( +18 ) mdni / small smut fic. fem!reader/sous-chef!reader & soft dom!grant. power imbalance. mutual pining undertones. age gap (20s&late 40s). blowjob. food play. praise. petname (baby). gentle guidance (with hair touching). bodily fluid play (swallowing come). aftercare kissing.
reblog is a creator's best-friend, thank you!!
Grant should tell himself this is wrong, he should.
It’s utterly, fucking, wrong. In theory. He shouldn’t be allowing this between the two of you; not only because you are now his sous-chef, but also because you are so much younger than him. Only in your twenties, you could have anyone you want. You are pretty, talented, so smart and funny… and so fucking good at making him feel like Heaven is close to Earth. With your big eyes, your smile, your ideas, your quick thinking that makes everyone like you.
Once again; he thinks this is wrong and he should stop this, and should help you get up from the floor of your kitchen. So can’t he? Probably because you have your lips wrapped around his cock, licking icing off of it. Because he doesn’t truly mind having you in this position, because the truth is, he couldn’t stop thinking about you since you had started your role as his sous-chef at the restaurant.
Because every single naughty thought he had been having had been about you since then. Because, God, he wants you.
He couldn’t even remember how it had started, only that you had invited him over for tasting a new meal you were working on. The two of you had a drink of wine, laughing and testing new proportions for North & Vine; trying to find something to show to Marcus. Grant had never laughed so hard before, his thoughts in shambles each time you walked closer to him. He could smell the perfume from your skin, the warmth of your body and he had felt his cock twitch in his pants more than once during that night.
“Salmon with a spicy orange flavored sauce? Are you trying to kill me?” He had joked during one of your ideas, making you roll your eyes. “Okay, well, do you have any idea?” You had voiced back at him, hips popped to the side and touched the kitchen counter. Grant had smiled at you before imitating your position, plus crossing his arms over his chest.
Big biceps bulged, calling your name for a second before he spoke. “No, that sounds good, alright. I just thought you wanted to talk about the dessert now.” Dessert, was it. You spoke again; about cherries, lemon icing, a sponge cake with a bed of jelly mangoes… or something.
But Grant was more focused on the way your lips moved than on the ideas themselves; imagining how it would feel like to kiss you in your kitchen, right now. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t even dare act on those thoughts even with how much you both had been flirting with the other for weeks now. He didn’t have to ask for anything, though, because the simple joke you made about licking icing from his body was enough for it to happen.
There was a kiss, soft and gentle; tempting, tasting the wine from your lips as he got closer and wrapped his hands around your waist to pull you against his body. His cock was already half-hard in his pants, twitching and begging for attention as he whined against your mouth. “Fuck, baby, I want you so much.” He spoke, and your hands traveled to his belt. You didn’t lose a second before undoing it, the button and fly soon following. Grant groaned in your ear as you broke the kiss. He was panting in your face; the faint smell of alcohol in his mouth like in yours.
His eyes squinted and he watched as you lowered yourself on your knees before him, both his hands moving to hold at the counter, his legs trembling. “You look so pretty like that. You want to suck me off?” He spoke, direct but soft and you nodded your head at him. “Yeah, I want to. Lick icing off of you, remember?” You expressed back at him and he sighed dreamily, nodding his head too.
Your hands moved with his permission, pulling his pants and boxers down to his knees. His cock was hard, slapping back to his lower-stomach and twitching for attention.
You felt saliva pool in your mouth at the view; a slight curve to the left, more length than girth, an angry pink tip leaking translucent pre-cum in beads. Hair at the base, salt and pepper. Grant felt his ballsack contract at the attention you were giving to his cock, and he licked his lips. “Do you like it? Like that old man’s cock?” He asked and you sighed. “It’s so fucking pretty, Grant.”
His hands moved and you looked up at him as he grabbed the bowl of buttercream icing from the counter just to serve a line of it all along his cock, base to tip. He watched you as your lips parted and a sigh escaped you. You moved on your knees to be closer to him, hands grabbing at his bare thighs. One of Grant’s hands moved through your hair, gently pushing your head closer to his cock. “Come on, good girl. You still wanna do it, yeah?” He asked you, suddenly feeling like this might not be what you truly wanted. But you looked up at his face before wrapping your lips around his tip.
Grant gasped at the feeling, the buttercream had been slightly cold on his cock but your mouth was warm. It was contrasting so much, making him dizzy for a second or so. You hummed around his bulbous head, tasting the slight lemon flavored buttercream icing, your eyes closing as you took more of his cock inside your mouth.
Your tongue rolled around his length, smearing the icing around. Grant’s eyes lowering to watch you work on his cock. “Fuck, such a good girl… You’re so pretty. Yeah, God, go on.” He spoke, fingers running through your hair but never pushing you closer. He wanted you to do this at your own pace.
Soon enough, you had more than half of his cock inside your mouth, your taste buds tasting both lemon and salty pre-cum. You moaned, tongue rolling around his cock and teasing his veins by rubbing against them purposefully. Grant groaned, throwing his head to the ceiling of your kitchen before looking back at you. You stopped yourself from moving more and he was thankful for that; his head feeling dizzy from the sensations of your mouth closing around his fat cock. “Such a good girl you are.” He spoke but moaned loudly when you tightened your lips around his cock from the praise.
Some of the buttercream icing was now smeared on your lips, covering them with a lemon and sugar flavor.
You felt his tip gently hit the back of your throat, but not enough to make you gag. Your jaw went slack as you started to suck on his shaft, pulling your head back and forth, teeth only grazing gently at his skin. His cock was heavy in your mouth, warm, tasting both salty and sugary. You tried to lick at the icing, getting the more off of his shaft, rubbing your tongue at different spots which made Grant whine out for you.
You gulped, saliva making his dick glisten, coating his length before leaking to his balls and mixing with the buttercream.
You suddenly pulled away from his cock, letting it pop out of your mouth with a wet noise. The length slapped back against Grant’s lower stomach, before you wrapped a hand around it. The rest of the buttercream coated your fingers but you didn’t seem to care. You started to jerk him off, smearing more icing on his shaft.
“Fuck, ah, yes… You’re so good. You’re doing so good, baby. You’re making me feel so good, you know that?” He spoke, eyebrows furrowed in pleasure. You moved your head to lick at the buttercream, running your tongue all along his cock while pumping him up and down. Your tongue rubbed against twitching veins, down to his balls.
You could feel the way Grant’s thighs were shaking as you still held one, fingers against warm and soft skin. A whine escaped his mouth as you ended up sucking on his balls, fingers still wrapped around his fat cock. Your thumb brushed against his leaky tip each time you pumped up, teasing him slightly. His skin tasted musky and salty, but also sugary from the buttercream icing. Your saliva made his balls glisten and only when you thought he had gotten enough stimulus there, you shifted your attention back to his cock.
Your hand started to pump at his base while your mouth wrapped around his tip again.
“Good girl. Tighten those lips for me, yeah? You’re doing so good. Suck me off so good, baby.” He spoke and you did exactly what he wanted, tightening the grip of your lips around his tip. Your tongue rolled around his mushroom head, teasing his slit as more pre-cum leaked, ending on your taste buds. The icing had been licked off, but his cock still held the taste of lemon.
You moaned around his shaft, the vibration bringing another stimulus to Grant and he groaned. His hand in your hair was trembling, but he tried to play with your locks, his balls contracting as he felt his orgasm close.
“Baby, please… Please, can I come in your mouth?” He whined, his breathing labored as he almost folded onto himself. Your eyes looked up to see his face, and he saw the permission in the way you were looking at him. Your hand started to jerk him faster, you sucked on him like a lollipop, saliva leaking from the corner of your mouth now. Slurping noises echoed in the room before it was filled with Grant’s loud moan, a gasp leaving his mouth as he shot his hot, creamy white load inside your mouth.
His thighs shook, pupils dilated as he kept looking at you. You waited for his cock to twitch in your mouth, the taste of his salty come strong on your tongue. Only when you knew he was gone, you pulled away, mouth filled with his semen. You swallowed it, licking your lips to not miss a drop. “God, baby…”
Grant cursed as he watched you, his hands moving to pull his pants up, buttoning them again before he helped you up. His strong, large hands made their ways to your waist to pull you closer. There was a sheen layer of sweat on his forehead, a smile on his face.
He didn’t even hesitate before kissing you again, his tongue pushing past your lips. He moaned again, his tongue brushing against yours and licking at your teeth before he pulled again; a thread of saliva connected your mouths. “You taste like lemon and me, now.” He said and you laughed, wrapping your arms around his neck. “That’s a great combination, isn’t it? I think I like it.”
“Yeah, I like it too. I think you should taste like me all the time, yeah?”
taglist ﹏ @ravensreadingrecs @tealee @dreamersentity @amourflores @filthgf @antlerlove @mimisitaugu @dreamcastgirl99 @whitemelanin @userhotd @beaufire @s4yuriii @puppyinlace @prismozo @r-oxy1 @kill3ill @beausling @starr-jazz @ohtiramisuu ( to be added in misc section!)
Summary: Jack returns home and finds his girlfriend making him breakfast. It all leads to some emotional confessions and passionate sex.
Warnings: suicidal thoughts, mentions of suicide attempt, bad mental health, grief, explicit sexual content.
a/n: perfect mix of fluff and smut lol
If you're currently struggling or have struggled with bad mental health in the past. I see you, you're not alone and I'm proud of you for fighting. <3
Likes & reblogs are appreciated. Don't be shy to comment because I love hearing from you!!
Hope you enjoy reading,
kisses.
────────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹────────
The house is filling up with the smell of eggs and bacon as you’re preparing breakfast.
Jack is about to return home from his night shift and you know he likes to eat something before going to bed. The coffee machine is pouring and the fresh orange juice you squeezed out is already in a jug on the kitchen island.
While preparing the food, you’re dancing along to some music that’s playing through your phone. It’s become this little ritual of yours, making breakfast while dancing throughout the kitchen. A great way to start your day, it’s like a serotonin boost.
Jack Abbot arrives home after fourteen hours on the job, he’s exhausted and absolutely worn out. However, when he walks inside the apartment and catches you dancing around the kitchen.. a smile grows onto his lips. He quietly places his bag down at the front door, taking off his jacket and kicking off his shoes while his eyes never leave you.
It’s not the first time he has caught you like this when he got home from work, yet.. the sight still makes his heart melt.
Never in his wildest dreams he imagined he would have this again. Something so domestic.. a partner waiting for him to get home, cooking him a meal. After the passing of his wife, he thought he’d never find happiness again. It took him a few years but then he found it, in the shape of you.
“You should’ve become a dancer instead of a social worker.” Jack speaks up, making you jump a little as you turn around to face him.
“Damn it,” you give him a playful glare. “You always do this.. sneak up on me.”
“It’s fun,” Jack smirks softly as he walks closer towards you. “I like watching you when you think nobody’s watching.” he says.
“Creep,” you throw the kitchen towel his way.
A chuckle escapes Jack’s lips as he catches the towel with ease, eyes glimmering with affection as he approaches you. Before you know it, he has made a loop with the towel so he could throw it over your shoulders and pull you closer to him that way.
“Who you callin’ a creep, huh?” he teases, face hovering over yours.
A smile grows on your lips as you look up into his eyes, arms wrapping around his waist as you hold him close. “Hi baby,” you mumble before moving up on your tip toes so you could press a quick kiss to his lips.
Abbot’s quick to chase your lips for another kiss, eyes closing as he takes his time with it. A soft hum escapes you as you move your arms up to wrap around his neck, head tilting to deepen the kiss some more.
“Careful,” he mumbles against your lips. “You’re gonna make a man want to forget all about the food you made him and take you back to the room.” he says.
“Hey.. no way,” you say as you pull back and look into his eyes. “I worked hard on that breakfast.”
“Hmm..” Jack takes a look at what you made and he can feel his stomach grumble, he hasn’t eaten in a while and is awfully hungry. “Looks good.”
“Sit,” you instruct him before walking over to the stove to retreat the pan you made your scrambled eggs in.
Abbot gives your ass a quick pat before he moves to sit himself down at the kitchen island, facing you. His eyes roam over the way you’re moving through the kitchen, one of his shirts hanging on your body and your hair up in a messy bun. He loves you in the mornings before you get yourself ready for the day, something about your face without make-up makes him all warm inside.
“Here you go,” you say as you place a plate in front of Jack. Some eggs, bacon and a few slices of an orange lay on it.
A soft smile tugs on Abbot’s lips as he turns his head to look at you. “Thank you..” he leans in to press a kiss against your lips. “You’re the best, y’know that?”
“Tell me something I don’t know, handsome.” you playfully send him a wink which makes him chuckle as he watches you move back into the kitchen.
After pouring Jack and yourself a glass of orange juice, you take your plate and move to sit down beside him. You feel how he moves his hand and lays it to rest on your thigh as you have a piece of bacon.
“So.. how was your shift?” you ask Jack after swallowing your bite.
“Draining.. long, some awfully weird cases again to prove how chaotic the night shift truly is.” he tells you between eating some of his eggs.
“But that’s what you like about it.” you say after having a sip of your orange juice. “The day shift would just bore you now.”
Jack turns his head to look into your eyes as he hums in agreement. “Yeah.. you’re right.” he nods, squeezing your thigh before pulling back his hand so he could pick up his glass of orange juice. “How about you? Busy day today?” he asks.
“I need to be in at nine,” you tell him. “I have a few cases I need to follow up on and that meeting with management about those free health classes I want to provide for our street program.”
“Hmm.. busy woman,” Abbot says after having a sip. “If they don’t want to go on board with your idea that’s just because they’re idiots. Don’t let them make you think your ideas are not good enough.” he tells you, making a chuckle leave your lips before nodding. He truly is your biggest supporter.
“I’ll catch some sleep and then I’ll go get groceries. I’m gonna make dinner so you’ll have something to eat when you come back home.” he tells you, a smile growing on his lips as he catches your eyes.
“Sounds good.” you give him a smile back before leaning in and resting your head against his shoulder.
Jack’s heart flutters as he leans down and presses a kiss onto your head. He really likes the life he has going on with you.. which is something he used to dream of having but would’ve never admitted to anyone. Not until now. He’s not ashamed, he’s proud to have this, to have you. Which is something his co-workers can attest to as he isn’t able to shut up about you at work.
“Why are you smiling like that?” you ask as you catch the look on his face.
Abbot wakes up out of his day dreaming and looks down at you, noticing that he was indeed smiling while sunken into thought. He shrugs softly but then catches sight of your curious eyes and knows you won’t let this go.
“Just.. I really like the life we have.” he admits, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Never thought I’d have this again.” he says as he looks into your eyes, heart overflowing with love for you. “You make me excited to live again.” Jack says. “I can never thank you enough for that.”
A soft smile tugs on your lips as you hear his words, they make you emotional so you bury your face into his chest some more so he wouldn’t see the tears burn in your eyes. It pains you to know how much he’s struggled in the past.
“Can’t help but think.. you know, that she had something to do with it.” Jack tells you which makes you look back up into his eyes. "At least that’s what I like to think.” he chuckles softly. “Comforts me in some way.”
“M’sure she’d be extremely proud of you.” you tell him, referring to his late wife. “It hasn’t been easy for you, you’ve found joy in living again and that’s hard work. You can’t give me all the praise.”
A smile tugs on Jack’s lips as his eyes turn glossy, your words tugging on his heart strings. “For a long time.. I thought that if she was looking down at me, she’d hate what she’d see.” he says, the expression on his face falling as he tries to hold back tears. “I was so lost in myself.. in hatred for the world, drinking or working was all I did.” he explains.
“No.. she’s wouldn’t-”
“She would though.” Jack cuts you off. “Told me so herself when she was still alive.” he says before a smile grows on his lips as the memory replays in his head. “Told me that she loathed those types of men.. ones that hate the world and therefore destroy themselves with booze and everyone around them with how they act.”
A sympathetic smile tugs on your lips as you listen to his words, allowing him to speak. You’ve always given him the space to talk about his late wife, you realize it’s how he keeps the memory of her alive and that’s something you don’t want to take away from him.
“One night.. I was so lost and I just-” he chokes up for a moment, tears pooling in his eyes. “I didn’t see a way out anymore.” he admits softly. “I had made my way up to the roof of my apartment building.. self-determined that the only way I was going down was by jumping."
Hearing his words is like a blow to the chest. It hurts you to know that this man who you love so dearly, almost killed himself because he was in so much pain.
While his tear filled eyes and heavy words make you want to sob, you stay strong. Because you want to be there for Jack. You want him to know that he can share his darkest moments with you, that they don’t scare you off.
“Before I could jump-” Jack’s voice fills up the space between you again. “My phone made a noise as a text came in.” he says, eyes tracing over the features of your face. “It was you.” he smiles as tears pool in his eyes. “Explaining how you got my number from Dana and wanted to thank me for the great job I did on that foster kid case with you.”
You nod at his words, still able to recollect how nervous you were to send him that text. You had not had many chances to work with Abbot at the time, considering he’s on the night shift and you’re there during the day, but.. that didn’t mean you didn’t know who he was.
After you had the chance to work together with him on the case of the foster kid that was his patient and showed signs of abuse, something shifted within you. He was no longer just the handsome attending, he was the guy you wanted.
“I was actually pacing in my living room, like a teenager who just sent her crush a text and was awaiting an answer.” you chuckle which makes Abbot laugh through his tears as well. “You made me even more nervous by not replying instantly.”
“I was rereading your text like a hundred times. I couldn’t believe you thanked me for something that in my mind was just my job.” Jack tells you.
“Trust me.. after working with many doctors on cases, I can tell you that it’s not just because it’s your job that you actually care.” you say. “I remembered being really impressed on how you handled the situation with so much care, even before I got called to it.”
Jack smiles softly at your words, hearing your praise does something to him. He values you so much as a person, that the thought of you thinking about him like that is enough to make his heart melt.
“That night.. I like to believe that it was her who saved me by sending you into my life.” Jack explains, that smile resting on his lips.
“I like that theory.” you smile back at him.
Jack leans down and presses a kiss on your forehead, eyes closing as he silently thanks his late wife once more. He knows that there will never be real evidence about his theory, but believing in it is enough for him.
“I appreciate how you allow me to talk about her. Means a lot.” he tells you, chin resting on your head.
“Ofcourse..” you answer and lean in some more as you hold onto him. “She was a big part of your life, that’s not changing just because she’s gone.”
“Yeah.. s’just,” he mumbles. “I was somehow afraid that a new partner would be jealous or not keen on me talking about her.” Jack admits.
“Hmm.. I get it.” you nod softly.
“M’happy you’re not like that,” Jack tells you, pressing another kiss on the top of your head.
His words make a smile grow onto your lips, you lean back a bit so you could look at him and let your eyes trace over his face. The story he told you earlier comes back to mind and you find it weird how you never heard it before, the two of you have been together for some time now.
“Why have you never told me that story of the roof before?” you ask him, breaking the silence.
“It’s not something m’really proud of.” he mumbles back at you, looking down to avoid eye contact.
“Hey,” you move a hand to cup his cheek and make him look back into your eyes. “You have nothing to be ashamed of.” you tell him. “You fought for a long time and you were tired, it’s normal that the thought of giving up crossed your mind.” your thumb brushes against his skin and you feel him leaning into your touch some more. “But I’m so fucking proud off you that you didn’t give up.”
A bashful smile covers his lips as he hears your words, they make tears burn back into his eyes. Being this open and vulnerable with you isn’t easy, if it wasn’t for all that therapy.. he probably never would’ve been able to open up to you like this.
“I love you,” Jack says before he leans in to press a kiss against your lips. “So.. so.. much.” he mumbles between kisses.
“I love you too.” you smile against his lips.
Once he pulls back, a pleasant silence falls over the two of you as you get back to having breakfast. The scraping of forks against plates, food being swallowed and the music that is still leaving your phone is all that is able to be heard.
“That was a heavy ass conversation for this early in the morning.” you are the first to break the silence.
A chuckle leaves Abbot’s mouth as he nods at your words. “Sorry ‘bout that.” he tells you.
“No need to be sorry,” you say as you stand up to put your empty plate in the sink. “Susan is going to be so proud of you.” you tell him, referring to his therapist.
“She will,” Jack chuckles as you mention the middle aged woman who has been his therapist for more than four years now.
You check the time on your phone and realize you’re gonna need to get yourself ready or you’ll be late to work. After picking up your phone, you rush past Jack but he’s quick to snatch you by wrapping an arm around your waist.
“No..” you pout as you realize what’s about to happen, it’s something he always does.. it’s the reason why you’ve stopped telling him you’re going to get yourself ready.
“Haven’t even said anything yet,” Jack chuckles as he pulls you closer to him.
“But I know what you’re about to do,” you tell him while looking into his eyes. “You’re going to seduce me because you want to get laid before I go.”
“Hey,” a smirk tugs on his lips. “I’d never force you, m’just suggesting a little get together in the bedroom before you head off to work.”
“Yeah.. exactly,” you frown. “I can never say no when you look at me like that.” you say as you watch him stare at you through hooded eyes, clearly giving you ‘the look’. He knows it makes you weak. “Your little get togethers makes me late to work every damn time.”
“I mean.. is that a no?” he arches a brow as the smirk stays present on his lips.
“Oh.. you know it’s a yes.” you give him another glare before moving over towards the bedroom.
Jack can only smirk wider as he moves up from the stool he was sitting on, he puts some pep in his step and quickly catches up to you. A soft shriek leaves you as you feel him pick you up with ease, a giggle following as he lays you over his shoulder.
“I hate you..” you tell him with a smirk on your face.
“Sure you do,” Jack gives your ass a smack as he moves further into the bedroom. “But you won’t after I make you come twice before nine a.m.” he says before slamming the door shut behind him.
Another giggle leaves you as Jack lays you down on the bed, quick to take off his own shirt which gives you a view of his broad chest and shoulders.
“Hmm.. sexy,” you say as your eyes travel over his torso.
Jack chuckles at that before motioning towards the shirt you’re wearing. “Don’t be shy now, take it off.”
You sit up so you can take off the shirt that was on your body, the cool air makes goosebumps grow on your skin as your nipples harden. Jack takes in your bare chest, the sight going straight to his cock that is already getting hard.
“Fuck me..” he mutters under his breath. “You’re so beautiful.”
A blush forms on your cheeks at his compliment, no matter how many times you heard him tell you that.. it still makes you all giddy inside. You watch as Jack proceeds by sitting on the side of the bed, that way he can take off his prosthetic before going any further.
You wait patiently, crawling up behind him and placing some kisses on the back of his neck and down to his shoulder. Your sweet touches make Jack shiver, he loves how gentle you are with him, even more how you give him time to handle his prosthetic.
You know he’s uncomfortable being intimate with it on, he told you once and ever since then.. you never rush him, you always give him the space to take it off before you get on with being intimate.
Jack turns a bit, after removing his prosthetic, capturing your lips in a kiss. You let out a soft hum against his mouth as your arms wrap around his neck, holding him close to you.
You let him push you back onto the bed, watching as he moves to place kisses up your legs and on your thighs. His fingers slowly travel towards your hips and curl around the lining of your panties. Every touch of him wakes even more desire for him in your body.
“My pretty girl,” Jack tells you as he watches how your back arches into his touch.
Once your underwear is off and discarded on the floor, he presses a few kisses onto your lower stomach and hip bones. You bite down on your lip, looking down and watching how close he is to where you want him most.
“You gonna be good for me?” Jack asks, mouth hovering over your core, the feeling of his warm breath on your skin makes you shiver.
“Yes-” you answer him, looking at him with nothing other than need for his touch.
“You always are..” Jack smiles softly before leaning down and pressing a kiss against your pussy. “Such a good girl for me, huh?”
The only answer you can give him is a nod because once you want to open your mouth to say something, he dives in with his tongue and makes a whimper escape you.
Jack holds onto your hips, keeping you close and right where he wants you. He’s sucking down on your clit, sometimes his tongue comes into play as well which makes you moan out. He’s feasting on you like a starving man.
“Fuck-” you moan out, moving a hand down into his curls.
One thing about Jack is that he knows how to please. Whenever he goes down on you, he gives it his all. In your past relationships you sometimes had to beg your partner to eat you out, but not with Jack.. no, the man loves nothing more than pleasuring you.
“Oh god-” you moan out, squirming beneath his touch but he’s quick to take better hold of you so you can’t move your hips anymore.
“Does that feel good, baby?” Jack asks, taking a breather to look up at you.
“Yes,” you give him a nod.
“Want my fingers as well?" he questions, already knowing the answer he’s going to get.
“Please-” you beg, which goes straight to his cock.
Jack moves back in, sucking down on your clit while two fingers curl up inside of you. A moan leaves you as your back arches into his touch, head thrown back on the pillow.
It doesn’t take that long for you to feel that bubble of pleasure building up inside of your gut, his fingers keep hitting that sweet spot as he’s sucking down on your clit. You let out a soft whine, tugging on his curls as you feel yourself getting close to tipping over the edge.
“M’gonna-”
“I know, baby..” Jack mumbles against you, eyes looking up at the expression on your face. “Come for me.”
It only takes a few more pumps of his fingers before you reach your high. Your body tightens up and once that bubble bursts inside of you, soft cries leave your lips as your body trembles.
“Atta girl,” Jack keeps his fingers moving, guiding you through it.
“Ugh,” you let your body relax on the mattress again as you feel the waves of pleasure slowly washing away. “Fuck.. that was good,”
Jack smiles at your words, he loves whenever he’s able to pleasure you. He takes pride in it. He moves up so he could press his lips against yours, you are quick to kiss him back as you hold him close to your body.
“I need to thank the universe more for sending me an eater like you,” you mumble against his lips which makes Jack laugh.
“All real men are eaters,” he tells you, brushing some strands of hair out of your face. “But out of all those men, I sure am the best.” Jack says, which makes it your turn to chuckle now before nodding your head.
“You sure are..” you say before pressing your lips back against his.
The two of you share a passionate kiss which doesn’t help Jack with wanting you any less. You can feel his erection straining against his boxers as his hips brush into yours.
“Is there enough time left for me to fuck you..” Jack mutters against your lips, making you turn your head to look at the alarm clock on your nightstand.
“If you can get me to come in ten minutes, yeah.” you answer him.
“Pfft.. easy,” Jack scoffs as he moves his boxers down his hips. “I only need five max.”
You chuckle at that before feeling him kiss you again, it makes you wrap your arms around his neck to hold him close. Jack hums against your mouth, enjoying the feeling of your body against his.
After you helped him with removing his boxers completely, he settled back between your thighs. Jack takes hold of himself and traces his tip against your entrance, his eyes lock with yours before he slowly makes his way inside of you.
Your lips part in a silent gasp as you feel his cock spreading you open. “God.. you feel good-” Jack grunts out as he feels how wet you are.
“Mhmm..” your hands travel over the muscles on his back as your legs hook around his waist.
Jack presses another kiss on your lips before resting his head in the crook of your neck. He’s moving inside of you with controlled strokes, balls deep each time.
“Hmm yes,” you moan out, nails digging in his shoulders where you’re holding onto him.
“Yeah.. use your nails on me,” Jack whispers, he loves whenever you do that.
You drag your nails down his back, the feeling of you leaving soft scratches on his skin is enough to make him come. However, he holds back. Jack’s determined to get you there first.
“Fuck yes,” you whimper out as you feel him move his hips, changing the angle in a way he hits that sweet spot inside of you. “Right there.”
“Yeah?” Jack loves seeing the pleasure in your expression as he finds the right spot, knowing it’s usually a done job whenever he’s found it.. only a few more strokes before he has you coming.
Your moaning is echoing through the room as Jack lets out a groan from time to time. He has pushed your legs up to your chest, allowing him to move even deeper inside of you. That pit in your gut forms again and you know you’re close to tipping over the edge.
“M’so close..” you whine out, making Jack even more determined.
“Come on my cock, baby.” he tells you, while his hips keep moving inside of you with the same intensity.
Your body tightens up, back arching of the bed as you grip onto his arms. “Yes.. oh god, Jack..” you cry out before you come, feeling pleasure burst inside of your gut and traveling all throughout your body.
As soon as you reach your orgasm and Jack feels you clench your walls around his cock, he’s done for. Grunts escape him as he comes, coating your insides before his body goes limp and falls down onto yours.
“Mhmm that was fucking good..” you tell him, enjoying the bliss of your orgasm that’s still washing over you.
“It really was,” Jack says with trembling breath, moving up so he could look you into your eyes as a lazy smile tugs on his lips.
You smile at him and plant a soft kiss on his mouth before turning your head and catching a glimpse of your alarm clock. Those ten minutes are more than past by now.
“Shit!” you curse out before pushing against Jack’s chest so he’d roll off of you. “M’gonna be fucking late again.” you say as you realize that you still need to get yourself ready and drive over to the hospital.
Jack can only chuckle as he watches you nearly trip over a pair of shoes on your way towards the bathroom. He won’t ever tell you, because he knows you’ll get mad, but Jack thinks you’re adorable whenever you’re pissed off and in a hurry because he made you late for work.
“Ugh, damn you Abbot!” you call out, hearing the soft sounds of his laughter. “Asshole!”
“Love you too!” Jack calls out before letting his head fall down on the pillow beneath him, a satisfied smile resting on his lips.
pairing: jack abbot x resident!reader
summary: After accidentally sending your attending Dr. Jack Abbot a nude, you delete it, panic-text an apology, and spend the rest of your shift waiting for a response that never comes. Jack doesn’t say a word until he gets you alone in his office—and by then, the apology texts are the least incriminating thing between you.
wc: 7.8k
a/n: shoutout to @in-ky and pinky (lol) for beta reading and confirming that yes, unfortunately, this is exactly what should happen when you send your attending a nude by accident. saw jack abbot on his phone and immediately made it everyone’s problem. enjoy the HR violation.
warnings: power imbalance, attending/resident relationship, inappropriate workplace behavior, explicit sexual content, dirty talk, accidental nude (then on purpose >:)), semi-public sex, fingering, handjob, orgasm denial-ish, praise kink, jealousy/possessiveness, hair pulling, biting/marking, cumplay/eating, clothed/semi-clothed smut, no piv, age gap dynamics, no use of y/n
MASTERLIST
You didn’t know a mistake could feel intentional until Jack Abbot stopped replying.
For almost a full minute after it happened, you couldn’t move. You just stood in the staff bathroom with your phone in your hand, the harsh white light buzzing overhead, your pulse slamming so hard behind your ears that the whole hospital seemed to muffle around it. The sink was still running because you’d forgotten to turn it off. Water rushed uselessly into the drain while you stared at the thread on your screen and tried to convince yourself that your eyes had rearranged the letters.
They hadn’t.
Jack Abbot sat at the top of the conversation in clean, merciless text.
Below it, the blank space where the photo had been.
You’d deleted it almost instantly, but instantly didn’t mean unseen. Instantly meant your thumb had moved faster than your brain, faster than your lungs, faster than the sick drop in your stomach when the picture appeared in the wrong thread. It meant you’d watched one of the most obscene photos in your camera roll land in your attending’s messages and then vanish under your panicked attempt to erase evidence.
Not erase memory.
Just evidence.
“Oh, no,” you whispered, and the words sounded too small for the scale of the disaster.
The photo had been from two nights ago. Your apartment, your bed, the lamp beside your mattress giving everything that warm, dirty glow. Not soft. Not tasteful. Not a picture you could call accidental in spirit even if the send itself had been. You’d taken it because you were alone and turned on and feeling reckless enough to admire yourself, body angled deliberately across twisted sheets, hair messy, eyes on the camera like you knew exactly what kind of thought you wanted to plant in someone’s head. There was nothing clinical about it. Nothing coy. It was the kind of photo that said look, want, imagine.
And Jack Abbot might have seen it.
Jack, who had corrected your charting that morning with a tired flick of his eyes.
Jack, who had stood behind you at the board, close enough for you to catch the smell of coffee and hospital soap, and said, “Try again,” when your answer hadn’t been specific enough.
Jack, who was older, gruffer, sharper around the edges than anyone had any right to be while still being that unfairly attractive.
Jack, who was your attending.
You turned off the sink with shaking fingers and immediately made the situation worse.
You:
oh my god
that was not meant for you
please ignore that
i deleted it
i’m so sorry
please delete it if it still shows up
i’m actually going to resign and move states
You stared at the messages, then at the empty space above them, then at the messages again. Your face burned. Your throat felt tight. Any other person might’ve replied by now. Any normal person might’ve hit you with a confused question mark, a reassurance, a threat, a joke. Something.
Jack gave you nothing.
No typing bubble. No acknowledgment. No read receipt. Just that awful, professional silence.
It was very Jack of him, which somehow made it worse.
A knock hit the bathroom door. “You dying in there?”
Mel’s voice. Thank God and also absolutely not.
You shoved your phone into your scrub pocket like you’d been caught with something you weren’t supposed to have. “No.”
“You sure? You sound weird.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re needed in three. Abbot’s looking for you.”
For one second, your entire body went cold.
Then hot.
Then somehow both.
“Great,” you said, and if Mel noticed that your voice came out like you’d just swallowed a battery, she was kind enough not to comment through the door.
You took one last look at yourself in the mirror before leaving. There you were: wrinkled scrubs, tired eyes, badge clipped slightly crooked, mouth pressed into a line that looked almost professional if no one knew you were internally preparing to fling yourself into traffic. You were a doctor. You were an adult. You could walk into a room with Jack Abbot and not immediately confess to everything like a criminal under interrogation.
Probably.
The hallway outside was too bright. Too loud. Too full of witnesses. The hospital had the particular cruelty of continuing to function during personal catastrophes, monitors chiming and carts rattling and nurses calling over their shoulders while your entire nervous system stood at attention. You passed Whitaker near the supply cart, who gave you a distracted little nod. You passed Santos at the board, half-listening to Robby. Nobody looked at you like they knew.
Then you reached trauma three, and Jack looked up.
He was standing at the foot of the bed with one hand braced on the rail, the other holding a chart, short sleeves leaving his forearms bare and his watch stark against his wrist. Stubble roughened his jaw, his hair was slightly mussed from the kind of shift that had been bad before noon and would only get worse, and his expression was exactly what it always was: tired, focused, unimpressed by the existence of chaos.
No guilt. No surprise. No flicker.
That was the first real blow. If he had reacted, you might’ve known how to feel. If he’d avoided your eyes, you could’ve built a theory around it. If he’d looked at you too long, you could’ve hated him or wanted him or both with more certainty.
Instead, he just watched you enter like you were late with labs.
“Nice of you to join us,” Jack said.
Dana, at the monitor, winced under her breath. “Damn.”
You forced your mouth to move. “Sorry.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on you a fraction too long. “Are you?”
There was no reason for it to hit the way it did. The words were ordinary. Dry. Annoyed, maybe. But you heard every unanswered text underneath them. You heard the deleted photo. You heard the question he wasn’t asking in front of Dana and a patient with a bleeding scalp.
Your stomach folded in on itself.
“What’s the situation?” you asked, because medicine was safer than silence.
Jack handed you the chart. “Fall from a ladder. Brief LOC. Walk me through what you’re ordering and why.”
You could do this. This was easy. This was normal. You’d done this a hundred times. You moved through the exam, named imaging, neuro checks, wound care, the things you needed to rule out. Your mouth worked. Your hands worked. Your brain mostly worked.
Your body, unfortunately, remembered that your phone remained unanswered in your pocket.
Every time Jack shifted near you, you became aware of him all over again. The low gravel of his voice. The way he stood close enough to take the chart back from your hands without asking. The blunt competence in his movements. The fact that he didn’t soothe, didn’t explain, didn’t give you even one quiet aside to release the pressure building under your skin.
He let you suffer.
Worse, he made you work.
For the next several hours, Jack Abbot became a masterclass in professional cruelty. Not actual cruelty. Nothing anyone could report. Nothing anyone would even notice unless they were living inside your body and could feel the way your pulse kicked every time he said your name.
He asked you questions in front of Robby.
He corrected your note beside the nurses’ station.
He handed you a printout without looking at you and said, “More specific,” in that gruff, flat tone that made you want to argue and obey at the same time.
He touched your elbow once, only to move you out of the path of a gurney, but the contact burned through your scrub sleeve because now there was a version of you in his possible memory that had nothing to do with the hospital. Not capable, not composed, not holding a chart or presenting a patient. You in bed. You in low light. You looking at the camera like you wanted someone to imagine being there.
And Jack still didn’t reply.
At some point, Santos appeared beside you at the counter while you were pretending to review labs and absolutely not refreshing your message thread.
“You look terrible,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“Like you’re waiting for a disciplinary hearing.”
“I’m busy.”
She leaned closer, lowering her voice as if delivering a diagnosis. “You and Abbot have been weird all day.”
Your grip tightened around the tablet. “We have not.”
“You have. He’s doing that thing where he gets quieter when he’s mad, and you look like you’re being hunted for sport.”
“I’m not being hunted.”
“Mm.”
“Santos.”
“What? I’m observant.”
“You’re nosy.”
“That too.”
Across the department, Jack stood with Robby near the board, arms crossed, head tilted as he listened. He looked exhausted. Unmoved. Utterly unreadable. Then, as if he felt you looking, his eyes lifted and found yours.
You looked away first.
Santos made an obnoxious little sound. “Loud.”
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought it loudly.”
She grinned, entirely too pleased with herself, and moved off before you could throw something at her.
The shift dragged on. Or maybe it flew. Time had gone strange, measured less by the clock and more by every non-reply from Jack, every glance that might have meant something and might have meant nothing, every brush of proximity that left you a little more humiliated by your own reaction. By the end of rounds, panic had curdled into something hotter and harder to name.
You still wanted to disappear.
You also wanted to know exactly what he’d thought.
That was the unforgivable part. The part you couldn’t blame on the photo or the send button or exhaustion. Under the mortification, there was want. Ugly, bright, undeniable want. The kind that made you wonder whether he had paused when he saw it. Whether his jaw had tightened. Whether he had deleted it right away or looked long enough to regret it.
You were finishing a note when his shadow fell over your workspace.
You didn’t look up immediately. You knew.
“My office,” Jack said. “Now.”
The words were quiet. No one else would’ve heard them as anything but an attending giving an instruction. Dana barely glanced over. Robby kept talking to Mel. The world did not stop.
Yours did.
You stood carefully. “Okay.”
Jack turned without waiting to see if you followed. The walk to his office felt like a march toward sentencing, except sentencing probably wouldn’t have made your thighs feel weak. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t slow down. Didn’t look back. That made it worse, because it meant he knew you would follow.
His office was dim, cramped, and cluttered in the way all hospital offices became cluttered no matter how hard anyone tried to keep them human. A desk lamp threw warm light over a stack of charts. Half-closed blinds cut the room into narrow bars. His mug sat beside the keyboard, coffee gone cold. The air held the stale sharpness of the hospital layered with something that was just him: clean sweat, soap, coffee, fatigue.
Jack closed the door.
He left it unlocked.
That detail lodged in you. The unlocked door meant this was still a conversation. Still professional, technically. Still something you could leave.
Or something he wanted you to know you could leave.
He leaned back against the edge of the desk, arms crossed loosely, and looked at you for long enough that you started talking just to make him stop.
“I’m sorry,” you said. “I know I already said that in the texts, probably too many times, but I really am. It was an accident. Obviously. I deleted it right away, and I know that doesn’t necessarily mean anything if you saw it before then, but I swear I didn’t mean to—”
“Stop.”
You stopped.
Jack’s gaze stayed steady. “Explain.”
You blinked. “I just did.”
“No. You apologized.” His voice was calm, which was somehow worse than anger. “Explain what happened.”
Your face burned. “I sent the wrong thing to the wrong person.”
“What thing?”
“Jack.”
His expression didn’t change. “Say it.”
The floor seemed suddenly fascinating. You looked at a scuff near the leg of his desk and wondered if it was possible to die from embarrassment after all.
“A nude,” you said.
The word changed the room.
Jack didn’t move, but something in his face tightened. A small thing. Controlled. There and gone.
“I saw it,” he said.
You closed your eyes for one second. “Okay.”
For a moment, that was all there was. The confirmation. The silence after. The awful, humiliating knowledge that the image had reached him before you could take it back.
“I didn’t keep it,” he said.
Your eyes opened. “You didn’t?”
“No.”
The relief was sharp enough to hurt. It should’ve ended there. It should’ve made everything clean again, or at least survivable. He had done the right thing. He had refused to keep what hadn’t been meant for him. You could apologize one more time, leave his office, and spend the rest of your life avoiding direct eye contact.
But Jack was still looking at you.
And his voice, when it came, was lower.
“That doesn’t mean I didn’t look.”
Something low in you pulled tight, panic and arousal twisting together until you couldn’t tell which one had hit first.
He pushed off the desk, not moving closer yet. Just standing straighter. “Who was it for?”
“No one.”
“No one.”
“I took it for myself.”
Jack’s mouth twitched, not amusement exactly. More like disbelief with nowhere innocent to go. “You take pictures like that for yourself?”
There were a dozen sensible answers. Defensive answers. Clean, professional answers that would’ve made this easier to survive. Instead, you heard yourself say, “Sometimes.”
The tiredness in his face thinned, and beneath it was something intent, almost indecently awake—a look that moved over you with such slow, controlled heat that your body reacted before your pride could stop it. Like the picture had burned itself into his retinas and left him standing there with nowhere innocent to put his hands.
For the first time all day, you saw the effect. Not much. Jack wasn’t a man who gave much away for free. But there it was in the pause, the shift of his jaw, the hand he dragged briefly over his mouth before dropping it again.
“You’re not helping yourself,” he said.
“I thought I was being honest.”
“That’s the problem.”
The words should’ve embarrassed you further. They did. But they also did something else, something low and hot, because he sounded less like your attending now and more like a man trying very hard to remember he still was one.
You took a careful breath. “Why didn’t you answer?”
Jack looked at you for a long moment, and the silence wasn’t empty anymore. It had weight. The shape of all the things he’d refused to put in writing.
“Because if I answered then,” he said, voice lower now, “I would’ve said something I shouldn’t.”
Your mouth went dry. “Like what?”
“Don’t.”
“You brought me in here.”
“To handle it.”
“Is that what you’re doing?”
His jaw worked once, and for the first time, his control looked less like indifference and more like effort. “I’m trying.”
“Trying to handle me?”
That did something. You saw it in the brief drop of his gaze, the pause before he pulled it back to your face.
“Trying not to,” he said.
There it was again—that small crack in the professionalism. Not a confession, not exactly, but close enough to make the room feel suddenly too small. Close enough that you felt it move through you before you had time to decide what to do with it.
Jack saw that too.
Of course he did.
He stepped closer, not quickly, not carelessly. Slow enough that you could move back if you wanted. Slow enough that the choice stayed yours.
You didn’t.
“You sent me that,” he said, voice low, “then walked around my department for the rest of the shift like I could just forget it.”
“I didn’t know if you’d seen it.”
“You knew.”
“I hoped you hadn’t.”
“No.” His gaze held yours, steady and merciless in a way that made your skin feel too tight under your scrubs. “You hoped I had, and you were scared I had. Not the same thing.”
You hated him a little for being right. You wanted him more because of it.
“That’s not fair,” you said.
“I didn’t say it was.”
He was close enough now that you could see the fatigue at the corners of his eyes, the rough shadow along his jaw, the controlled set of his mouth. Still Jack. Still gruff and older and dangerous mostly because he looked like he’d spent a lifetime refusing himself the stupid thing, the reckless thing, the filthy thing that would feel good for exactly long enough to ruin him.
“You wanted to know what I thought,” he said.
Your throat tightened. “Did I?”
His gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second before returning to your eyes. “You tell me.”
The worst part was that you couldn’t. Not honestly. Because you had wanted to know. Under the embarrassment, under the panic, under every frantic apology you’d typed too fast and regretted immediately, there had been that awful, helpless need to know what he’d seen when he looked at you afterward. If he’d been angry. If he’d been disgusted. If he’d imagined it again.
If he’d wanted to.
Jack watched the silence work through you, watched your breath catch, watched your face give away what your mouth refused to say.
Then he stepped back half a pace.
The loss of him was so immediate your body nearly followed before you could stop it.
“Tell me to forget it,” he said, “and I’ll forget it.”
“You just said you couldn’t.”
“I’ll act like I can.”
That was very Jack. Honest enough to hurt. Restrained enough to be decent. He had refused to keep the photo. He had left the door unlocked. Now he was putting distance between you, giving you a clean exit with the kind of brutal practicality that somehow made you want him worse.
You should’ve taken it.
Instead, you said, “I don’t want you to.”
The room went quiet in a new way.
Jack’s face barely changed, but your body took the look like contact, nerves flaring under your scrubs as if he’d reached across the room and found you bare. For one dizzy second, the clothes felt pointless—like he was already picturing what was underneath and remembering exactly where to look.
“Be clear,” he said.
Your throat felt tight. “I don’t want you to forget it.”
His hand moved to the door.
The lock clicked.
Small sound. Huge consequence.
Not loud. Just final. The kind of sound that doesn’t ask permission. Jack’s hand left the deadbolt, but he didn’t turn around right away. He stood there facing the door, shoulders rising once, falling once, like he was giving himself a countdown.
You were already backed up against his desk. Metal cold through your scrub pants. You watched his back. The way his scrub top pulled between his shoulder blades. The gray hair curling at his nape, damp from twelve hours of running a floor that wouldn’t stop coding.
He turned.
His eyes had changed. Not tired, not distant—fixed on you now with a hunger he’d spent the whole shift forcing down. It had been there through rounds, through the silence, through every clipped order and every time he’d looked at you and then looked away like one more second would give him away.
“Stand up.”
You did. Your thighs hit the desk edge behind you. He crossed the space in two strides and then he was there, close enough that the heat of him hit your skin before his body did, close enough that you could smell the antiseptic and coffee and something underneath—just him, just warm skin and a long shift.
His hand found your hip. Not gentle. Not rough. Just certain. His thumb pressed into the bone there and you felt it in your teeth.
“You sent me a picture,” he said.
His voice was low. Not the attending voice. Not the one that cut through chaos in the trauma bay. This one was quieter. Worse.
“I know.”
“You tried to take it back.”
“Yes.”
“I saw it anyway.” His thumb moved—just a fraction, just a small circle against your hip bone through the thin cotton. “You know I saw it.”
Your throat was dry. “I wasn’t sure.”
“Bullshit.” The word landed soft, almost kind. “You knew. You watched me not look at you for six hours and you knew exactly why.”
You couldn’t answer. He was too close. His other hand came up, slow, and his fingers found the edge of your jaw. Not gripping. Just resting there, his palm warm against the side of your throat, his thumb tracing the line of your chin like he was memorizing bone.
“Describe it,” he said.
“What?”
“The photo. Tell me what you sent me.”
Heat crawled up your neck. Your chest. Your face. He felt it—his thumb was right there on your pulse, and you watched his eyes flick down to your throat, watched him feel every beat of your heart slamming against his palm.
“I can’t.”
“You can.” His grip didn’t tighten. It didn’t have to. “You took it. You sent it. Say it.”
You swallowed. His thumb rode the movement. “It was—I was on my bed.”
“Go on.”
“On my stomach. The camera was—it was angled down. You could see my back. My shoulders.” You stopped. Breathed. He waited. “My ass. I was wearing—”
“Nothing,” he said. “You were wearing nothing.”
The word hit your stomach and clenched there. “Yes.”
“And your legs were spread.”
Not a question. He’d seen it. He’d looked at it long enough to know exactly how you were positioned, exactly what was visible, exactly what you’d offered up without saying a word.
“Yes.”
“And between them.” His thumb traced down your throat, just a whisper of pressure. “What could I see.”
“Everything.”
He exhaled. It was the first crack you’d seen—just a shiver of air through his nose, his jaw tightening, his eyes going darker. “Everything,” he repeated. “You sent your attending a photo of your pussy and you want me to believe it was an accident.”
“I panicked. I deleted it—”
“After it delivered. After I saw the notification. After I opened it in the middle of rounds and had to stand there with a patient’s chart in my hand and your pussy on my phone.”
Your knees nearly buckled. He said it so flat. So clinical. Like he was naming an anatomical structure, except his voice dropped on the word, roughened, and his grip on your hip tightened once before releasing.
“Jack—”
“Dr. Abbot.” His eyes snapped to yours. “In this hospital, I’m Dr. Abbot. You don’t get to call me Jack until I tell you to.”
Your breath stuttered. "Dr. Abbot."
"Better." He stepped closer. Your bodies touched—chest to chest, his scrub top against yours, the heat of him bleeding through the fabric. His thigh pressed between your legs and you made a sound before you could stop it, small and humiliating and honest.
"There it is," he murmured. His mouth was near your ear now, stubble scratching your temple. "That's the sound. That's what you wanted me to hear."
You grabbed his arm. You didn't mean to—your hand just found his bicep and held, fingers digging into muscle, and he let you. His arm was solid under your grip, hard from years of compressions and lifting and holding bodies together while they bled.
"I'm sorry," you said.
"Are you." He pulled back just enough to look at you. His face was close—you could see the exhaustion in the lines around his eyes, the gray threading his stubble, the way his mouth was set in something that wasn't quite a frown. "Or are you just scared I know what you look like when you want someone."
You didn't answer. Couldn't. He was right and you both knew it.
His hand left your jaw. Slid down. Found your wrist and lifted it between your bodies, his thumb pressing into your pulse point, feeling the blood hammer under your skin.
"You're shaking," he said.
"I know."
"Good."
He kissed you.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't careful. His mouth hit yours with the same certainty as his hands—hard, demanding, his stubble scraping your lip and his tongue pushing past your teeth before you'd even registered the impact. He tasted like black coffee and something sharp, something that burned going down, and you opened for him immediately, helplessly, your whole body sagging into his grip.
His hand left your wrist and grabbed your other hip. Both hands now, fingers digging into the meat of you, pulling you against him so hard the desk edge bit into your thighs. His cock was hard already, pressing against your stomach through his scrub pants, and the knowledge of it—the fact that he'd been hard, maybe this whole time, maybe since he saw the photo, maybe since he locked the door—made you moan into his mouth.
"Quiet," he said against your lips. "The walls are thin."
You bit his lower lip. Harder than you meant to. He inhaled sharp and something flashed in his eyes—surprise, and then heat, and then his hands were moving, one sliding up your back under your scrub top, palm rough and hot on your spine, the other fisting in your hair and yanking your head back until your throat was exposed.
"You bite me again," he said against your pulse, "and I'll make you regret it."
"Maybe I want that."
His teeth found your neck. Not a kiss—a bite, real pressure, his incisors denting the skin just above your collarbone. You gasped and your hips bucked against his thigh and he held you there, teeth still clamped, tongue pressing flat against the mark he was making.
When he pulled back, his mouth was wet. His eyes were wrecked. "You want it," he said. "You want a lot of things. That's the problem."
Your hands moved. You didn't decide to—they just went, desperate, grabbing the front of his scrub top and pulling until the V-neck stretched, your knuckles brushing the sweat-damp hair on his chest. His skin was hot. He was hot, all of him, furnace-hot and solid and real against you.
"Touch me," you said. It came out wrecked. "Please."
"Please what."
"Please—fuck." You couldn't think. His thumb was rubbing circles into your spine, his other hand still fisted in your hair, his thigh a solid line of pressure between your legs. "Please touch me. Dr. Abbot."
His eyes flared. "That's right. That's my name. You remember that."
"Yes."
"And you remember who you're with. Not some resident. Not your ex. Me."
The jealousy landed like a slap. Your mind flicked back—the photo, who it might've been meant for, who he thought it was meant for—and you opened your mouth to explain, to tell him there wasn't anyone, but then his hand was sliding around to your stomach, fingertips tracing the waistband of your scrub pants front to back, and words dissolved.
"I don't share," he said quietly. "Whatever this is. Whatever you thought you were doing. You don't send something like that to more than one person. You don't get to."
"I didn't. It was only—"
"Only me." His fingers dipped under the elastic. Not far. Just the first knuckle, the rough pad of his index finger dragging through the hair below your navel. "Good. That's good. That's how it stays."
You nodded. You would've agreed to anything. His finger moved lower, just a centimeter, and your hips lifted toward his hand like a reflex.
"You're soaked," he said. Not surprised. Not smug. Just observing. "I haven't even touched you yet and you're soaked through your pants."
"I know."
"Say it."
"I'm—" Your face burned. His eyes didn't leave yours. "I'm wet. Soaked. Is that what you—"
"That's what I wanted." His finger withdrew. You nearly cried. But then both his hands were at your waistband, thumbs hooked in, and he was pulling your scrub pants and underwear down together, one sharp motion, the fabric scraping your thighs and pooling around your ankles.
He didn't look down. Not yet. He kept his eyes on your face while his hand found your knee and pushed—firm, steady—until your legs fell open, his hips slotting between them, the rough fabric of his scrub pants brushing your bare cunt.
"There," he said. "Now you're exactly where you should be."
You grabbed his shoulders. Needed to. Your fingers dug into the muscle there, the solid bulk of him, and he let you hang on while his mouth came back to yours, still brutal, still messy, teeth and tongue and the scrape of stubble that would leave your chin raw.
His hand dropped between your bodies.
First touch: his middle finger sliding through your folds, just parting you, just feeling. The sound it made—wet, obscene—filled the tiny office. He groaned into your mouth, a low vibration you felt in your chest.
"Jesus," he breathed. "You're dripping. You've been dripping all shift."
"For you."
"I know." His finger circled your clit—once, light, barely there—and your whole body jerked. "I know you have. Every time I looked at you. Every time I didn't."
He did it again. Slow circle. Then again, harder. Then his finger slid lower, found your entrance, and pressed in.
Just one. Just to the first knuckle. You clenched around him instantly, a helpless spasm, and he laughed—low, dark, right against your ear.
"Tight," he said. "Tight little pussy. And you sent me a picture of it. What'd you think would happen."
"I didn't—I wasn't—"
"You were." His finger pushed deeper. All the way in, slow, until his knuckle pressed against your entrance and his palm cupped your clit. "You wanted me to see. You wanted me to know. You wanted this."
He curled his finger.
Your vision whited. Your head fell back, throat bared again, and he took the invitation—mouth on your neck, sucking hard, his stubble a bright burn while his finger found that spot inside you and pressed.
"There," he said. "Right there. That's what you wanted me to find."
"Yes. Yes. Fuck—"
"Quiet." His voice was steel. "I said quiet. You can be quiet or I can stop."
You bit your own lip so hard you tasted copper. His finger pumped—once, twice, slow and deep, the wet sound of it filling the room. Then his thumb found your clit, pressed down, and you nearly screamed into your own mouth.
"Good girl. That's good. You can listen."
He pulled out. Your cunt clenched on nothing, empty and aching, and you made a noise of protest that he ignored. His hand came up between your faces, his finger glistening, slick coating his knuckle all the way to his palm.
"Look at this," he said. "Look at what you did."
You watched him bring his finger to his mouth. Watched his lips close around it. Watched his eyes flutter shut for just a second while he tasted you, his tongue cleaning his own skin with an obscene thoroughness that made your stomach drop.
"Sweet," he said, pulling his finger free. "I knew you'd be sweet."
"Please. Please, I need—"
"I know what you need." His hand was back between your legs before you finished, two fingers this time, sliding through your slick and then pushing in, stretching you open, filling you so fast your breath caught and held.
"Breathe," he said. "Breathe through it. You can take it."
You could. You did. His fingers were thick—surgeon's fingers, strong and precise—and they knew exactly what to do. Pumping deep, curling, finding that spot again and again while his palm ground against your clit and his mouth covered yours to swallow every sound.
The kiss was sloppy now. Desperate. You were breathing into each other, sharing air, his tongue pushing past your teeth at the same rhythm as his fingers. You could taste yourself on him—salt and musk and something sweeter underneath—and it made you wild, made your hips buck against his hand, made you ride his fingers like you'd die if you stopped.
"That's it," he growled. "Fuck my hand. Show me how bad you want it."
Your fingers clawed at his shoulders. Found his neck. Dug into the short hair at his nape and pulled, and he hissed, and his fingers drove deeper, faster, the wet slap of his palm against your clit turning filthy and loud.
"You're close," he said. "I can feel it. You're clenching—yeah, like that. You're gonna come on my fingers. Right here on my desk. And you're gonna be quiet while you do it."
"I can't—"
"You can." His lips brushed your ear. His breath was ragged now, finally losing that iron control. "You can because I'm telling you to. Because you're a good girl. Because you want to be good for me."
The words hit somewhere deep. Somewhere you didn't know existed. Your cunt spasmed around his fingers and he laughed again, dark and pleased, and then his thumb pressed hard against your clit and circled and his fingers curled and—
You came.
Silent. Or close enough—a gasp that died in your throat, your whole body locking up, your cunt milking his fingers in rhythmic pulses you couldn't control. He held you through it, hand steady, murmuring something low against your temple that you couldn't hear over the roar in your ears.
When you came down, your forehead was pressed to his shoulder. His scrub top was wet—sweat, tears, spit, you didn't know. His fingers were still inside you, still, just resting there, letting you feel the fullness.
"Good girl," he said again. Quieter now. Almost gentle. "That's my good girl."
You lifted your head. His face was inches away, dark eyes searching yours, and for a moment the mask slipped—just a second of something raw, something that looked almost tender before he blinked and it was gone.
"Now you," you said. Your voice was wrecked. "I want to—let me."
He didn't stop you. His fingers slid out of you, slow, and you felt the loss like a physical ache. Your hand dropped to his waist, found the drawstring of his scrub pants, and pulled.
His hand caught your wrist.
You froze. Waiting. His grip was tight but not painful—just stopping you, holding you still while he looked at your face like he was making a decision.
"This has to be quick," he said. "Someone's going to notice we're both gone."
"Then quick."
He held your eyes for another beat. Then his grip loosened. "Go on."
You untied the drawstring. Your fingers were shaking—from the orgasm, from the adrenaline, from the sheer impossibility of this moment—but you managed. His scrub pants sagged, and when you pushed them down his hips together with his boxers, his cock sprang free, thick and flushed and already leaking at the tip.
He was bigger than you expected. Not just long—thick, the kind of thick that would hurt in the best way, the kind that made your cunt clench just looking at it. His shaft was veined, curving slightly toward his stomach, the head a deep angry red and slick with pre-cum.
"You're staring," he said.
"I'm admiring."
"Admire faster."
You wrapped your hand around him. His breath caught—loud, sharp—and his hips jerked into your grip before he controlled himself. His cock was hot in your palm, silk-soft skin over iron-hard flesh, and when you squeezed, a bead of pre-cum welled at the tip and dripped down over your knuckle.
"Fuck," he breathed.
You stroked him. Slow at first—learning the weight, the shape, the way he twitched when your thumb pressed against the underside just below the head. His hand came up and fisted in your hair again, not pulling, just holding, like he needed an anchor.
"Faster," he said. "Come on. Faster."
You sped up. Your wrist found a rhythm, twisting on the upstroke the way you knew felt good, and his head dropped forward, forehead pressing to yours, his breath hot and uneven on your lips.
"You've done this before."
"A few times."
"Not to me." His hips were moving now, fucking into your fist, uncontrolled in a way that made heat pool low in your belly all over again. "Not—like this—"
You squeezed harder. Twisted faster. His hand in your hair tightened, the other slamming down on the desk beside your hip, and the sound of his palm hitting wood was loud enough to echo.
"Look at me," you said.
His eyes opened. Glazed. Desperate. His mouth was wet, lips parted, and he looked nothing like the cold controlled attending who'd locked the door. He looked ruined.
"I want to watch you," you said. "I want to watch you come in my hand."
"Jesus—"
"Come on." Your voice dropped, mimicking his from earlier. "Come for me. I want to see it."
His hips stuttered. His cock pulsed in your grip. And then he was coming, silent, jaw clenched so tight you could see the tendon stand out in his neck, his cum spilling hot over your fingers and dripping down your wrist in thick white ropes.
You stroked him through it. Milked every pulse, every spasm, until he was shuddering and oversensitive and his hand shot down to grip your wrist and stop you.
"Enough," he rasped. "Enough."
You stopped. Your hand was a mess—his cum coating your palm, your fingers, dripping between your knuckles. You could smell it, salt and musk and him, and without thinking, without planning, you lifted your hand to your mouth.
He watched.
Your tongue touched your palm first. The taste was sharp—bitter and salty and undeniably male. You licked a stripe up to your wrist, gathering the slickness, and then you wrapped your lips around your own index finger and sucked.
His pupils swallowed what was left of the thin blue rings.
You pulled your finger free with a lewd pop and licked your lips. "Tastes like you."
He didn't say anything. Just stared, chest heaving, cock still wet and softening against his thigh.
Then he kissed you. Not fast this time. Not punishing. His mouth dragged over yours with a filthy kind of patience, tongue sliding in like he was tasting himself there and hated how much he wanted more of it. His hand stayed at your jaw, thumb pressed beneath your chin, holding you still while he licked into your mouth again, deeper, making the kiss feel less like an ending than a promise he had no business making in his office.
When Jack finally pulled back, it wasn’t because either of you had cooled off. It was because whatever sense he had left had finally clawed its way back to the surface.
You stayed on the edge of his desk, breath wrecked, fingers still curled in his scrub top. He looked almost composed, which would’ve been insulting if his mouth weren’t swollen from yours, if his chest weren’t moving with too much effort, if his gaze didn’t keep dropping to all the places he had just touched. For a second, he only stared at you, taking in the mess he’d made: your loosened scrubs, your bare thighs, the flush crawling up your throat, the way your body still hadn’t figured out how to stop wanting him.
Then he reached for his phone.
You went still.
He saw it immediately. Of course he did. Jack caught everything.
“No,” he said, voice rough but steady. “Not unless you say so.”
The phone stayed low in his hand. He didn’t lift it. Didn’t angle it. Didn’t take anything just because he could. That was the worst part, maybe—how badly he wanted and how clearly he still made it your choice. He stood there with his scrub pants retied badly, his hair mussed, your taste still on his mouth, and waited like permission mattered more than whatever filthy thought had put the phone in his hand.
“I got rid of the first one,” he said.
“I know.”
“It wasn’t mine.”
Your throat tightened.
His gaze moved over you again, not detached, not clean, not pretending. “This one would be.”
The words went through you with a fresh, obscene little twist. The first photo had been panic and accident, a naked image thrown into the wrong hands. This one would be different. You were still open on his desk, still marked by his mouth, still shaking from what he’d done to you and what you’d done to him. This wouldn’t be a mistake sitting in a thread. This would be proof. Permission. Something given on purpose.
Jack watched your face. “Say no, and I put it away.”
You looked at the phone, then at him. “Yes.”
His jaw tightened. “Full sentence.”
Your face burned, but you didn’t look away. Not after everything. Not with his cum still barely wiped from your skin and your body still aching from his fingers.
“You can take a picture of me.”
For a second, he didn’t move.
Then he lifted the phone.
He only took one.
That made it worse somehow. Hotter. No posing you over and over. No making a show of it. Just one photo in the dim office light: you perched on the edge of his desk, wrecked and unmistakably touched, your scrubs shoved out of place, his hand visible at your thigh like a signature he had no right to leave. The first photo had been you alone in your bed, naked and deliberate. This one had him in it without showing his face—the watch at his wrist, the edge of his sleeve, the possessive press of his fingers against your skin.
Jack looked at the screen.
Whatever he saw there hit him. You watched it happen in the clench of his jaw, the pause in his breathing, the way his thumb hovered before he locked the phone like he needed to put the image away before he did something stupider than taking it.
“That one stays?” you asked.
His eyes lifted to yours.
“That one stays.”
The words settled low and dirty, right where his voice had already ruined you.
After that, he fixed you with the same practical attention he gave everything else. Scrub top straightened. Badge adjusted. Hair smoothed back into place, though his fingers lingered for half a second longer than necessary. It should’ve felt clinical. It didn’t. It felt intimate in a way that made your chest ache a little.
“You okay?” he asked.
You nodded.
His brows drew together. “Words.”
A small, breathless laugh escaped you. “I’m okay.”
He studied you for another moment, then handed you the water bottle from his desk. “Drink.”
You did, because saying no felt pointless when your legs were still unreliable and he was looking at you like he would stand there all night if that was what it took to make sure you could walk out without falling apart. When he was satisfied, he took the bottle back and set it down.
Then the mask started returning.
You watched him pull himself together piece by piece. The rough edges tucked away. The heat banked. The attending sliding back over the man who had just ruined your ability to think clearly. By the time his hand reached the lock, he almost looked like himself again.
Almost.
Before opening the door, he turned back. “No more accidents.”
Your pulse jumped. “No?”
His gaze dropped once to your mouth. “You want my attention,” he said, low enough that only you could hear, “you ask for it properly.”
Then he opened the door, and the hospital rushed back in.
The fluorescent light felt obscene after the dimness of his office. Voices, alarms, wheels, footsteps, the relentless machinery of the department grinding on like nothing had happened. Jack stepped out first. You followed a few seconds later, trying to look normal with your pulse still everywhere it shouldn’t be.
At the nurses’ station, Mel glanced up. “You good?”
You picked up a chart mostly to have something to do with your hands. “Yeah. Fine.”
Across the department, Jack didn’t look at you once, but that almost made it worse. He didn’t have to. The proof was already in his pocket, locked behind his passcode, tucked against his body while he moved through the rest of the shift like nothing had happened. You watched him speak to Robby near the board, watched him take a chart from Dana, watched him disappear behind the curtain of trauma two with that same gruff composure he’d worn all day, and all you could think was that there was a photo of you on his phone now.
Not the accidental one. Not the one he had deleted because it hadn’t belonged to him.
The other one.
The one you had given him.
That thought followed you through sign-out and the locker room and the cold shock of night air when you finally stepped outside. It sat low and warm in your stomach on the ride home, getting worse every time you remembered the way his jaw had tightened when he looked at the screen. By the time you unlocked your apartment, the silence felt different from the one he’d given you earlier. Not cruel this time. Anticipatory.
Your apartment was dark except for the lamp by your bed. The same bed from the first photo waited at the end of the room, sheets still rumpled from the morning, low light spilling over the fabric in a way that made your heart skip. Last night, that room had been private. Tonight, it felt altered, like Jack had already been invited into the idea of it.
You dropped your keys into the bowl by the door and stood there for a second, still in your scrubs, looking at the bed.
Your phone buzzed.
You turned it over.
Jack Abbot:
Home?
Your mouth went dry.
You:
Yes.
Three dots appeared, disappeared, then appeared again. You stood in the dark with your scuffed Dansko clogs still on, heart beating too hard over a text message from a man who had spent all day saying nothing. Then his reply came through.
Jack Abbot:
Good.
A second later, another message lit the screen.
Jack Abbot:
Next time, I want a better angle.
Quiet Fic Corner @memoriescountthemiles - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
