, filling the ache that had been building between you. For a heartbeat, you both froze, suspended in the sheer, visceral intensity of the connection, your bodies adjusting to the incredible weight and heat of him.
"God," he groaned, his forehead crashing against yours as he waited for you to take him. His eyes were squeezed shut, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscles leaping in his neck. "You're so... perfect."
Then, he began to move.
It wasn't the careful, measured pace of the man who had been dating you for months; this was the Jack Abbot who took what he needed, the man driven by a primal, undeniable hunger. He pulled back almost entirely before driving home again, his thrusts deep, heavy, and unapologetically rhythmic.
“Fucking tight, honey,” he said in between kisses.
Each time he hit your center, a fresh wave of electricity surged through you, making your hips buck instinctively to meet him. The sound of your skin slapping against his, the frantic, ragged rhythm of your breathing, and the heavy, rhythmic creak of the mattress filled the room. He was relentless, his large hands sliding under your lower back to tilt your pelvis up, angling himself to drive even deeper, to claim every inch of you.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a wrecked, breathless rasp. He needed to see you. He needed to see the way your eyes clouded with pleasure, the way your lips parted as you lost yourself to him. He wanted to witness the exact moment you broke. “Good fucking girl. Wanted to do this for so fucking long. You had no idea. Fuck, just like that.”
In and out he went, your cunt squeezing him just right.
As he drove into you with that heavy, rhythmic intensity, Jack leaned forward, breaking the kiss to descend once more. He moved with a hungry, singular focus, his mouth trailing a path of searing heat down your throat to the swell of your breasts.
The sensation of his lips against your skin, combined with the deep, thudding friction of his hips, sent you into a state of pure, unadulterated sensory overload. When he reached your breasts, he didn't just kiss them; he claimed them. He took one nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak before he began to suckle with a fierce, demanding pressure that made your entire body arch off the mattress.
"Jack... oh god, Jack," you sobbed, your fingers tangling desperately in his hair, pulling him even closer as if you could merge your very souls through the contact.
He was relentless. He used his mouth to drive you toward the edge, his teeth grazing you just enough to elicit a sharp gasp, while his lower body continued its punishing, beautiful rhythm. He was hitting your sweet spot with every deep, powerful thrust, a calculated precision that felt both clinical and primal.
His large hand slid up from your hip, his thumb raking over your breast in a mirroring motion to the suction of his mouth, teasing you from both sides. The sheer scale of him the weight of his chest pressing you into the bed, the heat of his breath, the overwhelming fullness of him inside you was making your vision blur. You were drowning in him, caught in the gravity of a man who had finally, completely, lost all control.
"Fuck," he rasped, his voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel.
He wasn't going to let you go alone. Sensing the frantic, building tension in your body, he reached down, his large hand sliding between your grinding hips. His fingers found your clit, and the contact was like an explosion of white light behind your eyelids.
He began to work you with a ruthless, expert precision. He used his thumb to apply a heavy, rhythmic pressure, circling the sensitive nub in perfect synchronization with the deep, punishing thrusts of his hips.
The dual sensation was overwhelming. You were being filled and stretched by the heavy, hot weight of him, while at the same time, his hand was driving you toward a shattering climax. The friction was intense, the heat was suffocating, and the rhythm was relentless.
"That's it," he growled, his breath hot and frantic against your skin as he watched your face, his eyes dark with a terrifying, beautiful hunger. "Give it to me.”
The moment your internal muscles clamped around him in a desperate, pulsing squeeze, Jack’s composure didn't just crack, it shattered. A loud, uninhibited groan tore from his throat, a sound of pure, primal agony and ecstasy that seemed to vibrate through your very bones. He stiffened, his entire body turning to granite beneath you, his eyes rolling back for a split second as he fought to keep from finishing right then and there.
You pulled him into you with everything you had, your legs locking around his waist as if you were trying to fuse your bodies together. You were shaking, your breath coming in short, shallow hitches, your vision swimming in the aftermath of the release.
But the sensation of your climax the way you tightened around him, the way you sobbed his name was the final, fatal blow to Jack’s remaining restraint.
He let out a roar, a deep, primal sound of total surrender. His body went rigid, his muscles coiling with a strength that felt almost superhuman. He drove into you one last time, a deep, desperate thrust that seemed to reach your very soul, and then he broke.
You felt him stiffened. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his entire frame shuddering with the force of his orgasm, his breath coming in ragged, broken gasps.
For a long time, neither of you moved, the only sound in the room was the heavy, synchronized thudding of two hearts trying to find their rhythm again in the quiet, post storm heat of the bedroom.
+++
Two days later, the reality of the calendar caught up to them, and Jack found himself behind the wheel of his truck, driving you to the airport. The atmosphere was a strange mix of accomplishment and lingering transition; you had just finalized a massive, life-altering settlement from your airline the afternoon before, and by all accounts from Jack’s lawyer buddy, your sharp negotiations had made you the premier topic of gossip among the upper management back in Dallas.
During the drive over, the conversation turned away from legalities and toward the blank canvas of your future. You openly shared your lingering worries about your career, weighing the pros and cons of a recent job offer that had landed in your lap. Jack listened quietly, navigating the morning traffic while consciously managing his own tone to offer steady, objective advice without sounding entirely biased.
He ended up telling you to simply do what you wanted—to take your time and not rush into the next chapter just because the pages were turning. It was the healthiest, most grounded advice he could give, even if it took a great deal of self-control. The absolute truth was that he desperately wanted you to take the job offer for airline management right here in Pittsburgh. You were brilliant, your mind was terrifyingly neat with schedules, and your resume was staggering—you could speak sign language fluently, alongside two other spoken languages, and you already had the exact background needed to run a department. You were a catch for any corporate office, but he kept his fingers clenched tightly around the steering wheel and kept that particular selfish plea to himself.
Once inside the bustling terminal, the minutes began to slip away too quickly. Jack left you briefly by a row of terminal seats near your gate, stepping away to stand in a notoriously long line at a crowded coffee kiosk to grab two cups for the road.
As he waited for the barista, his eyes instinctively tracked back across the terminal to check on you. That was when he noticed someone approaching your seat. Jack immediately raised one of his heavy eyebrows, his clinical focus shifting into a sharp, protective alertness.
He could read the guy's profession from a mile away. The man was a commercial pilot, a fact made entirely obvious by the crisp, authoritative dark uniform and the pristine captain's hat he carried.
Jack wasn't a certified expert in body language, but it didn't take a degree to recognize that the interaction unfolding across the lobby was incredibly tense. The way the pilot stood was strange—rigid, slightly invading your personal space in a way that screamed old familiarity. And you were clearly, visibly uncomfortable. Your posture went completely defensive, and at one point, your eyes darted anxiously across the terminal to find Jack in the coffee line. The pilot’s gaze instantly followed your line of sight, his eyes locking onto Jack for a brief, cold second.
Jack didn't even get the chance to step out of line, let alone walk over to introduce himself or intervene, because the pilot abruptly turned on his heel and disappeared into the sea of moving passengers just as quickly as he had arrived.
By the time Jack walked back to you, balancing the two hot coffees, the space beside your seat was completely empty.
“Who was that?” Jack asked, his voice casual but his eyes searching your face.
“Marcus,” you said, your voice a little tight as you took your cup from him. “He told me he heard my father died. He was just... offering his condolences.”
Jack nodded slowly, letting the subject drop. He wasn't particularly interested in dissecting a random face from your past right now—not when you were about to board a plane and leave him for god knows how long.
He pulled you into his arms instead, focusing entirely on the soft, heartbreakingly sweet taste of your lips as you murmured your final goodbyes against his chest.
It was a perfect, lingering farewell. He watched your plane push back from the gate.
He didn't think about the encounter again until an hour later, when he was clocking in for his shift. A buried piece of data suddenly drifted to the surface of his mind. He remembered a quiet afternoon on his couch, and the specific list of your five ex-boyfriends.
summary: you have a sex dream about abbot and your relationship has hit a breaking point. it can either be on the mend or you will be on the outs for good.
tags: angst, more lore, you cry, he cry, you crode together, guilt, depression, sex dream in the beginning,
wc: 2.4k
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
You feel his lips against your neck. He trails a pattern of his kisses down between you breasts. He hums against your skin as his tongue circles the tight skin between. His hands slide down from your back and grip your waist roughly as you ride in his lap.
Your brows knit together as you feel him inside you. The pace is slow but deep as his hips meet yours. He pants, blowing hot air on your breast as you two continue.
Your hands find his curls and tangle into the locks of his hair. He pulls away to look up at you and you see his face in the darkness of your room. His lazy, lustful eyes look up at you hungry for your lips as they gaze upon them. His tongue drags along his upper lip before his teeth come down to bite on the bottom. Your hands move down to the sides of his face as you kiss him. He moans into your mouth as your lips collide against one another.
You feel the knot inside you twist as he thrusts inside you. Your breath quickens as you grow closer. You lace your hands with his as your moans get higher.
"Jack!"
You startle awake as you hear your alarm blaring. You stare into the darkness ahead, reeling from the dream you just had. Your throat feels used like you actually said his name. You were feeling flushed as you think about what just happened.
You turn off your alarm and check the time. You had slept through your alarm for the past ten minutes. You rub the sleep from your eyes and get out of bed to take a cold shower.
You spend the entire day of work trying not to think about the sex dream you had. Whenever you were by yourself the flashes of his hands on your body enter your mind. You'd squeeze your eyes shut and try to repress the memory again.
There was no doubt that it was Abbot in the dream. It was him, as he was now. Not when he was younger like in med school, or even when you saw him last ten years ago. It was him older, grayer… sexier. You grumble at the thought.
He is not sexy. He is irritating. He tries to placate your feelings about what he did. It was more to make himself feel better than make you feel better. He didn't actually care because if he did, he would simply leave you alone.
You have been good at staying cordial at work. After the bar situation, you pretended like it didn't happen. You were quick to stay away from traumas with him. However, with this new sex dream, you were completely ignoring him today until it was absolutely necessary to talk to him.
"MVA, 5 minutes out." Abbot comes walking out into the rain. You were on your smoke break but he didn't see a cigarette in your hands.
You don't turn to face him. You stand near the edge of the awning as the rain drips off the roof creating a shield of water from the rest of the elements. You had your hands folded, tucked into your pits, as you shivered in the cold. Although it was August, the clouds and the rain made the temperature drop dramatically.
"Did you hear me?" He walks over and holds out a pair of gloves to you. You take them, still not looking at him. You spit your gum into the bushes and put on the gloves. They were the right size. This was a hard fight you were facing.
The trauma was manageable, you try to stay out of Abbot's way as he directs the night team. You put a chest tube in to reinflate a collapsed lung. He is beside you watching, he whispers, "Good job." You try to remain calm as his whisper reminds you of the dream. A shudder is sent down your spine as you felt his breath on your skin.
Once the patient is stable, you dump your PPE in the trash and walk back out to the hub. Abbot walks behind you, "Good work in there."
"Save the praise for the students who need it. Lord knows, I don't." You are about to go grab your things from your locker when a resident calls your name. Whitaker, still here, asks to present before leaving. It's his final patient for the night. You go through their history together as you walk to the room with him.
Abbot watches you go with a small grimace on his face. "She really doesn't like you." Dana mutters, "What did you do?"
"We were friends once." He confesses, surprised you still hadn't mentioned that to anyone else. It's been a month since you've first arrived.
"I gathered that. You keep trying to talk to her."
"I— we drifted apart." He clears his throat.
"Uh huh." Dana and Lena exchange a look.
"What was that?" He furrows his brows.
"Nothing." Lena shrugs.
"That was something. What was it?" He crosses his arms.
"We just had a hunch." Dana waves him away, "The return of a spiteful ex, maybe."
"Exes?" He scoffs, "We never dated."
"I see that now. Like you said, just friends."
"We just thought you may have hurt her feelings, like a break up." Lena explains.
"I mean, it kinda was…" He mumbles. "I wasn't a good friend after Laura passed."
"That's not your fault." Lena sympathizes.
From where they stood, sure, it wasn't. From where he stood, it absolutely was. It was easier to ignore you than it was to keep you around. He let's out a resigning sigh, "I just want to make things right."
As he says that, you return to the hub. You smile at the two charge nurses and look at Abbot. He purses his lips and motions to the ambulance bay doors with his head. You hang your head exasperated before going outside with him.
"Look, I know that you don't want to talk to me but please listen. For the past week, you have been dodging me worse than before. And today, especially, has been the worst of it. I want us to be on equal footing here." He looks out to the wall of rain then back at you.
You stand with your body, profile, facing the rain and not him. You purse your lips and shrug, "Is that it?"
"Is that it?!" He scoffs, "I'm just tired of the mixed signals. One second, we are okay. After the bar, at your house, we seemed to be making progress. I want to do this right. I want us to be friends again. It tears me up inside knowing I hurt you."
"There it is!" You clap your hands together startling him, "You want to make amends because you feel bad. You think I'm fucked up because of what you did. You give yourself too much credit."
You turn to face him with angry tears welling up in your eyes, "I hate you. I hate that you aren't as fucked up as I am. I hate that you have friends. I hate that you are still gentle and kind. I hate that you felt like you couldn't talk to me anymore. I hate that I made you feel like you had to shut me out."
Tears stream down your face, burning hot on your cold cheeks. Abbot looks at you, startled by your outburst. You try to wipe you face quickly but you are overwhelmed by your own emotions. "I don't know what I did, Jack, but it eats me alive thinking I wronged you, or maybe Laura, in some way." You sob.
Slowly, Jack approaches you. He grabs your shoulders and pulls you into a hug. In one ear, he hears your crying and in the other, the summer rain. He couldn't keep his distance from you anymore. It wouldn't go any further but he couldn't bear to watch you suffer alone anymore.
"Let's start over. We don't have to go back to the way things were but I don't want to just forget what we had before." He rubs your back.
You pull away looking to the floor, "I don't know if I can do that."
"Please," He pleads, "I want to do right by you. I… I made a mistake. I ruined our friendship because I hated the reminder."
"You're the one who moved to her hometown!" You interject.
"But you were there! You were there until the bitter end!" He lets out a shaky breath, "I see your face and I remember how sick she was in San Francisco."
"She got better." You sniffle.
"Yeah, then she got worse." He laughs out a sob. He's crying now too, "It was the last time she seemed happy. And that was when she was with you."
You look out to the alley as tears continue to fall. Puddles ripple at your feet as water begins to pool by the awning. "Are you done?"
"What?"
"Are you done guilt-tripping me?" You sigh.
"It wasn't my intention. I just don't want us to keep going like this." He rakes his hand through his wet hair, "You avoiding me—"
"I'm not avoiding you." You scoff.
"Oh yeah? What was earlier this shift? My imagination?"
"Well, it wasn't on purpose." You defend.
"Then why? Because of the other night?"
"No! It's because…" The dream flashes in your mind, "It's because it doesn't matter that's why." You throw your hands up in surrender, "You know what, fine. You want to be friends? We can be friends again. Whatever it takes to drop this conversation, once and for all. I have to go."
You stomp inside and Abbot follows after you a little confused. "You're acting weird right now."
"And you're acting childish right now." You warn. He smiles knowingly but before either can continue your now playful spat, a familiar voice calls from the nurse's station.
"Jack?" It's Laura's best friend, Laurelai, standing at the desk. Her smile fades when she sees you.
You tolerated Laurelai but she wasn't your friend. Her and Laura had a special bond. She made that very clear when you had first met her. They had similar names, came from the same home town, and somehow ended up rooming together their first year of college. It was borderline symbiotic after that. It surprised you she didn't include herself on the trips to San Francisco.
She was tall and thin. She was like a super model. She had long black hair which you could tell from where you were standing needed a touch up at the roots. Jack walks over and hugs her, "What are you doing here?"
"My dad was brought in by his nursing home. I came to check on him. We're still waiting on a bed upstairs." She glances at you again and moves to the other side of Jack so you're out of view, "What is she doing here?"
"She works here." He smiles, "We needed some extra hands. Crazy coincidence right?"
"Really? Yeah, color me surprised. Should I report this to Laura?" She jokes.
She had known about the list. She found it when they were packing the house in Buffalo. She thought it was silly but she vowed to uphold the promise on Laura's behalf.
"There's no need. She hates me right now. We barely talk." He looks in the place you once stood and wilts when he sees you now missing.
"Cut yourself some slack. You were grieving." She rubs his shoulder, "I've gotta go. It was nice seeing you."
"Let me walk you to the door. I'll also keep an eye on your dad for you until he gets a bed upstairs." They walk side by side. Lena narrows her eyes, having listened in to the conversation.
You get caught at the door by a nurse and sign off on a few discharges. You and the other two find yourselves at the door at the same time. You smile awkwardly and she returns it. "Having fun in PGH?"
"Uh, yeah. Even with the humidity." You chuckle. You stop smiling when you see Abbot beside her.
"I'll see you later, Jack." She turns to him and hug as the doors open.
"Mhm." He looks at you, "We didn't finish our conversation."
"Didn't we?" You walk through the door.
Laurelai follows after you, "Hey, you should ease up on Jack. He did lose his wife."
"You don't think I know that?" You frown at the blatant disrespect in her tone, "It's not like you would know. He didn't cut you out of his life after she died. If anything you two seem a lot closer—"
"It's not like that." She scoffs.
"I didn't say it was." You shrug, " All I'm saying is, I don't think you quite understand how I feel about the whole thing. I lost my friend and everyone decided they didn't need to talk to me anymore when she died. So, I would prefer if you didn't approach me with such disrespect because you never liked me."
The two of you stand outside of the ER. "I mean, I get it. I'm sorry I couldn't do more to save her like the first time. I hate myself for it too. So, have a good night Laurelai." You leave her at the door of the ER and head into the rain towards your car. You feel your misery bearing down on your shoulders. You couldn't spend every day like this for another month. You think about Laura and what she would do.
First thing she would do, was probably forgive you. Then make you forgive Jack. And make Jack forgive you. And then you would all go out to eat to feel better. You let out a weary sigh and kick a pebble into the street. You hated the Laura in your head and how right she was all the time.
You check your weather app to see when the storm will pass.
Summary: Robby leaves his wife in Pittsburgh for his sebbaticle. Luckily, his best friend will check in on her from time to time for him.
Pairings: Jack Abbot x Robinavitch!reader
Warnings/Tags: Pregnancy/Troubles concieving -> Reader has had miscarriages in the past and at times worries she will lose this pregnancy but she does not (mentions of past miscarriages throughout the story), Sucidal Ideation -> Reader and Jack are both worried about Robby's fragile mental state (nothing graphic happens on page), age gap (M - early 50s, F mid-late 30s), affair, medical inaccuracies (author has google and a dream), reader is an at home baker, smut, jack abbot goes to therapy, ambiguous ending, no beta we die like leah
If you have any concerns about the warnings, please feel free to ask me
Notes: the working title for this fic was "whack him [robby] again" so do with that what you will
Word Count: 6K
Part 1, Part 2 | Masterlist | Jack Abbot Masterlist
Jack does a double take at his phone,blinking at the screen to make sure he's reading it correctly.
Incoming call from Robby
His thumb trembles as he swipes across the screen.
"Robby?" he says when the call connects, "How have you been. Everything okay?"
"Yeah, brother, everything's great."
"How's… smashed brain?"
"Smashed head in Buffalo Jump."
"Same thing," Jack grunts.
"It was good. Educational, beautiful. You should take a visit."
"I'll add it to my list," he responds dryly.
"I'm actually not there anymore though. I went down to British Colombia and now I'm back in the states."
"Yeah your wife told me that the other day," he can't keep the annoyance out of his tone, "Speaking of. Have you talked to her at all recently?"
He already knows the answer, but he's certain Robby doesn't know that.
The other man doesn't respond immediately.
"I've been messaging her occasionally," he says finally, "You been checking on her? How's she doing."
"Why don't you pick up the phone and call her?"
The line is silent for a while.
"She's doing okay," Jack says finally, "I know she's worried about you. I think you should call her."
"I will. I just need some more space for a bit. The time away has been doing me some good. I haven't thought about resident schedules or trauma patients or fucking Gloria at all since I've hit the road.
"That's good, brother, really. I want you to get better, but that doesn't change the fact that you need to call your wife."
"I will. I just need some more time. I know that once I do talk to her she's going to start asking questions and-and I just can't answer them right now.
"Can't answer your wife?"
"I didn't call for a lecture, brother. I was just checking in."
For a few moments Jack debates telling Robby himself.
"Call her, Robby. By end of the day."
You're practically bouncing when you open the door. Jack scoffs, looking you up in down, ignoring the burn in his biceps from the gracery bags weighing him down.
"Since when do you have this much energy?"
You slug in him the arm playfully, the smile never leaving your face, "What's that supposed to mean?"
He shrugs, "you've just been tired recently."
Your dress swishes around you as you close the door behind him. It's a simple lilac house dress that hangs off your bump. Jack does not notice that this particular dress shows off the swell of your breasts. His gaze simply keeps floating downwards because he's concerned about your breathing habits.
Fuck it, your tits have started to get noticeably plumper and Jack is a weak man who dreams about sucking on your nipples until you cry - maybe he even thinks about shoves his thigh between your legs as he does so, you slick dripping down his leg as shudder against his body.
The shame that burnsthrough his body each time he cleans himself up after thinking about you creeps in again. He averts his gaze.
He eyes the cupcakes on the counter.
"You didn't tell me you had an order today?"
"I didn't," Your grin is still plastered across your face, "I have some news."
"Everything okay with miss chinchilla?"
"Everything perfect. 14.6 centimeters from head to rump."
Jack nods approvingly, "So what's the news?"
You're practicially vibrating with excitement. It's contagious, Jack feels the grin creeping on his face as you bound up to him, picking up a cupcake on your way. The frosting is pink with a little blue heart on top. The other cupcakes have different combinations of the pink and blue frosting. Jack suspects he knows what this is for.
"They told me the gender."
Jack laughs, tilting his head skeptically "They told you the gender?
"Okay, maybe I caved and I asked. But on the way over I was thinking that there is a very good chance that you end up in my delivery room instead of Robby, and that's more than enough certainty for me so why not just find out the gender now."
Jack's heart skips a beat at the thought of being in the delivery room with you. He'd never really found the right time to ask about your birth plans, but he'd stay with you if that's what you wanted.
"It's a girl, isn't it?"
"What makes you say that?"
"You haven't stopped smiling since I got here," he chuckles as you try to force your face to stay neutral but your smile creeps back up.
"I could have cried the entire way home and drowned my sorrows in my baking and my love of cupcakes put the smile and enthusiasm back on my face," you punctuate the end of your sentence by placing a cupcake in his hand.
As Jack looks at the cute blue and pink cupcake in his hand he knows he has two options. The first, hand back the cupcake. It's definitely toeing the line of "surrogate husband" he's been trying, and sometimes failing, not to cross. He should tell you to call Dana and get her to do this instead. It's too much for him, for your undefined blurry relationship.
The second option-
"Blue for boy, pink for girl I assume?" He's already going to hell. What's one more cupcake?
"It's a classic for a reason," you say as he peels back the wrapper, "Close your eyes. I wanna make sure that colour shows up."
He closes his eyes and bites down. Lemon blooms on his taste buds and he lets out a little groan. Every time he eats one of your desserts he's reminded of what an idiot his best friend is.
"Can I open them now?" he asks.
"Yes! Open, open!"
He obeys, cracking open his eyes. Pink frosting stares back at him from inside the cupcake.
"Girl?" he turns to you, stumbling a little bit when you throw your body at him. He catches himself and wraps his arms around your waist. Your shampoo floods his senses - coconut pineapple something, he doesn't give a fuck- just drinks it in, "Congratulations."
You're both acutely aware when the hug lasts a beat too long. But you both stay a moment longer before untangle yourselves. Jack purses his lips as he pulls away, unable to tear his gaze from yours just yet.
He clears his throat, shaking himself of his trance, "Have you- have you talked to Robby today?"
No better way to kill the tension in the air at this point.
He's proven correct by the way you take a step back from him, nose wrinkling in disgust, "Nope."
"Not at all?" Jack usually doesn't try to prod about your feelings about your husband, only lending an ear when you need it but never pushing boundary. But hope is becoming a much more scarce resource these days, "He reached out to me."
"He texted you?" your eyes widened, "What did-what did he say?"
He doesn't bother telling you that it was a call. Not when he knows Robby's only called you once, and it ended with you hanging up the phone without saying goodbye.
"Asking how I've been, how the hospital's been. How you've been."
"Motherfucker could have just asked me himself," you mutter. Jack chuckles and briefly wonders if it was a mistake to bring him up, "Does he seem…okay?"
"As okay as one can be."
It looks like you debate asking him more. Instead you stand tall and take a deep breath (and Jack's eyes are definitely not drawn to your tits once more because he was raised with manners and honour).
"Whatever. We should start making the burgers before miss chinchilla takes over and makes me eat the whole loaf of burger buns."
11:58 pm
Late. Much later than he's allowed himself to stay since that night at your front door. Your phone is on the coffee table next to the empty cup of hot chocolate he made for the two of you earlier. Occasionally it buzzes from various notifications and each time Jack cranes his neck to see if they're from your husband. You're curled up on your side of the couch, snoring softly as the soundtrack of whatever movie auto played after the one you'd picked autoplays in the background.
11:59 pm
He huffs, crossing his arms.
Fucking Robby.
Now Jack wishes he told the other man about your pregnancy. He'd never actually betray your trust like that, fully understanding your hesitation to telling the news. And he's been trying to play both sides, advocate for his surrogate brother where he could. But this is getting ridiculous.
18 weeks, and he hasn't given you one proper phone call.
18 weeks, of mostly radio silence with only the occasional check in.
18 weeks, and you're still here in this house alone and pregnant while he refuses to seek help.
12:00 am
Your phone screen stays black. He sits in silence for another 2 minutes playing out different endings to the scenario he's about to initiate. He takes a deep breath before gently shaking your shoulder.
You grunt, flicking his hand away. He tries again, calling out your name softly.
"C'mon, wake up. Your neck is going to be wonky in the morning if you sleep on the couch."
You blink slowly at him, stretching your legs into his lap. He grabs your ankle in his hand, massaging your foot softly. You let out a little moan, settling back into the pillows.
"If you keep doing that I'm going to fall back asleep," you sigh as your lids flutter shut.
"Don't sleep till I leave, kid," he chuckles, lightly scratching his nail against the bottom of your foot making your toes curl with a squeal.
"It's late, Jack, just stay. If you must, you can sneak out of here before I wake up tomorrow like a bad hookup."
"Might not want to let me stay after I tell you what I'm about to say."
Your brows furrow, "Spit it out then, Abbot."
It takes you a minute to pull yourself on the couch and he waits until you're sitting up, looking him in the eye.
"I lied earlier. Robby called me today."
The creases between your brows get a little deeper, "Called? Why didn't you just say that?"
"I was giving him the benefit of doubt - you know, one last chance to do the right thing. I practically begged him to call you."
"You didn't tell him-"
"No. Of course not. You and little miss are not my business to tell," he smiles, "But I told him to check in on you and heavily implied that there was a reason to. Even told him to call you by midnight."
"What time is it?" you ask. You tuck your feet under you, tears starting to well in your eyes.
"Past midnight when I woke you up."
You nod slowly, letting the tear roll down your cheek, "Does he hate me?"
"He doesn't hate you," Jack reassures, resisting the urge the to wipe it away
"Then why hasn't he called?" Your voice is soft, quiet. So completely different from your boisterous behavior when he bit into the cupcake, "If-if he does come back is he just going to leave me anyways?"
Your hand rubs idly over your belly. You turn your head to the side, looking at the wall.
"He doesn't hate you," he repeats, "I don't know what he's thinking or how he's rationalizing his actions in his head, but he won't abandon you."
You still don't move.
"Hey," he moves closer to you, squeezing himself on the couch cushion despite the fact that there is not enough room, "Listen, even if he doesn't come back, or he does but leaves again you're not alone okay? I'm here. You can't get rid of me even if you wanted me to."
He tilts your chin back to face him, suddenly very aware of how close he is to you in this moment. His body is pushed up against yours, hips pressed together as you share one cushion. You blink at him with wet lashes. It would be so easy to lean down and touch his lips to yours. To feel his breath mingle with yours, to finally give in.
"Jack," you whisper, leaning in closer "Stay with me tonight?"
"We shouldn't," his voice is heavy with need. Despite that annoying little voice telling him to pull away, he can't bring himself to, "You're married."
"I know," you nod. Your hand rests on his chest, two fingers curling in his shirt collar.
"To my best friend."
"I know," you repeat. You start to pull him forward. He doesn't stop you.
"It's not right," he whispers just centimeters from your lips.
"I know."
He smiles as he tastes the lemon on your lips.
Your hands come up to play with his curls. He leans into your touch, pulling you on top of him. Your legs fall on either side of your hips. Your dress starts to ride up your hips. He doesn't want to move too fast. He doesn't know what your relationship is going to be after this so he's going the revel in every moment.
You seem to have a different goal in mind.
"Easy, kid, easy," Jack chuckles, gently moving your hands from where they're desperately fumbling with his belt, "You gotta be somewhere?"
"Don't fucking make me wait, Abbot," you grunt. You push him just far enough for him to meet your stern brow, "These pregnancy hormones are no fucking joke. I've already broken two vibrators, Jack. Two."
"How did you even manage-" he shakes his head with a laugh, "You've been waiting long enough, so why don't you let me get you into a bed and do this right."
He stands in your bedroom moments later, sitting on the edge of the bed. You waste no time climbing into his lap once more. You hold his jaw in your hands, keeping his face in place as you smash your lips against his. He grunts, hands coming down to stabalize your hips. He feels you tug at his shirt collar once again, the fabric stretching as you do so.
"Easy, kid," he tuts, tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth once his shirt is on the floor, "We got all night, remember?"
"Two vibrators, Jack."
"Alright," you yelp as he flips you over, "If you're going to be this needy."
His hands slip under your dress the silky fabric sliding off your body. Finally, Jack gets to set his eyes on your heaving tits.
He starts at your belly, kissing the swelll of it before moving upwards. When he gets to the valley of your breasts. He laps at your nipple, testing your body. You sigh, fingers scratching at the back of his neck. His hand creeps down your body. Jack smirks, amused when your legs fall open for him.
"So good for me," he murmurs. He pinches lightly at your inner thigh, making you jolt. "So eager."
Jack switches, leaving anoteher trail of kisses between your breasts as his fingers tease at your opening. He groans, gliding through your folds with ease. It takes him a moment to get into position, but gets his thighs between your legs.
"Two vibrators, yeah?"
"Don't make fun of me," you whimper.
"I'd never," he coos, moving up to your neck. He flexes his thighs, pressing up against your cunt, "Show me what you were doing with me."
You start out slow, only moving your hips slowly against him.
"Don't get shy on me now," he laughs, "Where's the girl that was ripping my shirt in half."
"I can't believe you're making me do the work. I'm practically begging you to fuck me-"
"Have I let you down before?"
You pull him down to kiss him again. Your hips start up again with more confidence this time. He flexes and unflexes his thigh, testing what pulls those sweet little whimpers that have been plaguing his dreams for so long. He kisses your neck, using one hand to play with your breast. Each time he tweaks your nipple he pulls another moan from you. You're panting against his mouth, clawing at his back. Your breathing quickens as you rut against him, cumming with a shout.
"Good girl," he whispers in your ear. He can feel your pussy twitch against him once more, "Think you're ready for me?"
"I swear to god, if you don't get inside me right now?"
"Okay, okay, baby."
He's dreamt of this moment many, many times before but nothing can compare to the sight of your head thrown back in ecstasy as you sink down on his cock. His hips arch, meeting you in the air.
"Christ, Jack," you mutter, hands planting themselves on his chest as your body adjusts to him, "If I'd known you were this fucking thick I'd have asked Robby for a threeseome."
"If I knew you were this fucking sweet around me, doll, I'd have said yes."
"Tell me you didn't move the heavy boxes by yourself?" Jack demands as soon as he sets eyes on the empty porch, "Get in the truck."
"Relax would you?" you laugh, shutting the door behind him, "I'm fine."
"Do I need to remind you that you're a high risk pregnancy?"
"Do I need to remind you that you're not actually my husband."
"Hilarious. I'm glad one of us is having fun because I wasn't joking. I will drag you into my truck kicking and screaming."
"Sexy," you wink at him, "Might take you up on that, soldier."
"Get your fucking jacket."
"Jack relax," you roll your eyes, "Bill - my across the street neighbour - he's really nice. Him and his son moved it all upstairs into the nursery already for me."
"Oh," he muters, face warm, "Sorry."
"It's okay," you hook your fingers in his belt loops, pulling him in close, "And I wasn't joking. You can pull out that caveman voice again after you put the crib together for me."
He starts to walk you back, pushing you up against the nearest wall, "What, they weren't man enough to put the thing together?"
"They offered," you smirk, "But why would I deprive myself of seeing you looking sexy and using your tools."
"Second trimester hormones seem to be kicking in."
"Mhm," you nod, pulling him in closer so you're caged against the wall, "Thinking 'bout kicking up the heat so you work up a sweat and take your shirt off."
"You can just ask me to take my shirt off."
"But then you won't be sweaty," you pout.
He chuckles, nipping at your protuding bottom lip. You sigh, relaxing in his arms as your lips move languidly together. He holds your head in place, enjoying the moment.
You whine when he finally gathers the strength to pull away.
"None of that," he tuts, shaking his head, "You want that crib built? Stop seducing me, woman."
Your giggle is music to his hears, "Can't I want my crib built and to make out a little."
"After," he heads towards the stairs, "You gonna keep me company?"
"In a bit, I made chocolate chip cookies for your thank you gift and I've gotta put them in the oven," you point to the balls of dough ready on their trays, "And I'm going to take some over for Bill and Logan as a thanks too."
"Should I be worried about this Bill?" he jokes, "Manual labour is how I show affection. I don't like when other men encroach on my territory."
"He's not my type," you scrunch your nose, "He's my age. We both know I like them a bit more mature."
In terms of DIY furniture, this crib was pretty easy to build. Everything was sectioned and labeled and he only needed to look at the instructions once in order to get his bearings. He's practically finished by the time you waddle up the stairs with a plate of warm cookies in hand.
"Looks like you don't even need my help," you say, impressed as you hand him the plate.
"I told you, kid," he says through a mouthful of cookie, "I'm good at this stuff."
They're still warm, the chocolate still gooey. He doesn't think before sucking the melted chocolate off his finger.
"Oh my god," you roll your eyes with a groan, "Do you have to eat everything like a fucking pornstar?"
"What?" he pauses, still mufffled by cookie, "This does it for you?"
"Of course it does," you cross your arms in defiance, pushing your breasts together. Jack is a simple man, a nice rack has gotten him into trouble before, "Even if I wasn't pregnant, you sucking on your fingers would drive me up the fucking wall dude."
"Yeah?" he stands, tilting his head, "What else do I do that gets you hot?"
"Did you know you the sound you make while eating a steak and the sound you make when I suck your dick are practically indistinguishable."
"What can I say?" He shrugs, getting his hands on your waist, pulling you close to him. Your bump pushes against him as he leans down and brushes his lips against yours, "You make a good steak."
"Oh nothing about my blowjob skills?"
"Might have to remind me, doll, after I settle my debts," your hands come up around his shoulders, immediately tangling themselves in his curls, "Speaking of. You got any chocolate left over?"
"Finish putting my crib together, soldier, and then you can think with your dick.
"What took you so long? I was begining to think you were actually going to the border."
Jack hears your voice from the kitchen as he toes off his shoes.
"I thought about it, but I knew you'd be too tired to cook after your order today, and that would take too long."
You're sitting on the barstool, your feet propped up on the stool next to you as the dishes you used earlier in the dry in the sink.
"Did you bring food?" your eyes light up as he enters the room. He puts the grocery bags on the counter before greeting you with a kiss.
"Of course I brought food. What kind of man lets his- a pregnant woman go hungry."
His near miss goes unacknowledged by both of you. Neither of you have tried to define the relationship, both too afraid to mention it.
"What's on the menu tonight, chef?"
"Bought some fruits for you to snack on to hopefully counteract the insane amount of potatoes, gravy and cheese you're about to consume."
"You bought poutine?" Your eyes widen, "I didn't know anyone made it around here."
"I couldn't find a place. So I'm gonna make it for you."
"You don't have to-"
"And I wouldn't do it if I didn't want to," he says as he starts to gather the bowls from the sink.
"At least let me do those. I was just being lazy-"
"Stop," he shakes his head, "You've been on your feet all day. I can do it."
"So have you! At least let me help, your leg must be bugging you."
"I'll power through this part and bring a chair here when I start the gravy," He tosses you a potato, "You can peel the potatoes if you want."
"You're making the fries from scratch."
"I don't do anything half-assed, when are you going to learn that, doll."
You shake your head with a smirk, "If this poutine is good, you are gonna get laid so hard, Abbot."
"I look forward to it," he winks.
"What's going on?" he asks as he leans his crutches on the wall before taking his seat next to you, "You've been quiet all night."
"Nothing," you shut off your phone, placing it next to you, "Smells delicious, thank you."
"The grocery store didn't have cheese curds," he says watching you mix your fries around, "So I used shredded mozzarella instead."
"In some parts of the country that's considered treason," you take a bite. Jack grins at your involuntary groan, "But this is really good so I won't call the Canadian authorities."
"How generous."
Usually during dinner you like to talk. Even if he's too tired to shoulder his half the conversation, you keep chatting through.
"You can tell me what's on your mind, you know," he rubs his thumb along tour knuckles, "You chatting through dinner become part of my unwinding routine every night."
"Robby always said dinner was quiet time," you roll your eyes, "we'd talk before or after but during dinner it was just food which was just so weird to me."
"Well," he chuckles, bringing your hand up to kiss your knuckles, "I'm not Robby."
"Robby's been sending my "allowance,"" you slump against your chair, dramatically flailing your arms around to signify air quotes, "every Monday. Sometimes with a text, sometimes not but always before noon. And he hasn't today."
Jack's stomach turns, fearing the worst, "When was the last time you talked to him."
"Last Monday he sent me money and then Friday he texted me some pictures of a baby cow from a farm he saw on the road. Just outside Arizona," you sniffle, "I thought it was a sign. I almost told him then."
"And then nothing?"
"Nothing."
Jack's silent, trying to think of anything to say.
"Have you tried calling?"
"What if he doesn't pick up," you whisper.
"Then we hop in my truck and head to Arizona," he grabs your hand, "Want me to give you some space to call him?"
"No," you shake your head, picking up your phone, "In case - if he doesn't, you know-"
"It's okay, doll. I'm right here."
It's silent when you dial, both of you holding your breath. Each time the phone rings the pit in Jack's stomach gets a little bigger. You've got your eyes on your phone screen but Jack can't take his eyes away from you, watching the tears well up in your eyes.
The line drops, your phone turns off. You look back at Jack, with a gasp.
"He didn't-"
"Try again," Jack clears his throat, "One more time to be sure."
You nod, tapping Robby's icon again. He recognizes the contact photo, a picture of Robby smiling in his suit on your wedding day. He feels queasy.
You look at him in a panic when the line finally connects.
"Hello?" Robby says on the other end. His voice is gravely from sleep, "Everything okay, baby? Why are you calling so late?"
You hit the speaker button once more, bringing the phone to your ear.
"Everything is fine," you say, tucking yourself into Jack's side. Your head rests on his chest and he wraps his arm around your shoulders, "I just…hadn't heard from you on a while."
Jack can't hear what Robby says in response - nor does he particularly care, he's just relieve that Robby answered. His ring feels heavy on his finger as he drifts off, the hum of your voice lulling him asleep. He's only woken by the press of your lips on his jaw and your words urging him to take your to bed.
"Brian," Jack takes a deep breath as he prepares himself for what he's about to say, "I have confession."
Brian chuckles in the chair across from him, "Any particular reason why you phrased that like a confessional."
"Probably because I have feel some guilt about it."
"Go on then," he gestures with his hand to continue.
"Well," He sighs, thinking about where to begin,"Good news is that I've been seeing this girl."
Brain's face is neutral, waiting for the rest of the story.
"Bad news is that she's Robby's…wife," he cringes as he says it. It's the first time he's really acknowledged it out loud.
"I see," Brian nods, "Is that why you're not wearing your ring today? I noticed it earlier, but I was waiting to see if you wanted to talk about it."
Jack's thumb faulters as it reaches to fiddle with the absent ring on his finger. The skin underneath is softer than the rest his fingers.
"I-yeah. I think so."
"And is that because you feel guilt over Lucille, or Robby?"
"Both I think?"
Jack knows its cliche to say but it was true - he just got caught up in whirwind of things. You had been so scared that first day on the steps of your house that he couldn't have possibly left you alone. He felt those feelings deveop the moment it happened, and he should have backed away. But he didn't.
"Lucille was my first love. I will never love anyone like I loved her, and I certainly don't think that this new girl is replacing her but it feels like a slap in the face of our marriage - a slap in the face to her that the first woman that I've been with after her is married."
"And, what about Robby?"
Jack shrugs, "Robby's my brother."
He doesn't walk away from that session with all of his issues solved, or even with any more clarity - though it's at least partly because he waited until the end of his session to drop the bomb, a habit which Brian is not a fan.
But what he said was true.
Ever since he heard Robby's voice on the phone the other night. He's found him self wrestling with his feelings. On one hand his feelings for you were real.He cares about you and your baby, and whatever happens with Robby, he will absolutely stay by your side if that's where you want him to be. On the other hand, Robby was his brother.
"Ja-ack."
Though it is difficult to remember when he has you mewling beneath him. He's got you on your side, pressed up against your back. One of his arms has the crook of your knee resting on your elbow, pulling it up higher so he can bury himself deep inside, while the other pinches your nipple making you squeal.
"Please Jack, please," you pant, rocking back on him, "Don't tease me. Need you - been thinking about you all day. Please."
And what is he supposed to do except suck at the pusle point on your neck and give you everything you ask for.
"You fucking mauled me, last night?" you laugh as you come down the stairs the next morning. The smell of the pancakes he was going to surprise you with must have called you down the stairs, "You're so lucky I don't have a public facing job."
"I'd get you all the turtlenecks you need as long as I get to be the reason you keep needing them," he smiles as you come over and greet him with a kiss where he's sitting by the stove, "How is miss rabbit feeling about pancakes?"
"Pretty good I think," you scrunch your nose, "But I don't think we like the smell of the maple syrup."
"But she's half Canadian! That's why I chose pancakes."
"She'll have to get over it once she's out of here, otherwise I can never take your home -" you freeze mid sentence, staring at him with wide eyes.
He turns his head to the garage, having the same fear, "That the garage?"
"Yeah," you breathe.
"What are the chances someone other than Robby has your garage code?"
"None."
He doesn't even have time to think before the thud of Robby's feet hit against the garage steps. Jack knows that his only attempt to salvage this is to run, but he doesn't even have his leg on. You know you're caught, even if you were to try to distract Robby long enough for Jack to get out of the house, that stupid bruise he left on your neck incriminates you. He can't let you face this storm alone.
Robby calls your name, booming through the halls.
"I'm home! Is that Jack's truck on the drive way? Did he-"
Robby falters mid sentence when he finally sees the two of sitting in the kitchen. You're in one of your slip dresses that you love, which may be a tad revealing to wear around one of Robby's friends, but nothing scandalous. His eyes eventually trail down, catching on your rather prominient baby bump. His brows furrow in confusion, coming together in one straight line when he sees the little marks Jack has left over the past few weeks. He scans over Jack's shirtless form too, his stump and the fact that his prosthetic is nowhere to be found. The scene is entirely domestic, damning.
He's tan from his hours in the sun, his beard a shade or three lighter than the last time Jack saw him. Jack wants to laugh because Robby does look better than he did when he left. Robby's eyes flick back and forth between you two, incapable of processing the information in front of him.
"What the fuck am I looking at?" Each syllable slips out of his mouth with a stab to Jack's chest.
"We can explain-"
He doesn't smell it until the smoke detectors go of, ripping everyone from the stand off. He looks at the stove. The pancakes are burnt.
Robby and Jack have been pining for your attention for years, so when the opportunity presents itself to spoil and lather you in attention who are they to ignore it.
CW: none really, mentions of sex, kissing, a hint of Robby x jack but that’s it
Note: no this isn’t proof read and yes this is absolutely the most self indulgent thing I’ve ever written seeing as it is currently my 26th birthday and yeah I did make this xreader’s 26th birthday what about it! ITS LEO SEASON OKAY! Hehehe hope yall enjoy!!!
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Your voice rang out just a bit louder than you had meant to.
You were sitting at the nurses station in between shift change. It was a rare moment of downtime that had you deciding to scroll the internet for new scrubs. You finally had a few years under your belt as a nurse, so the paychecks began to come with a little cushion to them now. And you figured that it was time to treat yourself, at least you did until you saw the price.
You figured a few scrub sets and new shoes from your favorite brand cloves would’ve been doable. Except you wanted to try FIGs scrubs since you had seen everyone and their mothers talking about them. Unfortunately the total in your cart had come to a whopping 600$.
With not a lot of time to dwell on the loss of your dreams, the chime of a call bell went off. As you all but stomped away you didn’t notice the way your disappointed remarks were overheard by two men who were fighting the urge to ask you what was wrong.
Michael Robinavitch and Jack Abbot had been vying for your attention for over a year. Flirtatious remarks and sly touches were common occurrences as each interaction you had always left a stuttering mess. Feeling as if your skin was burning with unbearable heat it became a reaction the two men had begun to crave every time you worked with them.
But you never thought they truly meant it. Always assuming it was them being nice to the new girl, an attempt to make you feel comfortable. Even though four years have now gone by and they have yet to stop their flirtatious ways. You would’ve never guessed that two of the most attractive men you've ever met were genuinely interested in you.
And it didn’t help that you were almost half their age. Leaving you to always feel less than with those around you. Thinking about all your other coworkers who were older, smarter, and prettier than you were. Leaving you oblivious that the two men you’ve been pining over have been doing the same to you. It drove them insane.
It had gotten to the point where Jack had accidentally yelled out your name while Robby was fucking him into the mattress. Neither was offended seeing how both of them had wished you were there between them. So as you walked away neglecting to exit out of your tab, they couldn’t help but peek at your left open browser.
“This is what’s got her sighing like that?” Jack's face furrowed in disbelief as he spoke first, “Scrubs?”
“Maybe they didn’t have the color she really wanted” Robby stated while shrugging his shoulders, trying just as hard as Jack to figure out what happened.
“Are you both truly that pathetically stupid?” a thick Pittsburgh accent broke through their contemplation, "She's upset because she wants nice scrubs of her own and can’t afford it, especially at a nurses salary. And I should know!”
Dana’s sharp tone had them understanding in an instant what had you so upset. Forgoing their current task of patient report they took a moment to look at your cart. With your size displayed in what you’ve already put in they took their time in browsing through the whole website.
They added a few more pairs of scrubs, as well as a jacket and vest with your name and letters personalized into the breast pocket. Grabbing each underscrub in fun colors they know you love. As well as compression socks that you’ve recently mentioned were life changing when you wore a pair to work the other week.
The total amount didn’t seem to have either of the two attendings batting an eye. But had it been you, you would’ve passed out at the idea of spending that much money on anything let alone yourself. However, Jack and Robby have now made it their mission to make sure you know exactly what you’re worth.
After making sure it was sent to Jacks house their next step was making sure you finally knew how much they cared for you. This came in the form of a small surprise birthday party at a bar thrown by Dana with your roommates Trinity and Dennis. You originally thought it was just a night out with the three of you, but as you walked through the door a group yelled out ‘Happy Birthday!’.
After a round of hugs and chatter along with a few shots and a couple drinks, you were well into a good buzz when you felt two warm large bodies come behind you as you were thanking Dana. You watched as a smug smile came across her lips, at the same time two pairs of hands wrapped loosely around your waist.
“Happy birthday sweetheart” Robby’s low voice resonated in your ear.
“You finally old enough to drink now?” Jack gruff tone mixing with Robby’s own had goosebumps rising across your skin.
Heat filled your cheeks as your head swiveled from one side to the other, meeting their eyes in a frantic manner as you tried to piece together words. Sentences never formed, seeing as the best you could do with the alcohol settling in your system was letting out a deep breath.
“Oh no, I think we may have sent her into shock Michael,” Jack cooed out the syllables as he brought a thumb up to pull down your bottom lip.
“Come on now Jack don’t be mean, it’s her birthday and we haven’t even given her a present yet” Robby's own hand traveled lower settling on the curve of your lower back.
“She’s a big girl now Mike, 26 is old enough to know what she likes isn’t it.”
Your brain had all but turned to mush as their words and close proximity had you dizzy with need. The soft scent of their cologne’s floating into your senses had your feet following them to wherever they were directing you. Which seemed to be a tucked away booth in the corner of the room.
It was dimly lit and slightly hidden away with a box placed right in the middle of the table. They tucked you into the seat first before Jack sat on your left and Robby on your right. A hostess came by dropping off a few drinks that you didn’t remember ordering.
But as you looked up you met eyes with Trinity who was giving you a very suggestive look, and Dennis beside her with red cheeks and a shy smile. Your focus didn’t stay on your roommates for very long as a large hand fell to your knee and another across your shoulders.
“Go on and open your present sweetheart” it was evidently Jack's hand on your knee as he gave it a small squeeze.
After a big gulp of the pink cocktail in front of you, you reached out with shaking hands to unwrap the gift. As the top comes off a small note on top of the gift paper read ‘only the best for our best girl’. Tucking the note into the side so that it didn’t get lost you pulled out the first item.
It was the FIGs scrubs you could only imagine owning, but now the butter soft fabric was in your hands. You could already feel the stinging sensation of tears filling your eyes at the gift. Looking at both of them in disbelief they just smiled and encouraged you to keep looking.
In total you ended up with; four sets of scrubs, four underscrub long sleeves, a fleece jacket and vest, six compression socks, and two new pairs of clove shoes. As well as a ton of new pens that probably won’t last the week.
“T-this is too much, I can’t even imagine what this cost you” your voice was thick with emotion as you spoke, “I-I’m not worth all of this”
“You are worth this and so much more, you would’ve thought after four years of us struggling for your attention would’ve told you that” Robby held your gaze with each word, watching how your face fell into confusion.
“He’s right, all you had to do was as and we would give you the world. Instead we’ve been living through moments of breakroom passes and coworker get togethers” Jack huffed out a laugh at the end.
“You like me? Like actually, I thought you two were just being nice” your head once again swiveled trying to meet both their eyes, “b-but there’s literally so many people smarter and prettier and older than I am, you shouldn’t waste your time-”
“Absolutely not,” Jack squeezed your thigh so that you would stop looking like a drunk owl twisting its head, “you are an amazing person and one of the best nurses we’ve ever worked with, and trust me we’ve worked with a lot.”
“Kid we’ve been doing this since before you were born and trust us when we say, you are absolutely worth this and more” Robby seized your chin in his grip, “now can I please kiss you? Been waiting fucking years just to taste you.”
“God yes please”
Your words were swallowed by the rush of Robby's lips on yours, his beard brushing against your skin. The hand that rested against your thigh glided up until it snuck under the hem of your dress, squeezing the soft expanse of your thigh. At the same time another pair of lips attached themselves to you, Jack couldn’t help himself as the bend of your neck looked so damn inviting.
The touches had taken you by surprise, a gasp escaping you had given Robby the opportunity to deepen the kiss. His tongue delving into your mouth exploring what it could. He tasted of whiskey and mint, a flavor that you could easily become addicted to. A sharp pinch of teeth at the junction of your neck had you releasing a moan straight into Robby’s mouth.
“C’mon now don’t be selfish, you said we could share”
Jack had successfully pulled you from Robby before bringing you lips to his side. His was more demanding, claiming you as theirs. The bourbon from his drink slid onto your tongue. Robby following Jacks previous work moved his mouth down to your neck, marking his side as Jack had done.
“Happy birthday baby” Robby’s rough whisper caused you to all but whimper into Jack's kiss.
His hand also went to a thigh moving up until he felt where Jack's hand rested as well, both circling your sensitive skin barely brushing where you wanted them. The attention of their touches had you ready to fuck them in the corner booth. As evident by the way your body began responding and searching for more, and the growing wet spot on the gusset of your underwear.
“5$ they’re about to go fuck in the alleyway” Trinity was the first of the group that was unashamedly watching the three of you to speak up.
“I’ll double it and bet they’re at least making it to Jack's truck” Dana was next to add, “it has a bench seat in front”
“T-they w-wouldn’t… would they?” Dennis’ small voice cracked at the idea of his roommate and bosses being in such a position.
“Oh absolutely they would, if McKay looked at me like that we’d be in the bathroom right now doing worse than that” Victoria's statement had everyone looking at her in a shocked expression, “damn was that too far?”
“Not at all, but I do think the bathroom is free” The unexpected voice of Cassie came from behind the group. Momentarily distracting them from the three of you.
But it wasn’t long before the attention was back on you as you all stood up and began walking out of the bar. Giving the group a wink and a smile as the two men all but dragged you out of the bar. A chime on Dennis’ phone rang, it was a text from you asking him to bring home the box on the table. After showing Trinity he went to show the rest of the group, but quickly realized it was only the two of them and Dana left.
“5$ says in the next week our bosses will be in our kitchen after fucking her all night” Trinity proposed a new bet with a devilish smirk.
“Trin what the actual fuck!” The disgust on Dennis’ face was enough to make her keep poking at him.
“An added 5$ if we have to put on noise canceling headphones because they’re breaking furniture!”
Dennis had tried to walk away but Trinity kept following, creating worse and worse situations. Dana was left to stand there with her husband, watching everyone depart to new corners of the bar.
“You done matchmaking yet?” Her husband asked.
“Well I got the main three and an unexpected side, but I still need Trinity to talk to Walsh and Dennis with Brenden but I’m good for now”
A content smile filled Dana’s face. Knowing that at least five of her closest friends would be taken care of. And it was absolutely the best birthday gift she could’ve given you.
