Summary: You and Jack enjoy the privacy of an italian villa.
Warnings: Smut, MDNI, +18, unprotected Piv, fingering, cum eating.
Your coworker Jack Abbot and you had planned a little trip to a small village, in the south of Italy. A beautiful place, filled with the most spectacular views you had ever seen.
But one of your favourite things of the villa you were staying in, was the pool it had. A perfect spot with complete privacy, which sounded good to escape the chaos of the city and the crowd of people. But later on you’ll find some other perks of this ‘privacy’.
–
It was your third day in the villa, a beautiful morning, birds chirping, and the sound of the ocean created this perfect symphony for your ears.
As the sun started to creep into your room, you first thought to enjoy the pool, a nice morning plunge.
So you did, starting by putting your tiny bikini on, one you hadn’t noticed the size of until Jack brought it up.
“Oh so you’re wearing this to the trip” Jack said holding the bikini bottom in his hands.
“Yeahh” you replied, not understanding his point “Why?”
“Nothing, It’s that just- Don’t you think it's kinda ‘slim’?” He said the last part almost in a whisper. Not wanting to upset you.
“Oh- well not really, I’m not used to the big bikinis” you said with a calm voice, although heat had already started to spread to your cheeks.
The memory brought the thought of how Jack's eyes looked in that moment, his hazel eyes almost pure black. Which helped the heat of the embarrassing moment, but still made you wonder what was that.
Anyways, you pushed the thought out of your head once again and finished getting ready to head to the pool.
–
After what felt like an eternity of unadulterated peace, was disturbed by Jack's scream.
“Are you crazy?” He shouted out from the kitchen, which looked right at the pool.
You open your eyes, seeing a very concerned Jack walking towards you.
“What?” you answer as you sit back up.
“Don’t you know that you shouldn’t be sunbathing at this time of the day” He said, almost out of breath from the exaltation.
“Oh jack, come on” you lay back down “I’m gonna be okey”
“Are you at least wearing sunscreen?”
“Mmm maybe” you said with a playful smile, making Jack let out huff.
“You need to wear some, or else you’re going to get burned. Do you want to be sore the rest of the days that we have left? I don’t think so” He grabs the bottle of sunscreen and hands it to you.
“Here put some on”
“I can’t, I just paint my nails” you said, showing them to him, placing both of your hands on your legs.
He finally let his selfrestrained were off for a second, letting his eyes roam freely from your toes to the way your bikini hugged your curves, and made your breast look delicious.
The thought that you wanted to keep locked away for this vacation started to creep once again. Seeing how Jack’s pupils dilated when he looked at you, like he could just eat you alive (if he only could).
His heated gaze on you made your thighs clench together, something that Jack didn’t miss, but didn’t comment on it either.
“I can put some on you, if you want…” A dangerous proposal, one that could mess everything up. Still the thought of his hands rubbing sunscreen on your exposed skin, made you take the dumbest decision.
“Yes, please” you looked up into his eyes, making his dick twitch in his shorts.
He opened the lid of the cream, put in some on his hands before getting on his knees, settling by the chair you sun lounge, you were laying on.
He looked at the way your skin gleamed under the sunlight before, starting to put the sunscreen on your right leg first, massaging it on your skin, on your calves to your knees. His touch felt so hot, so good.
You bite your lip, trying to not make any sound. Staring at the man, that is taking his sweet time on your legs. Before moving upwards. Making sure every inch of your skin is covered on it.
His voice takes you out of your trance.
“Can you turn around? I need to put some on your back” without any hesitation you turn around.
Hiding your face on the crook of your arm.
Once again his big strong hands start to work from bottom to top. But when he made it to your thighs his steady hands started to tremble, subtle but still you notice.
That’s when he decided to jump right into your back, massaging all of it, your shoulders, your waist, your hips…
He stopped, his mind racing with the most filthiest thoughts, he reprehends himself. He thought he was better, stronger than this. But the way your body looked in that bikini, made his mouth water.
The only thing he could think was how good it’d feel taking it off of you with his teeth.
You notice the sudden loss of touch, so you turn your head around, finding a very heated Abbot. His hands in the air, restraining himself from any movements that could cause him a lawsuit from you.
But your eyes found something much more important than the way he looked, his shorts seemingly had increased in volume, making more than clear the outline of his bulge that was restrained in them.
Your mouth water, your teeth started to bite into your lips, holding them for dear life. As that was the only thing keeping you from dropping into your knees and taking it into your mouth.
Jack was the first one to break the heavy silence.
“I- um I think you are all done” he said as he took a step back, putting some distance between you two.
Your mind was too fogged with need to make any smart decisions so you followed your lowest instincts.
“I don’t think so” with this Jack’s eyes open more than necessary needing to hear an excuse for him to touch you for longer.
“This area doesn’t have sunscreen” you point to your asscheeks “Do you mind putting some on it?”
His addams apple bobbed up and down, as he swallowed hard.
He nods before, putting more sunscreen on his hands as he approaches you. Doubting for a second what he was about to do.
Your patience started to run out fast, but before you could complain, his hands started to doug your skin. Making you let out a muffled moan onto your hand.
His expert hands started to wander really quickly, pressing his fingers closer and closer to your clothed sex, each time he did it, the wet patch on your bottom bikini grew.
“Can I?” His husky voice sounded so deep, as he pulled your bikini down your hips.
“Yes, you can” with that he peeled them off your body, slowly, appreciating every new inch of skin his eyes could see.
“Oh god-” Jack groans, when he finally sees your wet folds, dripping because of him, and his marvelous hands.
“Baby you’re so wet, is this because of me?”
You nod, afraid to not be able to talk.
“Use your words” he said, spanking your ass, with a light but firm hand.
“YES” “It’s all because of you” Your words had such a strong effect on him, his desire growing so fast. Needing to have you closer, to touch you, taste you.
His fingers part your folds, toying with your circles, enjoying the way your hips move, seeking more of his touch.
“God you’re so needy” he spread some of the wetness along your folds, before pressing one finger inside of you, making you let out your first real moan of the evening.
Your moans only made his finger move faster inside of you, his eyes enjoying the whole view of your naked body, how your ass jiggled every time he quickened his pace. The dimples in your lower back, and the pleasure showing in your face.
A few more pumps of his fingers and you were a mess.
“Jack I'm so close” "Don't stop”
He added another finger, stretching you more, and adding more pleasure to you. Your orgasm approached like a train, hitting you hard enough to punch all the air out of your lungs. As your whole body convulse in pleasure.
Jack can’t help but admire all of you, and want more.
He pulls out, licking his fingers clean, and moans at the sweet taste of you.
You quickly turn around, pulling him by his forearm closer to you. After staring into each other's eyes as it was the first time ever, you pulled him into a hungry kiss. Teeth crashing, as you devour each other's mouth.
He then travels down your neck, kissing and biting your soft skin.
“Fuck Jack- I need you” you whimper, opening your legs and wrapping them around his hips.}
He groans, pulling his shorts down, letting his hard length grind against your naked sex.
Your eyes fly open, you kinda knew he was big. His throbbing length, thick and undeniably eager, sprang free, catching the morning sun in a way that made your breath hitch. It wasn't just big; it was a statement. A primal, undeniable statement that made your core clench and hum with anticipation.
"Oh," was all you could manage, a whisper caught between a gasp and a moan. Your fingers, still tangled in his hair from the hungry kiss, tightened.
He leaned in, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide with desire. "Is that a good 'oh'?" he rumbled, his voice thick with a question that didn't need answering.
“More than good” you bite your lips,as you help him align with your center. He let out a low growl, a sound that vibrated through your entire body. "Good," he repeated.
With a powerful, deliberate thrust, he entered you.
“Ahh” The sound tore from your throat, a mix of pain and pure, unadulterated pleasure. You were stretched, filled completely, a delicious ache burning deep inside.
"So tight" he groaned, his body trembling as he buried himself to the hilt. He paused, letting you adjust, his chest heaving against yours. "Tell me if it's too much.”
“Oh it could never be too much” you lock your ankles behind his ass keeping him deep inside.
He moved slowly at first, a deep, rhythmic plunge and retreat that had you moaning into his neck.
The wet sound of skin on skin echoing in the quiet morning. The world outside the pool house faded, replaced by the rush of blood in your ears and the wet, sliding sounds of his cock in you.
He picked up the pace, each stroke more confident, more urgent. Your head fell back, eyes fluttering closed as the sensations consumed you.
"Jack! Oh, God!" Your voice was barely a whisper, lost in the rising tide of pleasure. Your hips met his, matching his rhythm, chasing the peak.
"I'm so close," you panted, your body arching, nails digging into his back.
He grinned, a predatory, beautiful smile. "Good," he whispered, pushing one last, deep stroke. "Come for me."
A long, drawn-out scream ripped from your lungs as the orgasm seized you, shaking you to your core. Your body convulsed around him, waves of pleasure crashing over you.
Jack groaned, a guttural sound, and followed you over the edge, his body tensing, spilling his seed deep inside.
Holding onto your hips grinding his pelvis against your overstimulated sex. Hard enough to leave some bruises on your skin.
“God baby that was amazing” he kissed you once again, before pulling out of you and seeing the mess you made.
“Oh and by the way the bikini looked amazing on you. You should wear it more often.” He said, winking at you.
summary: jack abbot really needs to stop overhearing conversations that he's not a part of.
author's note: here it is!! my first ever jack abbot fic ♡ thank you to everyone who has been reading the little paragraphs so far! hope you all like it!
word count: 9.7k
warnings/tags: virgin, fourth year med student reader and attending jack. age gap relationship. loss of virginity, oral sex, lots and lots of praise kink <3 normal hospital lingo and descriptions of procedures.
jack abbot knows better than to listen to the nurses gossiping. he does—because listening to them never leads to anything good. if he’s caught eavesdropping, he gets dragged in. loses money that was never meant to be spent on the bets—and seriously, the employees of this hospital have a gambling problem.
other times he hears things he really wish he hadn’t heard. it’s just not relevant to him, he doesn’t want to know things about people that he’s not meant to know. maybe it’s a military thing, but he can’t really explain it. maybe jack is just used to keeping secrets and minding his own business.
and the last thing that jack really doesn’t like about overhearing gossip is that sometimes, rarely and reserved only for special information, it gets trapped in his brain and becomes the only thing he thinks about for the rest of the shift.
this is one of those times.
he knows better—that’s what keeps coursing through his mind when he stands on the opposite side of the nurse’s station at central. keep his ears shut, eyes down, because the last time he was standing here unarmed, he learned about a pregnant technician upstairs and the married surgeon who was the father. information that he did not, does not, want to know. nor did he want to learn about the surgeon’s wife who was a nurse in the pediatric ward, or the technician’s boyfriend who is on a work trip in florida.
he thinks that was child’s play compared to this conversation.
when jack glances up, he sees you on the other side of the desk, leaning forward on your elbows, smiling and laughing with the nurses.
you’re a fourth year—he should let you smile and laugh while you can. you’re in that perfect, peaceful transition period between your audition rotations ending and finding out where you’re going for residency. it’s supposed to be an enjoyable time—there’s no exam prep waiting for you at home, no stressful surgery rotation coming up next week.
jack didn’t know too much about you—you’d mostly been on the day shift for the duration of your rotation. that was normal, keeping all the students together when the majority of the doctors were there too. made it a little easier to manage.
you were a little different though. just a little. you’d specially asked to try out the night shift for the rest of the time you’d be at the hospital. it’s not the weirdest request they’d ever heard, but just unusual. fourth years cherish sleeping and spending time with family and boyfriends and organizing their life before being thrown head-first into intern year.
(at least, that’s what jack thinks you’d cherish. the little he knows about you has been transferred from robby and a comment from the residents every now and then. all good things, and when he’d told you the night shift was your chance to prove all the good things he’d heard about you, you had beamed at him.
a smile so bright he had lost his train of thought and had to walk back to what he’d even said to begin with. he tries not to think about it when he sees you smiling like that to your patients or the nurses, like you are now. but it’s not the same one, he can tell. the one you smiled at him had been a little different, something in your eyes had lit up too, you had stood up straighter, like a current had made its way through you at the compliment. or something like that.)
and you had definitely been proving yourself. jack had learned maybe last week that you had applied emergency medicine. it made sense then, why you wanted to try out night shift, since first year interns eventually do night float. it was just practice for the future. which was great, and very exciting for you, but just not what he had expected.
you were just so… happy. patient. you had seemed disappointed on your first day to learn that most of the emergency docs only wore black scrubs. you made up for it in other ways—a pink stethoscope, colored pens, a badge reel with a little cartoon on it.
even looking at you now, fiddling with the pulley on your badge, listening intently to whatever the nurse was telling you, and then smiling in that reassuring way that he’s seen you do, you look like you shouldn’t be here. he briefly considers finding that surgeon’s wife, the pediatric nurse, to take you up there for a couple of hours. jack doesn’t think you would want to come back down, but, well, what does he know about you?
certainly not much. even if he had noticed the way you are with your patients—filled with an abundance of caring, a melodic tune to your voice, trying your hardest to comfort, repair, heal. he had seen you fetch cups of water and sandwiches yourself, not wanting to bother nurses. every sentence had a please and thank you attached. it didn’t take long for you to win over the patients. then the nurses. then the residents, and the attendings.
it seemed that your goal was to win over all the attendings.
jack is still staring at you. but you’re so focused on your conversation with the nurse that you don’t even notice. and he has to stop before someone else notices, forcing himself to look down at the chart in front of him, trying to remember why he’d even come over here in the first place.
and that’s when he hears it.
“-but i would have never guessed. you’re so pretty!” the nurse says, and he knows she is talking about you, because, well, who else would she be talking about?
you are pretty, as unprofessional as the thought feels even entering his head. you’re very pretty, and the way you talk to everyone like they’re the most important person in the world to you only makes you prettier.
jack almost clears his throat, before realizing that he is, in fact, eavesdropping. he can’t interrupt a conversation he’s not even a part of. and much to his chagrin, realizing that he is terrible at this, he tunes back into your conversation.
“yeah, but it’s not about that,” you say, and you sound a little different. like you’re flushed. the words come out hesitantly, quietly. “it’s about... finding the right guy, right? i didn’t want to rush it and then regret it.”
he hears the nurse laugh, and you laugh a little too, followed by a little groan.
“i guess it is embarrassing,” you continue, before stopping, interrupted by the nurse. jack looks up briefly—you’ve got your head resting on your forearms, leaning down against the counter. he keeps looking until you bring it back up.
“no, it’s a good thing. especially in hospitals. keep your legs closed otherwise you’ll end up like that pregnant tech upstairs-”
“but that’s so horrible. his poor wife works here. and she has a boyfriend, how do you do that-”
he keeps listening, his own face a little flushed. he both wants to and absolutely does not want to hear the rest of your conversation, but even through the fog, he thinks about how your only reaction to that bit of circulating gossip was how bad you feel for the wife. his heart beats a little faster.
“well don’t worry about that, you won’t have to deal with it as long as you stay a virgin-” you and the nurse laugh, and the phone starts ringing, and the charge nurse answers.
she calls out, yelling for dr. abbot, and so lost in his thoughts—in your thoughts—he doesn’t even hear his own name being called for a couple of car accidents that were incoming. when he turns back to look, you’re already gone.
he needs to shake off whatever you’ve just done to him. his feet automatically take him to the trauma bay, gearing up for whatever is coming, but when he gets there, you’re standing there, waiting. a yellow gown already on you, gloves pulled. and in your hands, another gown and set of gloves—extra large, he can tell from the color. the ones that he wears.
“dr. abbot,” you say, handing both items to him. “i heard from bridget, is it okay if i assist?”
“yeah, sure, kid-” he thinks for a moment that he hasn’t felt this way in a long time. and how the hell is one tiny piece of gossip enough to have his head spinning like he’s some teenage boy? how does that work, when he’s never cared about workplace rumors or any of the other hundreds of medical students he’s worked with before?
you beam up at him again, saying thank you. eager to prove your worth like always. you disappear behind him, and jack is confused for half a second before he feels your fingers on the skin of his neck—briefly, just another half of a second. you’re tying the gown for him.
how is that you’re this kind, this pretty, and you’ve never had someone to take care of you the way you take care of everyone else? that can’t be right. that can’t be fair.
oh god.
jack wants to tie the back of yours, thinks that maybe twenty years ago he’d be a lot quicker on his feet to do what he wants with the information he’s just learned. but instead he hears the ambulance sirens pull up, and he sees the back of your head while you rush out to meet them, and he actually, for the first time in years, has to force his feet to move.
you were so close behind him, he could smell it. not perfume, that would wear off quickly with how much they run around. it was your soap and your shampoo. clean and sweet and something like strawberries lingering in the air after you’ve taken off.
but he’s stood next to you before—how is it that this is the first time he’s noticed?
half way outside, you turn around, realizing jack’s not right behind you.
“dr. abbot?” you question, taking half a step towards him, the opposite direction.
“yeah, coming,” jack answers and he follows you outside.
-
the mvc’s weren’t in the worst shape jack’s ever seen, but still bad enough that he needed to snap out of it. he doesn’t even want to think about how bad the rumor mill would be if word got out that he lost a patient because he couldn’t stop staring at the twenty-something medical student. (though it is hard to stop staring. how the hell did robby ever work with collins? how did he get anything done?)
it’s not like jack is going to find out. you are strictly off limits.
he tries to do what he always does—asks you questions. how many milligrams should you give the patient? what are the three things you should be the most worried about? the patient’s got a broken wrist from trying to brace for the impact but that’s the least of your worries, so how do you deal with it for now?
the first one gets stable pretty quickly. the second one is where there’s more concern. he comes in, ellis saying something about the patient’s crashing and there’s a big piece of debris jammed in his chest.
jack goes in there and he spares a glance at you. the intensity of the situation is enough to make you a little flushed, even though you’ve done an emergency rotation during third year and two auditions already this year. but it’s a good thing—you take every case as seriously as though it’s your first. worry about each patient like they’re your own family, like each step is your responsibility.
he calls you over, asks you what medications you would give if you had to intubate.
“uh, etomidate a-and rocuronium?” it comes out like a question, like you’re still a little uncertain, even though you’re right, like you don’t believe in yourself enough to say confidently.
he’ll have to change that. help you work on that. he can think of it now—maybe you would learn best if you had some kind of a reward system. you seem like the kind of girl who would benefit from that. maybe if he asked the questions from between your thighs and your reward was—
“dr. abbot?” the sound of your voice snaps him out of it.
“yeah. good. very good,” jack says, and he turns his head just slightly, just so he can see you beam again. “you heard the doctor. let’s get prepped for the intubation.” you move out of the way for ellis to come in, when he stops you. “no, you’re going to be doing it.”
you pause, uncertain eyes staring up at your attending.
“a-are you sure? don’t you think you should-”
“i think you’re perfectly competent to intubate.”
“you guys got this,” ellis says, taking her stethoscope around her neck and heading out. the nurse tells you that they’re all set up. you hear the blare of the heart monitor, another nurse reading off the vitals, all the way to the pulse-ox that’s too low.
“i’ll be here the whole time,” jack says, and you really, really wish he hadn’t said that. he’s close to you, handing you the laryngoscope.
in moments like these, you realize why you were always meant to do this. you pick up the scope, carefully lowering it into the mouth and the top of the patient’s throat.
“don’t make any sudden movements. you don’t want to break his teeth,” jack instructs, his voice a gentle guide. you do know how to intubate, you must have done it a hundred times on the dummy in the skills lab. but you’ll never get over how different it is when it’s a real patient, how scared you get even when you shouldn’t be, because the doctor should never be scared like that.
but then you hear dr. abbot’s voice again. quiet, maybe even quiet enough that the other people in the room can’t hear.
“i-i don’t see the cords-”
“take a breath. use your hand to extend the neck, get it straighter.” you listen to his instructions, hands moving by themselves to comply. “try again.” you’re looking down, and the nurses are looking at the video, and jack is looking at you. “past the epiglottis.” you push the tube a little further. “past the larynx.” a little further. “and cords.”
you take a breath like you’ve never taken one before. the capnometer turns yellow and you finish out the steps, the rest feeling like muscle memory before handing it over to the nurse. the patient’s going up to surgery, but you make it outside the trauma room taking deep breaths to ground yourself.
“you okay?” dr. abbot asks from somewhere behind you.
you turn to see him taking off the gown and gloves, the ones you had handed him. maybe you’d never noticed it before, but he’s got freckles over his forearms. maybe he spent a lot of time in the sun as a kid. when you don’t reply, thoughts trapped in your head and words not forming, he speaks again.
“come here,” and he guides you to the empty corner between the trauma room and the hallway. his hand hovers over the small of your back as he leads you there.
you’re going crazy—there’s no way you could feel his body heat through your scrubs. and yet the sensation lingers. he faces you, and you look up, blinking quickly. you don’t think you’ve ever been close enough to dr. abbot to see the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, or how the hair along his temples is more salt than pepper. his eyes bore into yours, and you stare up, forgetting the reason that you had even needed to speak to him.
“are you sure you’re okay, kid?” he asks again, and you nod quickly.
“yes. yes, i’m sorry, dr. abbot.” you turn to look at the trauma room, looking at the nurses hovering over the patient you had just intubated. when you turn back to look at your attending, you realize he’s staring, just like how you were staring.
“what are you apologizing for?”
“i-i forgot the steps. you-you had to talk me through it. i should have known,” you try to explain, though words and sentences become harder to form with each passing moment.
“you’ve done how many of those, now? a handful? less than ten?” you nod. “you don’t have to be perfect here. you just have to try. and keep going, which you did.” you release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding in. “good job, doctor. you saved the patient.”
“thank you dr. abbot.” you smile, beaming again, just not in the way you usually do. you’re still not that proud of yourself, jack can tell.
the voice in the back of your head tells you that you should have been better, faster, more confident. you can’t imagine that ellis or shen or even your attending had been this hesitant as a medical student.
“it’ll come with time, you know. no one’s perfect when they start out.”
“did i say that out loud?” you question seriously, confusion spread all over your pretty features.
“no.”
you’re so stupid—but maybe being so close to your serious, yet growing kinder by the millisecond attending was getting to you. the attending that you really want to impress, for reasons still unbeknownst to you. you want him to like you, to take you seriously, to think that you’d be a great candidate for their intern class starting in july.
and then you lose your train of thought, staring at his eyes. it’s been too long, people are going to wonder where the two of you went.
but his eyes aren’t actually brown, like you thought. they’re hazel.
“yeah,” he says, with a laugh. “they are.”
your own eyes go wide like coins, and then you run straight to central to find a patient to preoccupy you from the embarrassment that is seeping out of you, leaving jack abbot laughing to himself in the empty corner between the trauma room and the hallway.
the rest of your night shift is surprisingly uneventful. you had heard it was a bit calmer, but you didn’t expect such a drastic difference. but maybe it was just one of those nights. ellis wouldn’t let shen say the actual word, but you were all thinking it. it was kind of quiet tonight.
and normally, jack appreciates a quiet night. it’s like a little peace offering from god, akin to a slap on the back and a ‘thanks for your service’. he needs one every now and then, it’s the way only way to make sure for certain that he doesn’t end up on the roof a step closer than the last time.
though, staring at you from across the emergency room, watching you drink from your colorful water bottle and smile at shen and ellis, thanking them for their help while you work on notes, is certainly another way to make sure that jack abbot doesn’t think about that roof.
it’s only three in the morning though. there’s always time for the night to get worse. they’ve got four hours left, and he knows you’re off tomorrow.
well, he knows that he’s off. and then he took a peak at the schedule in one of his many free minutes tonight to see where you’ll be. he hopes the answer is at home, sleeping and eating and letting your body recover from the damage night shift does to your circadian rhythm.
(he needs to cut it out. attendings have no business wondering what their bright eyed and bushy tailed fourth years are doing on their days off.)
but god if it doesn’t plague him—the fact that unlike what he thought, there’s no boyfriend waiting for you at home. no one to hear about your stressful day at work, the intubation that you did—perfectly, just with a little help from your overbearing attending, all the patients that you helped, and the great impression you made on the night shift. how he sees you answer every nurse carrying a question from patient with all your energy, even in the middle of the night. how you fill up a cup of ice chips for the patient waiting to go up to surgery, comforting them while knowing it’ll be sunlight outside when they’re finally taken up.
and then he sees you sit down, taking a breath like you need to remind yourself to breathe sometimes.
it’s just a little bit wrong. whatever he’s thinking, before he’s even thought it, it’s wrong. but how is it that you have all these things to be proud of, and no one at home to be proud of you? jack can sense it in the way that your smile grows every time you find out someone has something kind to say about you. every good job and well done is catalogued somewhere in your mind, and you wait ceaselessly for the next one, like an addiction.
jack would spoil you, he thinks, for other people. for other men. he would praise you. he would tell you how perfect you are so many times that you wouldn’t be able to forget, that you would never doubt yourself again. that’s what you need waiting for you at home—the thing that can make it all better.
and as wrong as it is, he knows he could do it for you.
you look around the room and find hazel eyes staring right at you. your heart thuds in your chest.
you smile at dr. abbot, and then look back down your notes. a minute later, you look up again, and he’s still looking. smiling. and now you can’t look away either. you had heard about the eye contact thing from other residents, it’s just a habit, they had said. you try not to flatter yourself that your attending is looking at you like he knows everything about you, including the things you don’t say out loud.
why does he have to be so nice to you? why does he have to laugh and smile even when you’re making an idiot of yourself? you should go up and apologize for that bit about the hazel eyes, though you think you might collapse into a puddle and melt into the ground if you have to bring it up again.
but you’re on for six more night shifts before the audition ends, and you ranked ptmc pretty high on your list—which may have been a mistake if you can’t stand in the presence of one of your attendings without turning into a flustered mess.
he hasn’t even done anything besides be nice to you. of course it’s that easy to unnerve you. you keep looking, watching the nurse who stopped to ask dr. abbot a question, how jack turns to talk to him, making eye contact that you were just at the receiving end of.
when the nurse walks away, jack turns back, looks right at you again. you can feel your face heat up like you just ran a mile. is this one of those things that’ll go away when you’re not a virgin anymore? that’s a heavy question for three-thirty in the morning.
here’s another one—how is every person in this hospital not in love with him?
you fluster and turn, breaking eye contact and keeping your head firmly staring at the computer screen. he laughs to himself again, walking off to check on a patient from earlier. the next time your eyes look up, they automatically go to the counter where jack was. you turn back and finish your notes.
“hey,” shen says, sliding into the empty seat next to you a while later. he opens the drawer under the desk, lifting up papers and pulling out a packet of goldfish from underneath. “forget what all these other people told you. your first rule is eat when you can.” you smile at that.
“noted. that’s a good hiding spot. inconspicuous.”
“that’s the goal. don’t tell the day shifters. it’ll be empty in an hour.”
“i won’t. promise.”
“is your mvc still waiting for surgery?”
“i think so, yeah,” you sit up a little straighter. you have this fear that you’ve done something wrong, that it’ll all be revealed in time.
“don’t worry, that’s normal this time of the night. i’d go check on him like once an hour and report to abbot. just because it’s-well, i’m not gonna say it.”
“right. got it. will do.” you get up, feet stumbling a little. it is pretty late. your watch says four-thirty, but you’re not tired. you’re just anxious.
you make your way to the patient’s room, the nurse filling you in on the updates in the last hour. there’s not many, thank god. you stare at the pulse-ox on the monitor for way too long, going over and checking to see that he is, in fact, still breathing. it’s silly. you know it is.
the nurse says she’ll be right back, and you look at the chart for another minute or so, trying to formulate the words you’re going to say to dr. abbot now so you don’t have to form them on the spot—god only knows how that might go.
you turn to head out, looking at the notes on the tablet in your hand, when you run into a brick wall.
“oh my god-” you almost drop the ipad, clutching onto it while it nearly tumbles out of your grip. jesus, how tired were you? walking into walls? but then the wall brings a hand to your shoulder, and that voice that’s been haunting your thoughts all night speaks.
and for what can only be the hundredth time that night, dr. abbot asks you if you’re okay.
you stare up at him.
“you okay, kid?”
“yes. i’m so sorry, dr. abbot. i was coming to find you.”
“i figured. how’s your patient?”
“stable. waiting for surgery. i-i… nevermind.”
“you what?” he asks, gently taking the ipad from your hand and reading. he uses one hand to wipe his eyes, like he can take away the tiredness that way, and then runs a hand through his hair. you put your trembling fingers to your sides. he brings his eyes up from the screen to look at you. you really wish he wouldn’t.
“i was just making sure he was still breathing.”
dr. abbot smiles at you. you smile back, but it’s half-hearted. your chest is thudding so loudly you can hear it in your ears. but his smile fades when he catches a glimpse of your shaking fingers.
“have you eaten today?”
“i had some coffee. and some water.”
“the patient looks great. he’ll be fine. let’s get you something to eat.”
you shut your eyes tightly, but your brain is so tired you don’t even know what you’re thinking. you’ll have to get better at this if you want to keep working here someday.
mindlessly, you follow dr. abbot.
“between five and seven is the hardest part of the shift,” he says, opening up another drawer, different from shen’s. he hands you a protein bar. “and too much coffee is a bad thing. we don’t want your hands shaking if you need to put in a chest tube or thirty sutures at six am, do we?”
you shake your head, taking the protein bar from his hand. your fingers brush for all of two seconds. jack feels like he just touched a live wire.
“eat,” he says, and you listen. “you’re doing good, you know. it’s not supposed to be easy.”
“thank you,” you say, though your mouth is full. you lift your hand to cover, because even though it’s five am, you cannot embarrass yourself any further. “sorry about the hazel eyes thing.”
jack laughs and you smile. he has a really nice laugh, the kind that can make you calm down and forget what was bothering you all night. it really is a wonder that everyone here isn’t in love with him. you don’t even know how much longer you’ll be able to last.
“that’s okay. you’re tired.”
“everyone’s tired,” you clear your throat, sitting up straighter. “i think i’m just going crazy.”
“yeah, why’s that?”
“because i can’t stop thinking about you.”
well. looks like that’s about how long you were able to last.
you put the protein bar down on the counter. hands trembling again, mouth dropped open.
“dr. abbot, i am so sorry-” the words come out in a shaky breath, but when you look at him, when he finally moves his gaze back to your eyes, like he’s been doing all night, you see that he’s not mad. he’s not even upset.
“that’s okay-”
“no, no that is so not okay,” you blubber, words and sentences becoming harder to find by the second. “i am so sorry. that is so unprofessional.”
“well, i-”
“b-but it’s not like it’s just my fault, you’re being so nice-”
“it’s not anyone’s fault, kid, it doesn’t work like that-”
“if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s yours,” you say, unsure of where you’re finding these words. “you keep staring at me. what am i supposed to do?”
“have you tried looking away?” he quips, and you laugh at that. jack thinks for a moment that it’s a really beautiful sound. he doesn’t get to hear it often enough. maybe he can change that.
“am i?” you ask, after a small silence. “going crazy?”
“no. you’re not,” he replies.
“oh. that’s good, at least.”
the two of you stay like that for a moment, shoulder to shoulder against the counter, your protein bar long forgotten. jack’s looking at you and you’re looking anywhere but him.
“dr. abbot?” you say, but before he can answer, there’s a phone going off. he hears it in the distance—mvc, truck driver, incoming, five minutes out.
“come on,” he says, doing that thing again, guiding you but not really. even if anyone noticed through the haze of five am, he finds that he doesn’t really care right now. you wear the same flustered, confused, guilty expression until he ties the gown behind you this time, which makes you a smile.
a real one this time.
“what do you think about breakfast?” jack asks, snapping on his gloves and heading outside to meet the ambulance.
“i like breakfast,” you answer, not nearly as hesitantly as you thought you would.
“great. i’m of the belief you should always eat breakfast after night shift. there’s a place down the street.”
“do they have french toast?”
“i’m sure they do. you like sweet things?” and you can’t believe the conversation is still going, the paramedics are opening up the doors in front of you. you turn to jack, nodding to answer his question. “makes sense. alright, what’d we have?”
mouth still open, you follow him out to the bay.
-
an hour later, both of the drivers from the accident are stable. you’re yawning at central, saying goodbye to the nurse you were chatting with earlier, and without even looking, you know jack is looking at you.
you’re too tired to be anxious. all you want is to go to breakfast with him and figure out what the hell happens after breakfast post night-shift with your attending who knows that you can’t stop thinking about him.
he brings over a cup of coffee for you. you look up quizzically.
“i thought you said no more coffee?”
“it’s decaf. but you need something to get you to breakfast, right?”
“shouldn’t i have a coffee at breakfast?”
“no, because then you won’t be able to sleep after.” the way he talks, you believe everything he says. you smile at him. someone from the other side of the room calls him over.
“i’ll, uh, be right back.”
“dr. abbot?” you say, right before he leaves.
“yeah?”
“thank you for the coffee.”
the last hour drags. particularly, six to six-thirty. the second half of the hour, the day crew rolls in slowly, one by one. the day shift counterparts take over patients and beds, get their debriefs. you follow around behind the residents, inform the other medical student about what you had done throughout the evening.
and around seven-fifteen, you pull on your jacket, grab your backpack, and wait for jack. you don’t know who else has left yet, who else might see you two together, but you don’t really care.
you walk to the breakfast place together, your eyes stuck anywhere but on your attending, and now it feels weird, because you can’t get his name to come out of your mouth. the idea of saying jack rather than dr. abbot feels inherently wrong.
the place he takes you to is quaint. it smells of espresso and bacon, and you smile brightly at the waitress when you order a latte, not decaf.
“what did i tell you, huh?” jack asks, and you bring yourself to finally look back at the hazel eyes that started this whole thing.
“i never said i was sleeping after this.”
in hindsight, the coffee was a great idea. the food would have made you sleepy, and you would have missed out going back home with jack. he lives in a nice brownstone, much nicer than your tiny apartment.
it also gave you just enough nerve to ask jack if he wanted to try your french toast. to hold his hand on the walk back. to lean against his chest while he opens the door.
“i can still walk you home, y’know,” he says, but you shake your head, watching him get his keys out.
“unless you want to meet my roommate, i don’t think that’s a good idea.” and inside jack abbot’s apartment is everything you had been imagining for the last twelve hours. shelves filled with records, big windows, a couch that looks tantalizingly comfortable. but you have ulterior motives today.
you keep looking around, perusing through his records while he takes a seat on the couch. you inspect with a tilted head, warmth spreading through your chest and radiating out at his music taste. such an old man, you think briefly, looking back at him sitting on the couch in his civilian clothes. your old man.
you pick one out, the first album that’s familiar to you, and bring it over jack on the couch. you sit next to him, thighs touching, resting your head on his shoulder.
“are you gonna put on music?” he laughs, and you can feel his chest vibrate with the noise. this close, you can feel his heartbeat if you place your head just right. every word that he says, you can hear the rumble first. it’s so soothing, you’d fall asleep if you weren’t so wound up.
“how are you not tired?” he questions, and you look up at him.
“i had a latte, remember. you had coffee too. how are you still tired?” you go silent for a moment, trying and failing to conceal a laugh.
“don’t even say it,” jack says, and he’s laughing too.
“i didn’t say anything.”
“you’re thinking it.”
“i’m not tired enough anymore to believe that you can actually read my thoughts.”
“i can’t read your thoughts.”
“that’s a lie-”
“no, promise. i can’t. i can just tell.”
“how is that possible?”
“you want me to teach you?” you prop yourself up, leaning against his forearm while you do it. his skin is warm, and somehow despite everything you two went through the last twelve hours, he still smells good.
“if you’re not too tired, old man.” jack shuts his eyes, groaning. you laugh again, biting your cheek, wondering what he’ll say when—
he opens his eyes.
“i was gonna go easy on you, kid. but you’re in for it now.”
“yeah?”
“yeah.”
“promise?”
jack makes another noise—something in between a groan and a sigh. and then before you can think about it again, he takes your face in between both hands and kisses you.
and you’ve been kissed before. not well, but you know what it’s supposed to be like. after a date once you think, a date that had been pretty mediocre. you felt a spark a hundred times stronger in the last couple hours with jack than any date you’ve been on in your life.
at least—you thought you knew what being kissed was supposed to be like. as it turns out, while kissing jack, you realize that you didn’t know shit.
the way he kisses you leaves your lungs void of any air. he doesn’t pull away, not once, and you don’t either. you don’t want him to pull away, you think you might die if he does. he moves his hands slightly, one on your cheek and the other on the back of your head, holding you in place, firmly, gently. and he kisses you like he wants you to forget what being kissed is like, as though you should have no memory besides this one.
your hands rope themselves on his arms, hard muscles tense under your touch. you move them up and down, brain so empty after the night you’ve had that you don’t know how to signal to him that you want him to take his shirt off. so you pull on his short sleeves and feel his bicep strain against your palm until you give up. you’d rather go at his pace than make any decisions at all, and somehow, you know that jack abbot won’t let you make a single decision, not if you don’t want to. he’ll decide everything, he’ll know what’s right for you, just like he has all night.
your hands finally leave his arm and wander to his hair, fingers working their way through the salt and pepper that you’ve been admiring for so many hours. his curls are messy, and you’ve ruined them, you’re sure, but you can’t stop.
you don’t know how long it’s been since either of you came up for air, but then you hear the record drop to the ground and you pull away quickly, turning your head to see where it went.
jack doesn’t stop kissing you. his mouth is hot and his touch is lava, moving to your cheek and your jaw and then down the column of your neck.
the moans you’ve been singing into his mouth are now out in the air, noises sweet like honey coming back to his ears.
“y-your record, i-i dropped it,” you get the sentence out in gasps. jack has his mouth over the place where your carotid pulses. he sucks hard on the skin there and your eyes shut instantly, the record leaving your mind as quickly as it had come in. he makes his way back through your cheek, back to your mouth.
and you could almost die at the sight—jack abbot, lips red and swollen, darkened eyes looking at you like he’s going to make you pay for that ‘old man’ comment, though you can hardly remember what you had even said.
this time you lean back in to kiss him again, and he lets you control the pace for all of thirty seconds. you kiss him until your lips hurt, until your tongue is tired—but then again, so is every part of your body. but it doesn’t matter, not when you’re so close to getting what it is that you want.
you don’t actually know how you got to his bedroom. you would have been content on that couch, or on the rug on the floor. against the door or on the countertop in the kitchen, but you guess you’ll have time for all of those things one day.
there’s black out curtains in jack’s bedroom. they’re not shut all the way, so you look around while he stands in front of you, pulling off his shirt in one motion. your eyes are big, heart thudding while you take it in. his room is simple, just like you had imagined. the sheets are soft under your skin and everything smells good, like linen and sandalwood. you bring your gaze back, bringing a hand up to touch his chest, like you need to make sure that he’s really in front of you.
jack takes his hand and puts it on top of the one you’re touching him with, pinning it above your head while he hovers over you. you bring the other one up voluntarily, letting him clasp it down, while he leans in to kiss you again. you keep moaning, not sure of how loud you’re being and not entirely sure if you care anymore.
and then he stops. pulls away from the kiss, unpins your hands. you whine in frustration, shut eyes opening quickly to meet his.
“you sure about this, hm?” he asks, bringing his lips to your jaw again. he hovers there too, not pressing down enough for it to be a real kiss. you can feel his stubble rubbing against you.
“i’m sure,” you whisper back, eyes shutting again. jack’s hands roam down, wandering over your waistband.
“there’s no going back,” he says, just as quietly as you had.
“jack, please—” and for the first time that morning, you hear dr. abbot break.
“oh fuck. say my name again, angel,” and you comply, repeating the syllable once, and then twice. it tastes weird on your tongue—like you’d get in trouble for saying it.
the thought makes you laugh. you keep giggling, unable to stop. you hear jack breathe into your neck, laughing with you.
“what’s so funny, hm?” he brings himself back over you, noses almost touching. you look straight into hazel eyes, bringing your hand to his cheek, running your fingers over the short hairs there.
“a couple hours ago i was calling you doctor abbot. now i’m in your bed.”
“you want me to stop, baby? i can. we can just go to sleep,” and you shake your head quickly.
“no, please don’t stop.”
“well, since you asked so politely.” he starts again, kisses up and down your neck, hands pulling off your bottoms. his fingers tease over the hem of your shirt and you raise your arms so he can pull that off too. his eyes rake over your entire body and unlike what you’d imagined, you don’t feel the need to hide. you don’t want to cover yourself up, or feel embarrassed, or anything else. you want jack abbot to keep looking at you like he’s looking now, like he can’t believe what’s in front of him. you can’t believe it either.
and somehow, this is even funnier. now you’re naked in front of your attending, the very one who has been making your heart race since you met him during your third year rotation. you laugh again, before clasping a hand over your mouth.
“i think you might be a little too tired for this,” he says, and you regret your laughter right now.
“no, no, i want this. i’ve been waiting so long for this,” the last part comes out as a whisper. you tilt your head up, pressing in for another kiss. jack’s hands—hot like every other part of him—roam the bare skin of your hips and waist, all the way up to your ribcage and then back down.
“yeah? how long?” he asks. his kisses go lower now, down your neck, onto your collarbone. he goes down to the smooth skin above your breasts, between them. everywhere except where you need him. you can feel the anticipation thrumming under your skin. “i asked you a question.” he pulls away, waiting for his answer.
“s-since i met you.”
“i think it’s been longer than that, hasn’t it?”
you look at him confused, but then the bastard actually smirks at you. and suddenly you’re back to ten o’clock last night, when the nurse was telling you to keep you legs closed—sorry, couldn’t help myself—and you saw someone in the corner of your eye but you didn’t want to be rude and look away, but when you left for the incoming trauma, you had seen—
“you dick-” you yell, sitting up in jack’s soft sheets. “you heard that whole conversation?” jack’s laughing and you start laughing too, taking one of his pillows and smacking it across his chest.
“not-” you get him with the pillow again and he grabs it, wrestling it out of your hands. you realize how much stronger he is than you for a split second in that moment. “not the entire thing. just the important bits.”
“well at least now i don’t have to figure out how to tell you,” you reply sheepishly, feeling particularly vulnerable. you bring your knees in to your chest, watching jack in front of you with big eyes. “do you feel weird about it?”
“weird about what, sweetheart?” he asks quietly, placing one of his warm hands on your knee and rubbing the skin there.
“the virgin thing. do you not-”
“hey,” he says, and with so much caring behind his voice that you feel whatever’s left—if there even was any—of your resolve break. “we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. we can shower and go to sleep. i can take you home. whatever you want. and we can pick up where we left off when you’re ready.”
“yeah?” you ask.
“yeah.”
you move back towards him, shutting your eyes and leaning in for another kiss. this time you crawl into his lap, feeling his hands roaming all over your body again. you can feel him under you—rock hard, pulsing, incredibly hot even through his pants. your hips move on their own while your hands fiddle with the tie before he takes over, undoing it for you. you hear jack groaning in your ear, and you’re positive that you’re wet enough to leave a wet mark on him. the noise is so exhilarating to you that you have to stop yourself from doing whatever it takes to get more out of him.
jack keeps one huge hand on your back, keeping you steady while he kisses you. you lock your arms around his neck, not letting go incase he tries to pull away. he flips you over in one motion—you on your back, and him hovering over you.
you don’t like this nearly as much—you want it back, the insanely rough pleasure of grinding yourself down on him. you whine again, but he murmurs one word in your ear over and over again—patience.
you’ve waited this long. you think you can be patient a little while longer.
jack goes back to whatever was on his long list of things he wants to do to you. he starts with pinning your hands down, locking you in place so you don’t flail around too much. he starts at your chest, his hot mouth working down to your nipple. he takes one in his mouth and you arch up off the bed, making saccharine noises that no one besides him has ever gotten to hear. that no one besides him will ever get to hear.
“jack, jack,” you say his name over and over again, like you’re worried he’ll disappear if you don’t. your body reacts just like he thought you would, only taking what you’re giving, waiting patiently for more.
“you’re being so good, sweetheart,” and he thinks the words alone are enough to make you come. he switches over to your other nipple, and he hears you curse, the swear ripping from your mouth.
and he hasn’t even touched your cunt yet. but he knows already that he’s going to drag this out, that he’s going to make sure you can never forget it. that he’ll spent the rest of his life trying to top this moment, give you something to compare to forever.
hot kisses down your stomach while your chest heaves. he watches from his position between your thighs, hands reaching out to play with your tits while he finally does what he’s been thinking about since that trauma yesterday night.
he moves your hands for you, putting them to work, making you tease your nipples while he spreads open your legs further.
he stares up again, watching you comply with his instructions wordlessly, being such a good girl without even needing to be told. he needs to tell you, but he doesn’t want you to come until you’re coming on his tongue.
without waiting, jack licks the length of your pussy and makes your entire body tense up, back rising off the bed again. he uses one hand on your stomach to keep you pinned down, to make sure you keep taking whatever he gives you. he can’t talk like this, but he’ll talk you through it when he makes you come all over his dick.
that’s what he’s thinking about while he starts to stretch you out. one finger, then two. your cunt is soaking wet, leaking down and making a mess of your thighs and his sheets and his face. he teases your clit more than he should, but how can he not? when you thrash so hard that you’d fall if he wasn’t holding you down? when you have no choice but to take it, to lay back and feel jack’s tongue on the most sensitive part of your body, the part that no one but him has ever gotten to touch?
two fingers become three, stretching you out for him while he sucks on your clit hard, finally giving you what you’ve been begging for.
one of your hands makes its way down to his hair, pulling on it while the other stays on your breast—you want to have both in jack’s hair but you can’t just ignore what he told you to do.
you don’t know what the punishment would be, even though you’re sure you’d enjoy it. but that’s going to be saved for another day.
right now, you were so close to cumming, so close that you could feel yourself hurtling over the edge, and then you pull on jack’s hair harder than you meant to and he moans around you.
it’s something entirely different—the vibration from his mouth and the fact that he’s moaning while he does this to you, and whatever the combination is, you feel it split you apart. the electric current that you felt earlier when you brushed hands with jack is nothing compared to this, lightening coursing through every part of your body, head to toe, inside and out. the white hot tension in your stomach snapping makes you cry out against jack’s pillows, toes curling while he keeps going all the way through it. you can hear him, and it only makes you cum harder, encouraging you, telling you how good you’re doing, how good you’ve been all this time. the only thing you can hear after it stops is your own heart inside your ribcage, bursting like it’s going to come out.
you let go of jack’s hair, bringing your exhausted hand to his shoulder instead. he comes up to where you are, meeting your eyes and leaning in for a kiss that leaves you breathless and thoughtless all over again.
“thank you, jack,” you whisper, too tired to say it any louder. jack laughs against your skin.
“you tired, sweetheart?” the answer is yes and no at the time, but you shake your head. you move closer to him, bringing your hand to his boxers, palming him. you can tell he’s big—big in the way that’s going to hurt, big in the way that his fingers can’t compare. big like you’re going to have trouble walking tomorrow.
“please, jack?” you say, and honest to god, how is he supposed to say no to that? even in your post-orgasmic state, tired as you can be, every muscle probably screaming at you to let you sleep, you’re so sweet in your request, so polite. just like always. he can’t say no to you even if he wanted to.
jack positions himself on top of you. this is it—what you’ve been waiting for. the result of one harmless conversation half a day ago.
jack brings your knees to your chest, and you loop your arms around them, holding yourself in place. his arms cage you in, and you look up, meeting hazel eyes. and even though you should probably be nervous, you’re not, not at all. because you know jack will take care of you.
he leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, making your eyes shut.
“you ready, kid?” the nickname makes your heart flutter. you open your eyes, nodding again. “take a deep breath for me,” jack says, and you comply. and when he pushes inside of you, you swear everything in your body stops working for a second.
every thought leaves your head, every muscle goes lax. your eyes rolls back, mouth dropping open. there is nothing left to think about, nothing to feel except jack abbot inside of you.
“breathe for me,” he instructs, and you have to remind yourself to listen to him, that he knows what you need in this moment. jack abbot knows everything about you—even the things you don’t know.
you hear him—groaning and whispering things that you’re sure would make you pass out if you were in a state of mind that could understand him, but you’re not. so you wait for his kiss, take another breath, and feel him push inside of you all the way.
“jack,” you cry out, toes curling and head spinning. “jack, jack, jack-”
“i know, i know,” he says, and gives you another kiss. “you’re doing—fuck, you’re doing perfect.” he pulls out and thrusts back in, and the stretch is enough to make you cry out again. he’s going slowly for you but you don’t know how to tell him that you need more, that you might die if you don’t get more. but then again, you don’t have to tell him anything.
he picks up the pace, eyes stuck to where he’s filling you up. he can’t stop watching, seeing inch after inch disappear inside you, like you were made for him, because fuck, you were. your hands claw at his back and you pull on his neck to kiss you again, and when he does, you moan into his mouth. but he can’t just let you take it like this, he needs to tell you, all the things he’s been wanting to say.
he pulls away from your mouth and you make another noise, upset. he smooths down your hair and kisses your forehead, working down to your temple and then your cheek and to your ear.
“you’re being so good for me,” those six words that you love hearing so much make your entire body tighten up, including your cunt. you pulse around him as he pauses for a minute, taking in how you react to it. you moan against his skin, crying out when he resumes.
“so perfect for me. you’re taking me so well, baby. like you were made for it.” another moan, more crying. but he knows—knows there’s something else still.
you had once thought your first time might be gentle, candles and flowers. you don’t think you would trade jack abbot and his bedroom and his half-pulled black out curtains for anything in this world.
he keeps fucking you, brutally and deliberately, each thrust telling you something different. you squeal out his name like it’s the only word you know. but it’s when he starts speaking again, when you clench down against him, pulsing so tightly, that he knows he’s figured it out.
“good girl,” jack says, and you have to press your mouth against his arm to stop from screaming out loud. “you’re doing so good, so perfect. my good girl, aren’t you?”
“j-jack, jack, jack, i’m gonna-”
“come on, angel. come for me. i want you to come around me. can you do that for me?” you can’t answer, though it’s on the tip of your tongue, and then it happens again—the lightening, white hot, running through you. even stronger than the first one—it rips through you. jack’s in your ear and you can understand him this time—good girl. so perfect. you did amazing.
you don’t think you can feel your legs. your eyes want to flutter shut but you still feel the aftershocks each time jack thrusts inside of you—and when you open your eyes to stare up at him, you lean up, silently asking for a kiss.
he complies, pressing his lips against you. you don’t let go, keeping it going, until you whisper against his lips.
“thank you doctor abbot,” and that seems to be the last straw for him. you wish you could engrain it into your brain forever, how jack sounds when he cums. you’ve been listening to him all morning but this, this was different. a real moan, wrangled from the back of his throat, from his chest. as good as he’s made you feel, now you get to help him, your cunt clenching around him while he finishes. you press back for another kiss, and jack deepens it, until he pulls out.
you suddenly feel so empty.
he collapses next to you, ushering you onto his sweaty skin. you’re sure that you’re drenched too, and you can feel the back of your head where hairs have stuck to your neck.
you find jack’s hand, holding onto it like letting go might make all of this disappear. he presses a kiss to your forehead, fingers rubbing the skin of the dorsum of your hand.
“you okay?” he asks again, and you nod against his chest. glancing up for a moment, you catch hazel eyes looking at you already.
“are you okay?” he gives you another kiss to your forehead.
“you need to get some sleep.”
“i’m not tired,” you lie.
“yes you are. why do you keep thinking you can lie to me?” he asks, still staring into your eyes. you want to look away but you don’t think you can. you lay down against him, so you don’t have to look away.
“i’m not lying.” you take a pause, take a breath. “do i still have to call you dr. abbot at work tomorrow?” jack laughs. you can feel the vibration on his chest. it makes you smile.
“close your eyes, kid. i promise we’ll talk about everything in the morning.”
Summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining.
word count: 7.3k
a/n: part 6 is finally here! sorry for the wait! oh, and thank you for all your ideas! loved them and trying my best to incorporate most in future parts <3333 hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
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The realisation hits you mid-sentence, pen freezing against the page as your textbook blurs in front of you.
Photos. Emails. Texts.
Solid proof of an existing relationship that you somehow agreed to provide by the end of the week. Your stomach drops.
"*Oh my god," you whisper, your breath hitching in your throat. "Oh my god, oh my god—"
You'd been so laser-focused on the logistics of moving in. Breaking your lease before time (not that your roommate minded), coordinating when to pack, pretending to be casual about having to share a bathroom with Jack. Somehow, catastrophically, this part had slipped straight through the cracks.
Now, you only have four days until they're expecting proof of a relationship spanning months, while it has barely existed for weeks at this point. Oh, and most importantly, it's also a fake relationship.
You're so fucked.
With a harsh screech, you push your chair back from the desk and snatch your phone from the bed, your fingers trembling as you unlock the screen. You frantically scroll through your photos, months passing by. Familiar images blur together in a frantic attempt to find anything that could even be loosely interpreted as evidence of you and Jack together.
The first photo stops you cold. A blurry group snapshot taken at a bar, and yes, you and Jack are both in the frame, but you're seated at opposite ends of the table, half-obscured by someone's elbow in the foreground. You could just be coworkers.
You are just coworkers.
You keep scrolling, a sense of dread creeping in.
Another photo catches your eye. You're sitting next to each other at the park, beers in hand, both locked in conversation. Jack's talking to someone off to the side, while you're laughing at a completely unrelated joke, a solid two feet separating your bodies.
"Fuck," you mutter and scroll on.
Then, the last image draws you in. Jack leaning in, his mouth inches away from your ear, clearly whispering something to you while your face is scrunched up in laughter, eyes closed. It looks intimate. It feels intimate.
But it's also just one photo.
"One," you groan. "I have one usable photo." You drop down on the edge of your bed, hinges squeaking softly. Your chest tightens.
You open your messages next. Your heart hammers as you sift through banal exchanges between you. Coffee runs. Scheduling discussions. It's only your recent texts that could infer anything, and still, it reads as platonic.
There are no hearts. No inside jokes. No late-night rambling that feels so integral to any real relationship. Nothing points to the two of you being more than colleagues.
Emails are even worse. So much worse. There's barely nothing there. Just upcoming schedules. Residency stuff. Nothing again that could suggest you'd been hiding a relationship for months.
You drop your phone onto your lap, staring blankly at the ceiling, the brightness of your screen fading into darkness.
"They're going to know," you whisper to yourself. "They're absolutely going to know. Fuck."
Panic surges, sharp and overwhelming, a cold grip wrapping around your throat. You snatch up your phone again, heart racing, and fire off a desperate message to Olivia without thinking.
YOU: SOS
Almost instantly, your phone rings. “Hey,” Olivia’s voice comes through, alert and focused. “What’s going on?”
You let out a shaky laugh that teeters on the verge of hysteria. “I’m completely fucked. Like—capital F. Totally. They’re going to know.”
“Know what?” she asks, her tone filled with confusion and concern. You can hear the distant chatter in the background die down as she closes her office door. “Slow down.”
“I’m going to lose my job,” you rush out. “I’m going to be in debt for nothing. The last few years of my life will have been worthless—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” she interrupts firmly. “Pause. Breathe. Talk to me.”
You suck in a breath that barely feels like it contains any oxygen and begin to explain everything—how you need proof, the impending deadline, the photos that aren’t really photos, the texts that scream ‘we’re just coworkers', the emails that can't be misconstrued in any way.
There’s a beat of silence on the line, and then Olivia snorts, amusement lacing her voice. “Babe,” she says, sounding like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Did you forget what I do for a living?”
“What?” you say weakly.
“I literally work in tech,” she continues, like this is the most obvious thing in the world. “I can fix the metadata.”
You stand up so fast that you nearly pull your duvet with you. “You—what?”
“I can fix it for you,” she says, her voice steady and reassuring. “I’ll handle the timestamps, the locations—everything. ”
“Wait,” you interrupt, your mind racing. “You can actually do that?”
She laughs. “Please. This is child’s play.”
Your shoulders sag as relief crashes through you, heavy and dizzying. You press a hand to your face, laughing breathlessly. “You’ve just saved my life.”
“I know,” Olivia replies smugly. “Now relax. We’ve got work to do.” She exhales thoughtfully on the other end of the line. “Okay. Here’s the thing, though.”
Your stomach tightens again. “Why do you sound like that?”
“Because you’re gonna need to give me something to work with,” she says. “Different locations. Different outfits. I need variety so I can make this believable. If I have to use Photoshop too much, it’s going to take forever, and we don’t have forever.”
You stare at the wall, dread creeping back in. “Different locations,” you repeat faintly. “Different outfits.”
“Yes,” she confirms patiently. “It can’t look like you suddenly decided to document your relationship in one afternoon. That would be suspicious.”
“This is insane,” you mutter under your breath, shaking your head in disbelief. “This is actually unhinged.” A wave of anxiety washes over you as you realise the gravity of your situation. You wince at the thought. “I’m going to have to coordinate this with Jack.”
A heavy silence hangs in the air for a moment before Olivia’s voice breaks through. “Oh,” she says slowly, as if processing the implications of your words. “You haven't discussed this yet?”
“No,” you admit. "I only just realised now."
“Well,” she replies, a hint of mischief in her tone, “I'm sure he won't mind. You're moving in with him after all."
You give her a smile that is halfway between panic and giddiness. "We're crazy. This whole thing is crazy. Have I lost my mind?"
“Maybe,” Olivia agrees. “But you’ll still be employed.”
“Barely,” you mutter. “So what about the texts?”
"I’ll handle that,” she says. "We’ll grab some of your more recent texts and make them look older, sprinkle in a little romance—"
You swallow as the anxiety begins to die down again. “And emails?”
She bursts into laughter, the sound brightening the heaviness of the conversation. “Come on! No one in a real relationship emails romantically from a work account. Professional emails actually work in your favour—they’ll show that you were trying to keep it discreet.”
"Okay, yeah. I see your point." You let out a shaky breath. "I cannot believe this keeps on getting worse."
"Oh, I can," Olivia replies, a mischievous edge creeping into her voice. "You thrive in chaos, remember?"
You shoot her a half-hearted glare. "We need to send the proof by Sunday. Do you think we can do that?"
"Yeah," Olivia says. "We got this!" There's a distant knock, mumbling in the background. "Hey, I really have to go, but send me those texts ASAP, and I'll start on those until you can get me the photos. Love you."
As the call ends, you find yourself staring at the blank screen for a minute. You're about to move in with your attending. Create fraudulent texts and photos to hide a lie.
This is surreal. But you're in this far now. Might as well go all the way.
You take a deep breath. "Okay," you whisper to yourself. "Let's do this."
Jack tries to keep his eyes on the road, but his attention keeps drifting back to you. He can’t help but notice the way your fingers twist together in your lap. The way you've gone quiet in that particular, loaded way he's learned to recognise. It's the same silence when you're worried but trying not to make it a problem. It makes something tight settle behind his ribs, a feeling he can't quite pin down.
The blinker clicks. The engine hums. The radio croons softly. You don't say a word.
He makes it three more blocks before he can't stand it anymore.
“Hey,” he says, his tone gentle. He’s already preparing himself for whatever’s weighing on your mind. “You wanna tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?”
You startle slightly, like you didn’t realise you were being watched. Then you look over at him, worry already pulling lines into your forehead as you bite your lip. “We forgot about the photos and texts HR wants by the end of the week,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.
Jack’s stomach drops. He lets his mind rewind—HR’s email, the checklist, the casual way you’d both nodded like it was no big deal. Proof. Documentation. He exhales a sharp breath through his nose. “Oh shit,” he mutters.
“I looked through my photos…” you say hesitantly.
"And?” he prompts, steeling himself for the worst as he manoeuvres the steering wheel through the intersection.
“Nothing good. I found maybe one decent shot, but it’s not enough.” You wince, then rush to add, “I’ve got it covered. Mostly. But it means we’ll need to take a lot more photos."
Pulling to a stop at a red light, he finally turns to you fully. You look stressed, but he also sees the spark of determination in your eyes—problem-solving mode engaged, already trying to protect both of you. It does something stupidly warm to his chest.
“Won’t they be able to tell they were taken the same day?” he asks.
Your brows lift at his question, a mischievous twitch creeping at the corner of your mouth, despite the situation. “Wow. Aren’t you up with the times, old man?”
He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I’m not that old.”
You give him a look that says otherwise.
He huffs, shaking his head. “I’m just saying. I know metadata exists.”
You glance at him. “...So does Olivia.”
He blinks, foot pressing the speeder again as the light turns green. “You told her?”
You pause, then shrug nonchalantly. “She works in tech, Jack. We need her help if we want this to work.”
“I thought we promised not to tell anyone,” he says, not angry, just careful. Protective.
You tilt your head in his direction, eyebrows raised. “Like you promised not to tell Robby?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Considers pretending to be confused. Then sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Fair point.”
A beat of silence stretches between you, softer now, charged with unspoken thoughts.
“So,” he says, glancing at you again, “Olivia can actually help us?”
“She can,” you nod, the tension in your shoulders slightly easing. “But we’ll need to give her something to work with.”
He pulls into his parking spot, lines it up neatly, lost in thought. “Define ‘something.'"
“Variety,” you say. “Different locations. Different vibes. We can’t look like we just took ten photos in one afternoon.”
He laughs quietly, the absurdity of the situation breaking through the tension. “This is ridiculous.”
"Completely,” you agree, a small smile playing on your lips. But Jack notices your shoulders remain tense, hands still clenched.
He shifts in his seat, turning toward you fully now. “When does Olivia need them?”
“As soon as possible,” you say. “I’ve already sent her some texts.”
He nods slowly, already rearranging his week in his head. He's got the next few days off anyway—to help you move—so he's free. “Okay. We can do coffee after work. Your apartment. My place. Maybe dinner somewhere?”
“Dinner?” you echo, a hint of surprise in your voice as your eyes flick up to meet his.
“For realism,” he says easily, even though it stirs in his chest—a warmth he can’t afford to let grow. “People in relationships eat food.”
You laugh, and it’s like the tension finally cracks. Your shoulders drop. The sound is quiet but real, and Jack feels absurdly proud of himself for being the reason.
“Right,” you say, your voice lighter. “Of course they do.”
He glances at the clock on the dashboard. “We should probably head in. We’ll start with coffee.”
“Okay,” you say, drawing in a steadying breath. “Coffee tomorrow.”
He hesitates, then smiles at you—soft, reassuring, the kind of smile he can't help but form around you. “Hey. We’ll figure it out. Moving in is the big thing. This is just… documentation.”
“Documentation,” you repeat faintly.
“Exactly,” he says. “Very romantic.”
You laugh again, quieter this time.
And as you reach for the door handle, Jack thinks—not for the first time—that if this is what fake looks like, he’s in deeper than he probably should be.
The coffee shop is nearly empty, the kind of empty that only exists in the early morning, before the city fully wakes up. A handful of patrons occupy the corners, their fingers wrapped tightly around steaming mugs like lifelines. Their computers switched on, ready for another workday. The soft morning light filtering through the windows is pale and gentle, illuminating the dust motes that float lazily in its glow. Everything in here smells like coffee and warm pastries.
Jack holds the door open with his shoulder, one hand braced against the frame.
“You go find us a table,” he says, voice low and rough in that way it always gets after a night shift. “I’ll order for us.”
Your mouth opens automatically to give him your order. “I’ll just—”
“Tea. Herbal. A dash of honey,” he cuts in, already turning toward the counter. Then he looks back at you, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion, expression unreadable but certain. A look that says I remember. That says let me take care of this. He nods toward the tables. “Go sit.”
Your chest tightens for a reason you refuse to examine again.
Nodding, you choose a small corner table by the window, positioned perfectly to view the street outside, which still seems half-asleep. A bus hisses by. Someone walks a dog like they’ve been up forever, too. The place is cosy in a way that feels unfair—soft chairs, warm wooden surfaces, sunlight trying its best to break through the cloud cover. It's exactly the kind of place you might suggest for a date.
Not that this is a date, you remind yourself firmly. It’s not. It’s logistics. Damage control.
You rub at your eyes, suddenly aware of how tired you are. How thin your defences feel after twelve hours of controlled chaos and adrenaline.
Jack comes back a moment later with two cups. He moves carefully, like his body is running on muscle memory now. He sits beside you, not across from you, and the closeness is immediate. His knee brushes yours. His arm shifts against yours as he leans back.
He takes a long sip of his coffee, exhales, then hums, low, pleased, a sound that sends a pleasurable shiver through you, settling warmly in your lower stomach.
You stare at the table because looking at him while he makes that sound would be a mistake. Your brain is already unhelpful, constructing various scenarios of how you, and not a cup of coffee, would create that sound.
Forcing your hands into action, you pick up your phone. “Okay,” you say. “Let’s get this over with.”
Jack glances at your phone, then back at you, amusement flickering in his gaze. “And they say romance is dead.”
“Ha,” you respond dryly, a small smile betraying your feigned indifference.
You start with the safe shots. The cups. His coffee and your tea side by side, steam rising together in the early light. Then there’s one of him alone, leaning back in his chair, dark circles shadowing his eyes, yet somehow still handsome in a way that feels unfair.
He catches you, one eyebrow raised. “You’re not sending that one, are you?”
“I might,” you say, with a mischievous shrug. You won't send it, but you also definitely won’t delete it. It'll linger in your gallery.
Finally, after a few steadying breaths, you turn the camera around so it’s facing both of you. You hold it up, arm trembling just slightly.
Jack picks up on your uncertainty instantly. He always does. Without a word, he shifts his chair closer, and your shoulders align, a familiar touch that sends warmth coursing through you. His arm brushes against yours, and he carries the comforting blend of coffee, antiseptic, and that subtle, indescribable scent that is just him.
You share a tentative smile.
When you look at the photo, your heart sinks. It’s nice. Friendly. Comfortable. It looks like coworkers grabbing coffee before collapsing into bed. It doesn’t look like the kind of relationship that convinces an administration you’re stable, supported, settled.
“It’s not good enough,” you murmur.
Jack leans in to look. “Too tired?”
“Too… professional,” you reply, disheartened.
“Do you want me to take it for you?” The voice comes from a few tables down. A woman with messy hair and a half-drunk latte, clearly post-night shift herself. She’s already rising from her seat.
You hesitate. Then you think about the meeting. The warning. The way your future suddenly hinges on proof you don't have.
“Yes,” you say firmly, your voice steadier than you feel. “Please.”
She takes your phone, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “You guys work at the hospital?”
“What gave it away?” you say dryly. “The dead eyes?”
She laughs. “That and the scrubs. Okay—move closer.”
Jack doesn’t hesitate. He slips an arm around your shoulders, pulls you in close. The contact is warm, solid, grounding in a way you’re not prepared for. You lean into him without thinking, your head fitting under his chin like muscle memory you never practised. His thumb presses lightly against your arm, hesitating just once before settling gently.
“Perfect, very cute.” the woman says. “Hold that.”
You try to smile like this means nothing. Like your heart isn’t pounding. Like the early morning light isn’t making everything feel softer, more intimate, more possible.
Snap.
When you see the photo, your throat tightens. It looks real. Not posed. Not forced. Just two exhausted people clinging to each other at the end of a long night. Tired—but real.
You look away quickly, afraid of what will happen if you let yourself believe it. Because it isn’t real. And you really, really hope you’re strong enough to remember that by the end of this thing.
Hours later, as sleep has eased the most stressful edges of the night, Jack finds himself parked again outside your apartment building.
He leaves the engine running, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the other draped uselessly in his lap, fingers idly drumming as he watches the building for any sign of you.
His mind keeps replaying the coffeeshop. The way you leaned back into him like it was nothing. The casualness of it, the weight of you resting there, the way his body had gone utterly still because any movement felt like it might mean too much. He tells himself it was friendly. Just pretend. And yet—his arm had remembered you without instruction. His chest had known exactly where you fit. That’s the part that keeps looping, the part that makes his fingers tighten on the wheel. The ease. The terrifying, quiet ease of it.
The door flies open.
You bounce out like you’ve been shot from a cannon, hair a little wild, energy too big for the quiet afternoon. You’re dragging a massive bag behind you—bigger than necessary, clearly—and Jack lets out a quiet huff of a laugh before he can stop himself.
“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath. “Of course you would.”
You nearly trip on the steps, catch yourself, laugh at your own near-demise, then wrestle the bag down the sidewalk. When you spot his car, your whole face lights up, and you lift a hand in an enthusiastic wave, like you’re greeting someone you haven’t seen in weeks instead of… earlier today.
A twist of warmth unfurls in Jack's chest at that sight.
He's about to get out of the car to help you, but your dramatic gesture makes him stay. He obliges, not too willingly, but he does take some pleasure in watching through the windshield as you struggle with the bag, hitching it up onto your shoulder with melodramatic effort. You strike a brief, victorious pose when you conquer it.
He’s absurdly fond of you for it.
You finally make it to the passenger side and yank the door open. “Okay,” you announce, breathless. “Before you say anything—I know.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You’re moving in already?”
“It’s called being prepared,” you huff, a mock expression of offence crossing your features. “Also, faking months' worth of pictures requires lots of outfit changes.”
He snorts despite himself. “Yeah, I can see that.”
You shove the bag in the backseat. “Careful. There’s a system in there.”
“I’m terrified,” he says.
You buckle into the passenger seat, your legs bouncing restlessly with leftover energy.
“Ready?” he asks, carefully casual.
You grin. “Born ready. Exhausted, but ready.”
You hum under your breath, something tuneless and happy, and he has to look away so you don’t see how much that affects him.
The drive is quiet but not uncomfortable.
“So,” you say, too bright after a few minutes. “I made a list.”
Jack exhales through his nose. “I knew it.”
“Outfits. Places,” you add helpfully. "Oh, and poses."
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“You say that now,” you reply. “But when HR is convinced we’re soulmates, you’ll thank me.”
He hums. “Bold assumption.”
“You are welcome,” you say, nudging his arm with your elbow.
He parks outside his place and gets out, grabbing the bag before you can beat him to it. It’s heavier than expected.
He winces. “You pack bricks in here?”
“Layers,” you correct. “Texture. Narrative depth.”
He shakes his head, smiling despite himself.
Inside, there's a soft glow of afternoon sunlight. You kick off your shoes immediately, toeing them into a corner like you’ve done this a hundred times.
Jack watches for half a second too long before clearing his throat. “Uh—kitchen first?”
You’re already halfway there, smoothing your hair into something passable, while Jack leans against the counter, still trying to reconcile the fact that you're here in his kitchen, acting as if you've been here all your life. You're dressed in slouchy clothes, an oversized tee slipping off one shoulder and soft pants, looking far too much like you'd just woken up at his place again.
Jack watches as you mutter something about mugs, opening the cabinet with a careful flick of your wrist. Two clink against each other as you pull them out.
“You got coffee?” you ask, the corners of your mouth twitching up, that bright grin lighting up the kitchen.
Jack shakes his head, stepping past you. “You could just ask me to make you a cup, you know.” His voice has that soft huff, the one that makes him sound like he’s trying to sound annoyed but failing.
“Yes, but where’s the fun in that?” you shoot back, holding out the mugs.
He glances at you over his shoulder, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I think it’s just because you still don’t know how to use this beauty.” His hand lands on the machine’s top with a gentle pat, like it’s a living thing.
You scoff, tilting your head. “Not my fault, you own the most fancy-pancy machine in the world.”
Jack doesn’t argue. He flicks switches, the machine hissing and whirring, and soon enough a rich, dark aroma fills the kitchen. He passes you a mug.
You step back, just enough for your spine to brush against his arm, your weight leaning there casually. Jack freezes, heart stuttering for a split second before settling.
“Okay,” you say, lifting your phone. “Casual. Like we’re just… standing here. Used to doing this.”
“Yeah,” Jack murmurs, the words soft, almost lost under the hum of the coffee machine.
You snap a photo, eyes flicking to the screen. Then back at him. “Maybe one more. But—uh—different angle.” You snap it again.
Jack leans a little closer, taking a nonchalant sip of his coffee. Every snap of your phone makes the hair on the back of his neck lift. He doesn’t move away.
You drift toward the hallway without really announcing it, phone in hand, like momentum alone is carrying you forward. Clothes have been changed—yours, his, both of you arguing over the ridiculousness of coordinating outfits like it’s some kind of photo shoot, but ultimately yielding to it.
Stopping in front of the long mirror that stretches across the wall, you take in the reflection before you: the soft lighting and the way your hair frames your face.
Jack trails behind you, moving slower now, more hesitant. He halts a step behind, hands stuffed deep into his pockets.
You glance at him in the mirror, your brows furrowing slightly as you draw in a breath. “So... we need something affectionate."
His eyes flicker to your reflection, nodding quietly. "Like a hug?"
“Yes,” you huff, letting out a nervous laugh that feels way too loud in the quiet hallway.
His gaze drops again. “I can— I mean, if you want. Only if you’re okay with it.”
“Yes,” you say quickly. Too quickly. You wince. “I mean, I think it’s fine. It’s just for the photo, right?”
“Right,” he says. “Just the photo.”
Neither of you moves. The air feels heavy with the space between, small but charged.
You take a breath and add, quieter, “If it’s weird, we can stop.”
“It’s not weird,” he says immediately. Then, amends, honest and careful, “I’m just… trying very hard not to do something you wouldn’t like.”
That makes your chest tighten. “I’ll tell you,” you promise. “If it’s too much.”
He nods once, as if steeling himself for what’s to come, and finally steps closer. The warmth radiates from him, enveloping you before you feel anything else. “Okay,” he murmurs, his voice steadier now. “I’m going to put my arms around you.”
You can’t help but snort despite the situation. “That’s very reassuring.”
“Occupational hazard,” he quips back, a half-grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, easing some of the tension. “I narrate under pressure.”
His arms come around you slowly, settling over your chest—not tight, not possessive. Careful. Like he’s giving you room to pull away if you want to. His body stays angled back, creating space even as he pretends closeness.
You lean back instinctively. Jack freezes for half a second, breath catching, then forces himself to relax.
“Still okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you say. Then, because you’re also nervous, you add lightly, “You’re doing great. Five stars. Very affectionate.”
He lets out a quiet laugh against your hair. “High praise.”
You lift your phone, hands shaking just a little. In the mirror, it looks authentic—his arms around you, your back pressed against his chest, the way your shoulders have softened now that you’re leaning into him.
Snap.
For a brief instant, neither of you moves. Jack’s arms remain where they are, as if he’s waiting for your next cue. You hesitate, then gently touch his forearm with just a fingertip. “Okay,” you say softly. “We got it.”
He releases you immediately, maybe a little too fast, stepping back like he’s afraid he lingered a second too long.
But in the mirror, you both look flustered. A little breathless. And undeniably convincing.
Clearing your throat, you glance over your shoulder. “Couch next?”
You disappear for a moment and come back wearing his hoodie, sleeves swallowing your hands. The fabric smells faintly like him—warm, faintly coffee-scented—and it hits Jack harder than it should. It’s not the first time he’s seen you in his clothes, yet the sight still hits him with a wave of unexpected intensity. He hides a quiet groan behind a cough, wishing he could unsee how right it looks on you. If he wants to survive this ordeal, he needs to get used to it… fast.
“Sit down,” you command, flopping onto the couch.
“Bossy,” he says, sliding down beside you, though his voice carries a low note of fondness.
You laugh—a little too sharp, a little too quick—and then, you lean in, head brushing against his chest. Jack stiffens for half a beat, like he’s caught in a trap of wanting to hold you and not wanting to cross a line. Then slowly—painstakingly—he lets himself relax, arm coming around you, careful not to smother, careful not to claim.
“This okay?” he asks, voice quieter than he intends.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “Is it okay for you?”
He swallows, the words coming too fast. “Yeah.” Then softer, almost under his breath, “Yeah.”
All he feels is the faint warmth of you, and the slightly erratic rhythm of his heartbeat beating under your head. He hopes you can't hear it.
Another snap.
The last stop is the bathroom.
Jack shuffles down the hall, reminding himself with each step: breathe, act normal, don’t collapse in your own apartment. He changes into softer clothes, hoping the cotton fabric will ease the tension curling in his chest and help him feel grounded again.
You emerge from your room in sleepwear that’s nearly indecent—a thin tank top that clings to your form and tiny shorts that leave little to the imagination. Jack feels his thoughts stumble over each other; he nearly trips over his own heart, a rapid beat echoing in his ears. He swears he can feel his pulse in his fingertips.
“Relax,” you say, tossing a glance back at him, catching the look he can’t disguise. “It’s just brushing teeth.”
“Very dangerous activity,” he mutters under his breath, but the truth is that it’s not the brushing he considers risky; it’s the sight of you in that revealing outfit and the intimate space between you two.
You grin, a playful spark igniting your eyes as you grab the toothbrushes, leaning forward into the mirror. To him, it seems almost oblivious, the way you immerse yourself in the task, unaware of the charged atmosphere. You angle your phone, framing the perfect shot, posing with the ease of someone who doesn’t know the effect you have on him.
Snap.
Then, with an effortless leap, you hop onto the counter, your legs swinging slightly. You gesture for Jack to come closer, your inviting smile pulling him in. Suddenly, he finds himself standing between your thighs, a situation that feels both unintended and electrifying. He’s caught—cornered by the proximity, a sense of politeness tugging at him, and the palpable tension that suggests retreating too quickly would feel like letting you know exactly what's going on inside him. He braces his hands on the countertop, knuckles whitening, fighting the urge to move.
“You’re doing great,” you whisper, a half-laugh escaping your lips as if to lighten the ridiculousness of the moment. “You look… very normal.”
He shoots you a look—sharp, slightly exasperated, trying to mask how aware he is of everything—of the closeness, the heat, the way his body won’t stop reacting.
A small, nervous smile breaks across your face, and it’s infectious.
Another snap.
Neither of you shifts immediately. Jack exhales slowly, trying to convince himself he’s perfectly fine, even as the tightness in his shoulders (and pants) and the fluttering in his stomach suggest otherwise. You adjust slightly on the counter, careful not to bump into him, yet your leg brushes against his—a fleeting contact that sends a jolt through him. Neither of you reacts, neither of you moves away, and somehow that’s exactly the problem.
The photo captures it perfectly—awkward, flustered, tense—but convincingly real.
Jack stands in the hallway outside your apartment, a small bouquet of flowers clutched in one hand, the other hovering nervously near the doorbell. He had meant to just text, like a normal person, but… he can’t. He knows this isn't a real date, but he's old-fashioned. And if this is the only date he'll ever get with you, he's gonna take advantage of it. Treat you right.
He clears his throat, glances down at the flowers. Bright colours, a little messy, like you. Not too fancy, not too staged. Perfect.
With a deep breath, he presses the doorbell. Immediately, he hears the faint creak of the floors, then the shuffle of footsteps.
You appear, coat wrapped around you, hair tucked loosely behind one ear. For a second, he’s frozen. You look… breathtaking. He swallows, coughs lightly.
“Hey,” he manages to say, voice casual but tight. “I brought you these.” He holds up the bouquet awkwardly.
You glance at the flowers, then at him, and raise an eyebrow. “You really didn’t have to—”
“I know,” he interrupts smoothly, forcing a grin. “But I wanted to. And, uh… figured it's a great mood setter.”
You shake your head, laughing softly. You take the flowers and bring them inside quickly before you descend the stairs together. Jack watches every movement, noting the way your bag swings lightly at your side, the soft fold of your coat, the way your hair catches the light. He keeps his expression easy, teasingly dry.
“Thought I’d give you the thrill of being escorted down,” he adds, gesturing vaguely toward the street. “Better than a text, right?”
“Thrill? Really?” you ask, smirking, though there’s a warmth in your voice. "But honestly, you really didn't have to. I can't remember the last time someone I dated picked me up at the door."
“Well, then,” he replied, trying not to let the quickening of his heartbeat show. “You’ve definitely not been dating real men.”
You roll your eyes, but he catches the slight smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. He’s smiling now, though he tries to keep it contained, casual, as if he hasn’t been memorising every step you take since the bell rang.
Jack steps aside, holding the car door open. “After you,” he murmurs. Allowing himself a moment to watch you slide inside, feeling like a fool for how much longing pulses through him all at once.
He climbs in after you and starts the engine. Quietly, carefully, he steals a glance at you. You’re talking, smiling lightly, and he thinks, God, how did I get stuck pretending this is casual?
The drive is calm, but his chest is not. He’s careful to sound nonchalant, cracking a small, dry joke about the traffic while secretly memorising the way the light hits your hair, the tilt of your head, the easy grace in your movements.
By the time you reach the restaurant, he’s still holding back, trying to keep the pining tucked under humour, casual commentary, teasing banter. But it’s there. Every glance, every pause in his voice, every stiff swallow betrays it.
Jack guides the car up to the curb in front of the restaurant, engine ticking down. You slide the door open, coat wrapped around you, and he follows behind with that calculated calm he’s been practising all evening—but the second you step inside, all pretence cracks.
The coat comes off, revealing the dress he hadn’t been able to see before. God. The colour, the cut—it’s perfect. It flatters you in all the subtle, infuriating ways he hadn’t thought imaginable. His chest tightens, his jaw clenches. He clears his throat.
You catch him staring. “You look stunned,” you say lightly, teasing. "But I guess you haven't seen me in a dress before."
“Stunned? Me? No. I—I mean, yes. You look… good,” he says quickly, fumbling with the words. “Very… good. Not too good. Perfectly good.”
You laugh at him, the sound soft and familiar, and he feels the tension in his chest ease slightly, replaced by that quiet, warm ache he always tries to hide. He leans back, trying to act like he’s relaxed, though his eyes keep flicking to you.
Conversation flows easily, laughter coming naturally. You joke about work disasters, late-night shifts, and ridiculous coworkers. He teases you about something small—a clumsy gesture, the way you sip your water—and your laugh makes him grin so wide he worries he’s too obvious. He’s careful not to let it show, but every glance, every brush of your hand against the table, every tilt of your head pulls him in closer.
Halfway through dessert, you remember the photos. “Right. HR,” you mutter, pulling out your phone.
Jack leans back, trying to look nonchalant, but he’s tense, every muscle alert. You angle the phone and ask him to smile. He grins, but his eyes flick to yours instead of the camera. His chest tightens again—God, you look… stunning.
The waiter notices you struggling to get a decent photo with both of you in the frame. “Want me to take one for you both?” he asks.
You hand over the phone with a pleased smile.
The waiter snaps the photo. Jack’s hand brushes yours just slightly on the table—intentional, lingering—enough to feel the warmth of you next to him, careful to act like it’s casual. But inside, his chest is hammering, heart betraying what he’s been trying to hide all night.
He watches you eat, drink, laugh, leaning back slightly in his chair. The more he observes, the more aware he becomes: every smile, every glance, every little motion pulls him in, and pretending it’s all just for HR, just for photos, is getting harder by the second.
The car ride home is enveloped in a comfortable silence, the only sound the steady hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of your fingers flicking through your phone. After a few minutes of focused tapping, you send off all the staged photos to Olivia, feeling a rush of relief wash over you. Finally, it’s done.
Jack glances at you from the corner of his eye, one hand on the wheel. He doesn’t say anything, just watches, calm and steady, and somehow that makes your pulse tighten again.
As you pull up outside your apartment, streetlights stretch shadows across the pavement.
“I’ll walk you up,” he says, breaking the silence.
You frown. “I can—”
“I'll walk you up.” His voice is soft but firm. It carries a sense of protection that you can’t quite shake, so you relent and follow him inside.
Once in your apartment, the sound of your shoes soft against the floor fills the space. Jack stands at the threshold, calm and steady.
Suddenly, your phone buzzes—once, twice, then a third time. You groan, feeling your skin crawl. “No,” you mutter, exasperated. “No more. I’m done. I’m retiring.”
Jack shifts beside you, brow furrowing in concern. “…Everything okay?”
You glance at the screen, which is lighting up with messages. “Yep,” you chirp, a little too brightly. “Normal. Totally fine.”
Suspicion narrows his eyes. “What did Olivia say?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Trouble," he says your nickname with a weight that makes you pause.
Cautiously, you meet his gaze. “She wants—” You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. “…more.”
Jack nods, his expression unfaltering. “Another hug? Another—”
“No.” You grimace. “Not that kind of more.”
He waits, his patience both maddening and comforting. You finally choke it out: “She said HR wants a kiss.”
The silence that follows feels electric, almost explosive. Jack freezes, processing the weight of your words. “…A kiss,” he finally repeats, as if testing the sound on his tongue.
“Barely a kiss,” you rush to clarify. “Microscopic. Blink-and-miss-it. We can fake it—angles, illusions, movie magic—”
He steps closer, measured, careful, like he’s approaching something fragile. “Breathe,” he instructs softly, his voice steady.
You do. Or try to. His gaze stays steady on yours, grounded in a way that almost makes it worse.
“We don’t do anything you don’t want,” he murmurs, low and even.
Swallowing hard, you nod, a tiny gesture that feels monumental. “It’s fine. We have to... for HR.”
“Right,” he replies, a beat of silence stretching between you. “HR.”
You don’t back out. Pride wins. Or stupidity. Probably both. “Uh—come in. We can do it in my room.”
Jack follows dutifully, hands clasped loosely behind his back. You place your phone in the corner, angle it just so, and hit play on the recording. Olivia can screenshot the part she wants, you're not gonna attempt to even pretend you can have a steady enough hand for this photo.
Jack steps in front of you, drawing close. There’s still room, too much of it, yet the tension is palpable, almost electric.
“This is ridiculous,” you mutter, attempting to defuse the situation with humour.
“Extremely,” he agrees immediately, a flicker of understanding passing between you. It helps, just a little.
You move closer before your thoughts can twist into doubt, your legs feeling like jelly beneath you.
“Do you want me to just…?” He gestures vaguely toward your face, fingers hovering at an awkward distance.
You let out a quiet laugh, the nerves bubbling over. “I’ve never staged a kiss before. Missed that elective in med school.”
His laugh is soft and unguarded, slipping out before he can catch it. He exhales deeply, then raises his hand slowly, giving you ample time to back out.
Instead, you freeze.
His palm gently cups your cheek, warm and tender, his thumb grazing just below your eye. Your heart lurches, pounding so violently that you fear it might be captured on the recording.
“This okay?” he murmurs, voice careful again.
You nod. Tiny. Barely there.
He leans in and brushes your lips—just a whisper of contact. So light it almost doesn’t count. Almost.
Your chest jolts anyway.
Instinct kicks in before logic does. You lean in, closing the distance entirely. The kiss deepens—not rushed, not hungry, just… there. Real. His thumb strokes your cheekbone without thinking. One hand settles at your waist, light enough you could step away.
You don’t.
Your knees wobble. Your fingers curl, brushing the front of his shirt like you’re checking that he’s real. His breath stutters—just once—before he steadies it again.
A sudden crash outside jolts you both back to reality.
He pulls away just enough so that your foreheads almost touch, breaths mingling in the charged air. “…That should probably satisfy the committee,” he murmurs, his voice low and slightly breathless.
“Probably,” you manage, voice embarrassingly unsteady.
Silence hangs thick and heavy, and neither of you moves.
His eyes flicker helplessly to your lips before he catches himself, swallowing hard.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he steps back. “Okay,” he says, his tone rougher than before. “We should… send it to Olivia.”
“Right. For HR.” You hit send, hands trembling slightly.
Jack just stands there, hands on his hips, ears faintly pink, chest rising a little too fast like he’s still catching up to his body.
Your phone buzzes again. You flinch. He doesn’t move.
“Relieved?” you ask lightly, because joking is easier than thinking.
“Relieved to be done changing clothes a hundred times,” he says.
You grin, still slighlty shaky. “Well. HR owes us dinner.”
That finally elicits a genuine snort from him—thin, tired, and undeniably real. “At least,” he concedes, a hint of warmth creeping back into his demeanour.
Silence settles in, heavy with the ghost of the kiss. The warmth. The fact that neither of you is quite looking at the other.
“Crisis averted. Photos done. Kiss completed. Bureaucracy satisfied. We did it.”
Jack glances at you, pulse still racing, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then he nods once. “Yeah,” he says. “We did.”
Terrance Fletcher is a criminal, he should be dragged out of that music room by armed, masked men. Dragged out onto the sidewalk and shotgunned in his ugly face, the barrel of the gun should be held to his nose for a few seconds so he knows exactly what's about to happen. His rotting, deflated, headless body should be left to decay as a public health hazard to act as a warning to his COWARD colleagues who let him abuse kids in front of them for YEARS. Everyone working at that school from headmaster to janitors should be led at gunpoint to see WHAT THEY SHOULD HAVE DONE YEARS AGO. Men who hit kids deserve to die and their enablers deserve to watch.
Yeah, I get Fletcher is a piece of shit abuser, I just don’t get why you’re telling me this? I just want to understand why you sent this, not trying to be rude. If you wanted to vent, that’s totally ok too!
Now that the quality of Duolingo has fallen (even more) due to AI and people are more willing to make the jump here are just some alternative apps and what languages they have:
Language Transfer (Languages: French, Swahili, Italian, Greek, German, Turkish, Arabic, Spanish, English for Spanish Speakers)
"I want a good audio-based app and money's no object"
Pimsleur (Literally so many languages)
Glossika (Also a lot of languages, but minority languages are free)
*anecdote: I borrowed my brother's Japanese Pimsleur CD as a kid and I still remember how to say the weather is nice over a decade later. You can find the CDs at libraries and "other" places I'm sure.
"I have a pretty neat library card"
Mango (Languages: So many and the endangered/Indigenous courses are free even if you don't have a library that has a partnership with Mango)
Transparent Language: (Languages: THE MOST! Also the one that has the widest variety of African languages! Perhaps the most diverse in ESL and learning a foreign language not in English)
"I want SRS flashcards and have an android"
AnkiDroid: (Theoretically all languages, pre-made decks can be found easily)
"I want SRS flashcards and I have an iphone"
AnkiApp: It's almost as good as AnkiDroid and free compared to the official Anki app for iphone
"I don't mind ads and just want to learn Korean"
lingory
"I want an app made for Mandarin that's BETTER than DL and has multiple languages to learn Mandarin in"
ChineseSkill (You can use their older version of the course for free)
"I don't like any of these apps you mentioned already, give me one more"
Bunpo: (Languages: Japanese, Spanish, French, German, Korean, and Mandarin)
Summary: Roman get’s a bit too drunk at Kendall’s birthday. (03x07)
Content: established relationship, f!reader, angst, age gap, degradation, insecurity, verbal abuse(?), humiliation, mention of Logan Roy
{This is my first fic so i hope you enjoy!)
*Update:pt 2 “SweetHeart” is up rn!!
Roman had you on edge the whole night. You had never seen him this snide or aggressive before. You blame the immense amount of alcohol he consumed, mixed with him talking to Mattson. So, when you caught Shiv getting more agitated with Roman, you knew he was spewing bullshit
Though you didn’t feel the most compassion for Kendall, you had spent the night with Shiv and Roman and you couldn’t help but pity the man. It was his birthday and his siblings showed up for Mattson, not him. Time had passed from your arrival, and you stood at a distance from them, far enough that you weren’t in the conversation but you could still see what was happening. Roman sat while Shiv stood in front of him. You could tell he was getting under her skin but thought it was best to stay out of it. In doing so, you had to act like you were listening to this brainless celebrity talk to you about god knows what.
You get snapped out of your head when you hear Shiv call for you, wanting Roman's power trip to end.
“Can you get over here and deal with your mess?” You walked over to them and noticed they had also roped Kendall in this mess.
You took a second to study Roman’s face. He was refusing eye contact with you. Probably out of shame and not wanting to face the consequences. His eyes appeared dark, and his demeanor was unfamiliar. He’s just drunk. He’s just drunk. You tell yourself, hoping you didn’t just find out who you were really dating.
“Oh great. Are you trying to get me in timeout or something?” Roman joked, his eyes flicker over you for a moment. “Whatever, you know Kendall, I already talked to Mattson, who hates you by the way,” He laughs at his own demeaning remark. Everyone is uncomfortable. Kendall turns to Niaomi, who's trying to comfort him by holding his arm and rubbing his hand between hers. You couldn’t stand the way Roman was acting. Sure, he makes quippy remarks all the time, but this time he was just being an asshole.
You clear your throat slightly, uncomfortable with the situation, “Roman, I think you should stop.”
Your eyes lingered on him the whole time, hoping adding yourself into the conversation would defuse the situation and you two could forget about this.
When Roman heard your voice, he finally met your eyes. Turning to face you and sneered “Oh I’m sorry sweetheart, did I hurt your feelings?” You knew Roman was in defense mode but you couldn’t figure out why. No one was attacking him.
The heat from your face felt more apparent. “I’m just saying, I think you’ve had enough tonight and we should head back.” You hoped this offer would be enough and you'll deal with this in the morning. Roman rolled his eyes and leaned back further in his chair. “No, 'cause you know what, I’m having fun at this depressing shitfest. Why don’t you and Shiv talk about what lipstick has the cuter packaging or whatever.” He said with a shrill mocking tone attempting to dismiss you from the conversation.
Shiv scoffed, beating you to a response, “What the fuck Roman? If you’re going to take anything away from this pathetic conversation, listen to y/n," Shiv looked at you with her best attempt at a comforting grin.
Roman glared at her “Oh fuck off Shiv. You’re such a fucking cunt.”
The conversation wasn’t de-escalating and you felt your blood boiling. You were sure everyone could see how much you were seething. “Rome enough. You’ve had your fun. Now let’s go before you embarrass yourself anymore,” You weren't sure if your response was too harsh, but you remained patient with him long enough.
Roman snorted, now full attention on you because you fell into his game, “That’s fucking rich coming from you. You’re always so goddamn sensitive about everything.” He kept a cruel smirk on his face, waiting for your retaliation. Roman knows you hate arguing, but he wanted to push you tonight. Wanting to pull a reaction out of you, lose your composure. Shiv, Kendall, and Niaomi are still present, just speechless. You and Roman had been arguing more since Logan started stringing him along. The three of them felt stepping in would only worsen the situation and decided to stay quiet, not wanting to escalate it anymore.
You fought the urge to reveal any weakness. “I’m not being sensitive Rome, you’re being a dick, Let’s go.” You were biting the inside of your cheek, trying to abstain from your anger. You tried to grab the glass out of his hand before he quickly yanked it toward him.
His grip on the glass tightened as he swirled the last bit of champagne. “Yeah, right, perfect fucking y/n. Trying to control everything.” The tension was evident. Roman wasn’t backing down, not caring if you were the only person that loved or understood him. He just wanted to inflict damage on you at that moment.
Your body was stiff, arms crossed against your chest, hiding your tightened fists. You tasted how the inside of your cheek was bloody, trying to suppress the growing anger, taking a shallow breath from your nose. Trying your best to remind yourself, He’s just drunk. He’s just drunk. “I’m not controlling anyone. Please Rome, you’re drunk and acting insane-”
His eyes narrowed as he took a sip from his glass, muttering under his breath, cutting you off, “Well, maybe if you weren’t so young-”
“Excuse me?” Stumbling over your words a bit, trying to comprehend what Roman just said. Kendall tried to step in, but Niaomi and Shiv decided it was better to leave you two.
He put down his glass, adjusting his view, maintaining intense eye contact, “I’m just saying, maybe this would all make sense to you if you knew how the world works. But you don’t.” His lips curled into a slight smirk like he was proud of what was said.
You felt your breath quicken. Yes, you were younger than Roman and the rest of the company, but you had repeatedly proven you were qualified for your position. You weren't aware Roman acknowledged your age gap enough to bring it up in an argument. “My age has nothing to do with this.” You couldn’t think of anything witty to say in retaliation. You felt so betrayed.
Roman leaned closer to you, the alcohol taking full effect. He didn't understand he was jeopardizing your guy’s relationship with this. He pressed on, “Sure kid. Keep telling yourself that.” Maintaining that pretentious smirk on his face.
All you could do was shake your head and mutter, “You know I hate when you call me that.” Tears had been prickling in your eyes at this point. You refused to cry fuck, fuck, fuck.
Roman rolled his eyes “Welcome to the real world sweetheart. I’m not going to change who I am, so don’t fucking expect me to. I'm not getting any better. Get over whatever savior complex you have that makes you think you can fix me. It’s not going to work.” With that, you felt a new layer added to this betrayal. And Roman felt it too.
You had no control over emotions anymore. Your heartbeat was already beating furiously and irregularly. Your limbs had lost feeling, and you knew your lip was quivering. All you could feel was the stab in the heart Roman left and tears pooling in your eyes and down your cheek. “Fuck you, Roman.” You didn’t need to say anything more. You wanted to, but you knew you still loved him. You made a straight path to the nearest exit. You didn’t give the staff your phone, so you texted your driver you’ll be out in 5.
All you could hear over the horrid music calling from behind you was “See you around, kid.”
how do you know so many big words and how do I too learn big word
stop waghcing tik tok and instagram and youtube and algorithmized garbage, read some books, in any genre really, if you have a hard time reading just try doing a page at a time and taking breaks inbetween, work your way up, if a book is too complex then move to easier reading, dont get discouraged, with a little practice you can quickly get immersed and you will learn a lot from books and also have real nice time ^w^ also if you ask nice, people who know big words might teach you some!!
