summary: thanks to @dillydallyy who dared to ask: "Oooo what about wife!reader gets seriously injured during a hunt (for someone else, not hers). Titus completely mauls this man to death and then very sweetly nurses his wife back to health :)"
content/warnings: allusions of human sacrifice, attempted sexual assault, violence, titus is probably ooc, reader is kinda dumb (sorry)
wc: 1.5k
This is your first hunt. You're not really sure what you've signed up for. You just know that this is your husband's family tradition. And you don't question it. You're already outsider enough. You know his twin sister, Ursula, doesn't like you. So you don't push it. But you can't help who you fall for.
"Wait, you didn't tell her?" Ursula hisses from the other side of the door,
You can almost hear Titus' shrug, "She won't get hurt. She won't even really get involved. She'll stay in the Lodge...or with me."
You frown. Why would you get hurt? Well, Titus always said you were clumsy. So you don't let it worry you too much. Especially as you walk into the room and into your husband's embrace. Ursula rolls her eyes as you cuddle right into your husband's side. And Titus kisses the top of your head.
His sweet girl.
And Titus Danforth would never let anything bad happen to you.
"I know the rules say you have to be present for the hunt, sweet girl. But I want you to stay in here. Okay?" he tells you gently, stroking your hair.
You frown, "I want to stay with you..."
He kisses you sweetly, "I know, I know. But I don't want you to get hurt. So stay here. I won't be gone long."
He knew that the latest prey wouldn't last long out in the woods. He would be back within an hour, he bet. Titus was so focused on you, he didn't notice his cousin watching you. This cousin, Matthew, had watched you since the moment he first saw you on Titus' arm. He had hoped on your wedding night that you would pull a card...and he would have had some fun with you. But you simply pulled the Queen of Hearts and went about your merry way.
Completely oblivious to the Danforth family's secret.
So Matthew had to bide his time. He would get to you...he didn't understand why something so sweet as you would waste your time with his loser cousin.
He was giddy when he realised that Titus was going to leave you alone in the Lodge while he went out hunting. Always trying to protect your innocence.
You wonder how long it will be until your husband comes back. You don't understand what they could be hunting at midnight. Seems ridiculous but that's none of your business. You're tired and you want to go home. You sit, drinking some of Ursula's favourite wine with a wicked little smirk on your lips. If she's going to be an asshole, she deserves it!
Your head pops up as soon as you hear the door opening and you expect to see your ever-doting husband walk in. Instead, it's a man you vaguely recognise.
"Is the hunt over?" you ask him with a soft smile.
Matthew shakes his head, "No, no. I just got a bit cold."
You frown but stand up and offer him your place by the fire. But he doesn't move. His eyes follow your movements and suddenly you feel like the hunt has come closer to you than you'd like.
"I think I'll go check on my husband," you say, trying to excuse yourself from the room.
But the man lunges for you forcing you to stumble backwards. Titus told you to stay inside but there's no way you can get past him to the door. Your only option is out through the huge bay window. You rush, climbing up onto the window seat and pushing the window open. You stumble, falling onto your hands and knees as you get outside. But you start running.
You're not quick enough because suddenly Matthew is upon you. He throws his full body weight on top of you and you fall to the ground with a harsh thud. You let out a scream as you try to crawl away from the man. But he won't let you move. You scream again when he flips you over onto your back. You try to kick him but he's pinning you down.
"Shut the fuck up, you stupid bitch," he hisses. "I didn't want to do this outside but I suppose it'll have to do."
You snarl, all sweetness washed away as you shoot your head forward against his nose. You can't help the smile that curls up on your lips when you hear a crunch.
"Oh you fucking cunt!" he screams as he grips his nose.
His movements are enough to give you a chance to wriggle from underneath him and scramble to your feet. You take off towards the woods. The sound of your breathing fills your ears, so much so you don't hear the thud of footsteps behind you.
He's so much faster than you and this time he's not going to let you get away. You crumble to the ground on impact as Matthew smashes you over the head with the handle of his axe. It hurts so bad and you can't fight anymore.
Your body is trying hard to keep you alive after the impact on your skull. You can't scream...you just whimper as he gets on top of you again.
Will Titus still love you after this monster has ruined his sweet girl, you wonder?
But suddenly the weight is off you. You're not sure if you're dying or your brain is protecting you or what is happening...But it doesn't matter because everything goes black.
It's probably for the best you don't see your husband, heady with bloodlust pull his cousin off you. He has his warhammer in his hand but he drops it in favour of his fists. Titus may have been a disappointment to his father in many areas, but he could fight. As soon as Matthew was under him, Titus didn't stop his blows to his face and head until his hands were covered in blood and he could hear the crunch of bone over and over and over. Soon there was no face for him to punch.
Only when Titus was satifised that Matthew was no longer a threat did he stand up. He rushes to you, stroking your hair from your face. He can see the shallow rise and fall of your chest, but you're so pale.
He scoops you up in his arms and carries you back to the Lodge.
If Titus Danforth is good for one thing, it was doting on his wife. He never let you as much as chip a nail, and now you could very much be bleeding out. He brings you to his room in the Lodge, laying you down on the bed before getting a First Aid Kit. Those are in plentiful supply. He cleans the cut on your head, making sure it's not too deep and patches it up.
All he has to do now is wait for you to wake up. But he can't. So he carries you to the bathroom, undressing you and bathing you gently. Washing the blood and dirt from your perfect body.
He dresses you in a white nightgown and settles you into the plush bed. And he watches with his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees as your breathing finally deepens. Finally your eyes flutter open and you smile so brightly at him.
Your knight in shining armour.
"Oh Titus, I'm so sorry...he just...I don't know...He started chasing me and he hit me and he...." you try to explain.
But Titus just kisses you soundly.
"You don't have to worry about him ever again, my sweet girl," Titus tells you, cupping your face in his large hands.
You don't notice the blood crusted in his nails because you're too focused on his face.
"I'm sorry that he hurt you but I would never let him violate you like that," he says, dancing around the subject.
You just reach out, silently asking Titus to cuddle you. And he happily obliges, wrapping you in his thick arms.
"I'm sorry I ruined your hunt," you say simply, still oblivious to what is still going on outside.
He shakes his head, "Gave me something better to hunt, my sweet girl."
an: need to write more Titus...please give me more suggestions...but I kinda have an idea about maybe a little more...creepy Titus! all feedback is appreciated!
summary: You get Jack a little gift…A One Wish Willow. He makes his wish, it’s broken, and now you’re obsessed.
content warnings: swearing, flirting, age gap, mid 20s/early 50s
A/N: Okay, I just want to start off by saying… I am in absolutely no way romanticizing this movie. I saw this tiktok someone made about if there was a fic about Jack Abbot with an Obsession AU, and I loved it. The story line is brilliant, and it perfectly depicts the idea that you could do anything for a man, and it still wouldn’t be good enough. And if you don’t reciprocate romantic feelings, then that just automatically means that you’re playing hard to get. I saw this movie twice in theaters and each time I cried, because there are just so many hidden meanings. Even if a lot of them weren’t intended. So yeah! Thank you for reading, It’s gonna be on ao3 soon!!!
All your life…you were nothing short of perfect. You were the kind of girl language and all things of that nature surrendered to. Every smile carried a wave of warmth that made strangers feel like distant, old friends…and every laugh sounded like something the world had been missing for far too long. You weren’t perfect because you never stumbled, or faltered. You were perfect because you wore every flaw with such quiet grace, turning your imperfections into things that made you unforgettable. You were fierce, and snarky, and perfect, and that’s all that mattered. All the time. No collection of words would ever begin to describe who you were. Because you had the kind of beauty that wasn’t just seen—it was felt.
Jack Abbot saw that.
Maybe…not so much when it came to difficult patients. You closed yourself off into the break room after Mr. Wilkins popped something off at you for “threatening” to give him a shot. Unfortunately you fired back. Calling him a “Spineless asshole.” You were quip and sharp with your words, almost leaving him completely plastered with a look of shock. You were supposed to be a caring, warm, nurse…not some bitch that did this shit for the money. You lean your arms on the countertop, giving your back a slight break. You sigh and crane your neck to the side, cracking the joints. You hear the door creek open behind you. Jack.
Jack Abbot.
“Okay…we have got to talk about whatever the hell happened in there.”
He quietly says, closing the door behind him.
“I don’t exactly feel like trying to search my brain for how it even started…” You groan.
“Don’t let one difficult patient cease the idea that you’re doing great.”
“I just feel like… I failed.”
“You didn’t. You have the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever worked with. You care…” he smiles softly “…You rocked that shit, okay? You know me, I wouldn’t lie to you.”
Your lips curve into a soft, warm smile. “You always know how to make me feel better.”
You knew for a while that Jack had feelings for you. The other days Christmas party was living proof, and evidence. He drove you home when you were drunk off your heels, and kissed you. But…you didn’t want that with Jack. You loved the friendship you guys had. He was one of your closest friends actually. Sometimes you’d crash at his place when you were too tired to drive home at night. And you told him everything. Everything. You could tell him anything. He listened to what you had to say, he was almost like a diary. He seems like the only one that really understood.
His back found the countertop next to you. His arms crossing instinctively. “You’re a really good friend Jack. Y’know that?” The word friend never failed to kick him swift in the ass. The ego he once had when walking in faltered. You could sort of tell…
You figure a gift could help.
“Oh, I almost forgot!”
You push your self off of the counter and make a b-line for your purse. You have a grimace on your face which can only mean one thing, Jack thinks. You rifle through the pockets trying to find the little gift. Then, you found it.
“Surprise!” Between your fingers was a one of a kind…One Wish Willow. Your parents always got you one when you went upstate. They basically made you into a hopeful dreamer from the age of ten…but everybody needs a little hope. Even old, cranky doctors, like Jack.
“What…is that?” He cringes at my blissful expression.
“What! You’ve never seen one of these before?”
“Not in my time…”
You roll your eyes, “Haha, very funny…”
Jack holds out his hand to take it from you, “…it’s a One Wish Willow. I used to basically live off those as a kid. They technically make you think you’re gonna grow up rich and famous, and throw giant house parties with tons of people. Oh, and they make you think that your 7th grade crush would confess their undying love for you.”
“Yea…definitely never heard of it.” Jack scoffs. He always knew you were into shit like this. Crystals, and what not. You were a very spiritual person. You believed in being one with yourself, and always being sure. That’s what he loved about you.
“Well…I don’t know, I like em’…also y’know I figured I owed you something for the..other night.”
You watch his expression change and he straightens his back, clearing his throat. “No, no, don’t feel like you owe me anything. I was out of line…I shouldn’t have overstepped.”
“You didn’t overstep. That doesn’t exist with us…it’s just that-“ You pause, watching what you say. You knew already things were a little awkward, especially for him. You didn’t wanna make it worse. But what else could you say? “It’s just that you’re my best friend. And I don’t wanna ruin anything…you’re so special to me.”
“Listen, kid. You don’t owe me anything. I don’t even think of you like that…I just- It was just an act of impulse.”
“Okay…good.”
The silence was surely too deafening. The only sound was your heart beating fast inside your chest, and Jack pouring coffee beside you. You take a deep breath out and change the subject back to a lighter topic.
“Well~ I hope that means that you’ll appreciate my gift.”
“Oh..I will!” He acts enthusiastic for your sake, and for some reason even though you know it’s fake, it works.
“Hmm..so what’re you gonna wish for?”
“I thought the thing about wishes was if you tell someone it doesn’t come true.”
“Fine…don’t tell me. But if you come in tomorrow with, like, a bajillion dollars…you owe me at least 100$”
“I’m kinder than that, sweetheart, i’d give you 120$”
Banter with Jack was always fun. He understood your references, and when you were really being serious. “Wow! How generous…” You giggle. You realize you’ve been in the break room for a good 10 minutes and whip your head towards the clock. 12:15 a.m. “Oh, shit…I gotta go. Duties are calling.”
“Yes, please. Do your job.” He quips over his shoulder and you groan. Jack was your boss. Even if you guys didn’t act like it. He made it hard to act like it.
“Bye, Mr. Grumpy-pants!” You say opening the door, and leaving Jack all alone.
All he can seem to think about is you. Even though he just talked to you. Every conversation the two of you ever had was written all over him. As crazy as it sounds, it was what got him up in the mornings…the thought of you speaking to him later in the night. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t lead him on…You were a flirty person, it was just who you were. Sometimes you’d even be a little too flirty. When you’d sleep over you guys would lay on the couch, with your head in his lap, and you’d play with his fingers. And when you guys were working you’d give him bicep a little squeeze when you’d walk by. So, no, you weren’t completely innocent, you knew what you were doing.
But Jack was just going to have to live with the fact that you didn’t want someone like him. He felt as though he was used up, and old, and didn’t have enough oil in his tank to keep you happy. He’d just have to learn to be content with the idea that you’d never love him, as much as he loved you.
_______
When Jack returned to his apartment that mornin, he was a wreck, just like he always was. He just hid it better than others. He threw his bag onto the couch by the front door, and headed straight for the kitchen. Maybe coffee would do that trick. He took it black, no sugar, no cream. Which made him think of you again. You always took your coffee with an unhealthy amount of sugar, and a disgusting amount of cream. It wasn’t even technically coffee anymore by the time you added the sweet stuff. He smiled to himself and he emptied out the pot, the dark brown liquid steaming inside his favorite mug. His mind wandered further, thinking about you. He thought, maybe it’d be different if you spent the night…maybe his brain would stop running miles. But no, if you were here he would just think about how you were on his couch, drinking from one of his mugs, snuggled into one of his blankets.
“Fuck…” He breathed out, running his hands over his face. Then, he remembered.
Your gift.
He knows he doesn’t believe in bullshit like this. The whole, wishing thing. He’s not hopeful, he doesn’t dream, he doesn’t wish for things on his birthday. But, it’s you. It has to do with you. He walks over to his bag, and bends down to retrieve it from the couch cushion. Setting it on the counter he reaches in the front pocket, pulling out the little box. It was red, and white, covered with dusty sparkles that were sure to fall off if handled too much. He stared at it for far too long, then thought, why would you pick this out for him. You must’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure out what he likes…you could’ve gotten him another mug, or a keychain, or a pair of funny socks. But, no, you got him a One Wish Willow. His fingers work at the corners of the box, tearing the material. A note falls out, and his heart flutters. “Great…” He sighs. Still, he opens it.
Jack,
I guess I should probably elaborate on why I got you this. When I was a teenager I got teased a lot. For…anything they could think of. And one day I went upstate to visit my dad, and we stopped in this little sketchy store. I had 5$, and I could buy whatever I wanted. And in the back of the store, I found the One Wish Willows. Now, I never believed in stuff like that. Like, ever, but I was reaching, and grasping at anything I could to help me get through…whatever I was going through. So I bought one. And I wished that someone, anyone, would just…be kind to me. Even if it’s not in the few years. But it never came true.
Then I met you. My wish finally came true. And I hope yours does too. One wish. That’s all you’ll ever need.
Jack smiled at the note, he was your wish.
Then, he thought…you could be his. It’s like you said in the note, “one wish, that’s all you’ll ever need.” He repeated it in his head,
all he’ll ever need.
all he’ll ever need.
all he’ll ever need.
You, are all he’ll ever need. Just you.
Jack held the little stick between two fingers, and breathed heavy. Your face flashed through his head, almost like a warning sign. Your freckles painted over your nose, and your smile. That tooth you got embarrassed of…Jack loved it.
He loved yo-
“I wish y/n would love me more than anything in the entire world.” *crack*
Maybe it was something in his head, tricking him into thinking it could work. But he had this feeling in his stomach, and the air felt a little different, a little quieter.
Almost too quiet-
*buzz* *buzz*
Jacks phone lit up the dark surface of his living room, and quickly he ran to it. He immediately picked it up, his eyes adjusting on the screen. It was you. His eyes widened a bit as he saw your name with the little red heart by it.
you: Heyyy, you up?
Jack: Yeah. Just having coffee.
you: Can I come over? Bored.
Jack: I thought you had that friend’s baby shower?
you: Well, it can wait. I have some stuff to tell you.
Jack thought of telling you no. Your friend’s baby shower must’ve been more important, it had to be. You’ve never been this insistent on coming over though..it must be really important. He swallows, and his fingers type out another message.
there’s something so gutwrenching about the fact that the female characters in obsession have real dreams and wishes but never get the chance to see them realized, while both male characters waste their wishes on short-term selfish satisfaction. they were complex, free-spirited young women who just wanted to create art, and they were destroyed by a man determined to confine them to his superficial perception of them. nikki wanted to be a writer, sarah wanted to be a tattoo artist and now neither of them will get to be anything at all
summary: In an attempt to seduce a past hookup, you accidentally send your attending, Jack Abbot, a lewd photo.
tags/warnings: MDNI 18+, smut, oral (f receiving), piv sex, pussy eating, fingering, pussy slapping, jack abbot certified bush lover, overstimulation, implied age gap (reader is a resident), medical inaccuracies (peritoneal lavages are rarely used nowadays, but who cares), no use of y/n, trauma scene based on an episode of ER teehee.
wc: 9.5k
a/n: okay this is fully like two weeks late to the trend but it was inspired by that “you shaved your bush” tiktok trend lol. I genuinely do not know how this got so long, It was supposed to be a cute little fic but i got carried away, oopsies! I hope you enjoy <3
credits: gif credits to @ho-ii !!
It was Friday afternoon and you were desperately, achingly horny.
You’d tried your old faithful vibrator, which was doing the job fine, but you were desperate for some human connection. Your mind drifted through the mental rolodex of who you could call up for some casual fun. It was a short list, your demanding schedule not lending itself to a particularly vibrant social life. You’d only been on a handful of dates in the past year, most of which ended in disaster.
Alex was out of the running because of his unfortunate odor problem.
Sam was out due to a creepy doll collection he failed to disclose until you made your way to his apartment.
And Daniel was out because, frankly, he was terrible at sex, which is kind of a sticking point for you right now.
That left James, a guy you met on one of the apps and who was decent enough with his mouth that you’d seen him a handful of times. You didn’t hook up with him often, mostly because he was particular about your pubic hair. He preferred for it to be cleanly shaven, or at least heavily trimmed before he would consider going down on you.
So despite the fact that he wasn’t much good at fucking, you tended to go back to him when you needed a release. Yes, your standards were abysmally low, but the truth of the matter was that residency didn’t really give you any time to get out and meet new, better hook-ups. So James it was.
It had been a couple months since you’d hooked up, mostly due to this preference of his. Unfortunately, taking the time to take an ‘everything shower’ just to get your pussy eaten was a luxury that you were not often afforded due your residency schedule.
But today you’d had the time, energy, and desire to get devoured, so you hopped in the shower to take care of everything. By the time you emerged your hair was double cleansed, you’d applied a hair mask, exfoliated, shaved your legs, applied moisturizer and body oil, and–most importantly–your pussy was cleanly shaven.
You had a renewed pep in your step as you made your way over to your bed, ready to entice James. You maneuvered onto the bed and experimented with a few poses before landing on one that showed off your assets the best. You propped up your phone–timer set for 10 seconds–and you scrambled into position, perching back on your haunches and settling back on your feet, back arched a little uncomfortably.
You heard the shutter of the camera going off and quickly extricated yourself from the uncomfortable position. Looking over the image, you were very impressed.
The photo pictured your nude body from the chest down, beginning with the barest hint of the underside of your breasts showing, then the expanse of your stomach and curve of your hips. Lower, your fingers were on your pussy, parting your lips just enough to tease. It was a damn good nude, if you did say so yourself. James was lucky to receive it.
It had been so long since you texted him that instead of scrolling through endless scam messages and bill reminders, you just typed in the first few letters of his name to pull up his contact. As soon as you typed ‘ja’ it popped up, and you quickly began composing your message.
Gnawing at your thumbnail, you went back and forth on a few messages, trying to sound sexy, but playful. After five minutes of deliberation, you decided to just go with what you had. Honestly, it’s not like James was going to give it more than a second thought–if he wanted to fuck he wasn’t going to care about how sultry (or not) the message you sent him was.
You settled on:
you: shaved just for you. want something sweet to eat? ;)
You looked it over for a minute, nodding to yourself and hitting send before you could psych yourself out.
What a mistake.
Jack sat at the work station, mouth open and slackjawed, still staring at his phone screen.
Not at the photo anymore–no, that had been quickly swiped away–but the image was still burned into his retinas, the after image projecting onto the back of his eyelids when he closed them.
Why?
Because three minutes ago he received a text message from one of the day shift residents. He was concerned, initially, because there was little reason for day shift residents to contact him as opposed to Robby. Which is why Jack opened the message as soon as he saw it come in, thinking it might be an emergency, especially because it was you.
Instead, he was greeted with a sight he thought he’d never have the pleasure of seeing.
You, stretched back on your heels, breasts barely visible, pussy on full display for him. Your fingers held you open, your folds glistening in the late summer light that was streaming in, your pretty little clit in the center, just begging to be sucked. It was, quite possibly, the prettiest pussy he’d ever seen.
He couldn’t take his eyes off of the photo for a good 30 seconds, before the logical side of his brain kicked in and he remembered oh yeah, I’m at work and can’t be caught looking at my resident’s cunt.
He wasn’t unfamiliar with you, even though you’d only worked a handful of shifts together. But he saw you every morning at handoff, and you two shared warm smiles and easy jokes, your sardonic wit matching his bar for bar. He knew you were smart, able to hold your own in a trauma, and compassionate and empathetic underneath it all. And he couldn’t ignore the fact that you were gorgeous either.
And he would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought of you in this sort of light before, either. Jack Abbot was not a proud man–he could admit that on more than one occasion, he’d stood in his shower fisting his cock to the image of you on your knees for him.
It was especially bad when you did something impressive at work. Like the time you went toe-to-toe with a surgeon about whether a patient really needed surgery when you insisted that all they needed was a pericardiocentesis, and to prove your theory, you stuck the needle into the pericardium and extracted the fluid despite surgery’s objections. A ballsy move, one that would have been deeply problematic if you were wrong, but paid off. He’d had to rub one out in the bathroom that day. He apparently has a thing for competency.
“You’re gonna catch flies, Abbot,” Ellis said, walking out of an exam room, IPad tucked under her arm and smirk wide on her face. Jack shook himself out of his reverie, trying desperately not to think of your photo (but failing miserably).
He cleared his throat, “Sorry, what’ve you got for me?” he asked, still a bit dazed. Ellis looked at him skeptically–there wasn’t much that threw Dr. Jack Abbot–but proceeded to present her case anyway.
Once he approved her plan of treatment, Jack returned to his phone. He sat there for a long moment, contemplating what to do. You hadn’t said anything else, no frantic “I’m so sorry, that obviously wasn’t meant for you,” texts that explained the situation. Jack was positive it wasn’t intended for him, and he didn’t want to embarrass you more than you were sure to be.
His thumbs hovered over the keyboard, dancing nervously as he typed out his reply.
You started getting ready after sending the text, anticipating that James would want to meet up tonight. You did your hair, applied a bit of light make up, and threw on a cute little sundress.
It was about an hour later when you went to check your phone again, fully expecting to see a cheeky message from James inviting you over for some fun.
What you saw made your stomach drop instead. You felt dizzy, nausea washing over you in roiling waves. The text thread you were looking at was addressed to Jack Abbot, not James. And staring back at you was your nude body, followed by a response from Dr. Abbot.
Jack Abbot: I don’t think I’m the intended recipient for that photo.
Jack Abbot: But for what it's worth, a real man would eat it even if you didn’t shave. Would prefer it, actually.
Jack Abbot: Sorry, that was inappropriate. I’ve deleted this text thread, along with the photo. We can pretend this never happened.
There’s no fucking way. Absolutely not. There is no possible way that you accidentally sent a nude photo of yourself to your fucking attending. Not just any attending either, but the one you'd had a big fat stupid crush on for the better part of a year. The one you’d spent endless nights fantasizing about with your fingers plunged deep into your cunt, whose visage you’d pictured hovering over you, fucking you hard and deep; the name you accidentally moaned when James was eating you out the last time you hooked up.
Your mind refused to accept that this was reality, hoping against hope that this was some twisted fucking nightmare.
Shame welled up inside you, your cheeks hot from embarrassment and tears pricking at the corner of your eyes, mortification settling in earnest now. In addition to being humiliating, you also felt like a fucking creep. From his perspective, you just sent him a completely unsolicited nude photo.
Even more so, you hated that this probably killed any chance you had with him, even if that chance had been slim to none to begin with.
You paced your bedroom, thumbnail chewed raw as you tried to do damage control. What does one even say after they accidentally send a nude to their boss? After far too much deliberation, you decided to keep it simple, apologize, and crawl into your bed for the remainder of your two days off.
You: Dr. Abbot, I am so sorry about that!! I obviously didn’t mean to send that to you.
You: I meant to send it to a James and must not have looked closely enough before I sent it.
You: Thank you for deleting the photo, and I’m so sorry once again that you were subjected to seeing that.
You threw your phone as far away from you as possible, recklessly disregarding its safety despite the fact that you most certainly could not afford to repair said phone if it was damaged, and flopped onto the bed, screaming into a pillow. Your throat was raw by the time you surfaced for air, your body limp and exhausted, mind shuffling through worst case scenarios.
In the midst of your spiral, your brain drifted to the other part of his message: a real man would eat it even if you didn’t shave. That was, admittedly, inappropriate, but no more so than sending a nude to your superior, so you figured you were even. He probably just meant it to be supportive; to try and diffuse the awkward situation.
But another part of you wondered if he meant something else. If he was signalling to you that he would eat it, bush or not. The thought was indulgent, if not utterly preposterous. He was an attending; you were a resident. There was no way he’d meant anything by it. But you couldn’t help thinking…
Did he like the photo? Was he picturing you with a bush? Did he think about tasting you, about swirling his tongue around your clit or plunging it deep into you?
A notification dinged, shaking you out of your daydream, and you contemplated whether or not you actually wanted to see what he said, if anything at all. Curiosity eventually won out, hands grappling for your phone and swiping open the notification.
Jack Abbot: No worries. 👍
It was a completely normal response, which almost made it worse. Part of you wished he would lash out, call you disgusting or a whore, at least you’d know what to do with that. Shame or disgust were easier to digest than nonchalance.
You didn’t bother to send the photo to the correct person, your lust dampened, the fire doused with cold water, remnants pulverized to ash. Groaning, you burrowed into your bed with no intention of leaving for the next two days.
You had no idea how you were going to face him Monday.
You woke up two days later and ran through your options.
Flee the country and never return to Pittsburgh ever again (unrealistic, you’d devoted too much time to becoming a doctor, you weren’t giving up because of some catastrophically stupid mistake)
Arrive to work 20 minutes late, hopefully avoiding Jack Abbot by all costs (unlikely, the man worked more overtime than anyone except Robby. He was sure to still be there, and all you’d get was attendance point for your trouble)
Be a mature adult, apologize, and forget this ever happened, like he suggested (undoubtedly the best choice, but could you really ever forget that your attending has seen your pussy? And, a far sicker thought, did you want him to forget?)
Indecision weighed on you as you got ready, ultimately deciding on lucky number option 3. Your only saving grace was the fact that you were on day shift, and Abbot rarely worked days. The only interaction would be at handoff, and maybe if you could busied yourself enough getting a jump on patients, you could avoid him for as long as possible.
That was your plan of action as you walked into chairs, head down as you scanned into the ED and approached the nurses station. You didn’t hear his voice, which was a good sign; typically, you could hear it as soon as you entered, steady barking out orders over the hum of the department. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself and thinking for the first time since you sent that photo that things might be okay.
You spot Ellis at a work station, and beeline to her to get the handover started.
“Hey Ellis, how’d the night go? Any weird and wild cases?” you ask,
“Oh, you know, the usual,” she said, “foreign body extractions, a couple MIs, an insomniac who overdosed on benadryl and swore that the hat man was after him for money,” she laughed, shaking her head.
“To be fair, the hat man could be after him for money,” you said solemnly, face straight for a second before you burst out laughing.
Handover continued smoothly, Ellis updating you on which patients needed labs or imaging and which needed to be discharged. You almost made it through unscathed, your body turning to make your way to North 5 when you heard his voice calling to Ellis.
Your shoulders tensed–body betraying you by freezing in place–and he was next to you before you could scuttle away. Resting his forearms on the counter next to you, he continued talking to Ellis–about what, you couldn’t say, static filling your ears as you remembered what you’d done.
“Morning, Doc,” he said, startling you out of your daze.
“G-good morning, Dr. Abbot,” you stuttered, eyes glancing briefly at him before settling on his chin, unable to meet his eyes for more than a second.
He looked annoyingly normal, showing no sign that anything unseemly had occurred between you. You chanced another look at his eyes, the hazel orbs showing no hint of amusement or belittlement. But there was a look of acknowledgement, a steady one that should have reassured you that everything was okay, that you weren’t a laughingstock. The same look he’d give you in a trauma when things went sideways through no fault of your own.
And In any other situation, it would be reassuring. But right now, all it did was remind you that he’d seen your most sensitive parts, that he’d commented on the state of your pubic hair (or lack thereof). Heat bloomed in your cheeks, and your breath caught in your throat, eyes unable to breakaway from his gaze.
When you did manage to look away, it was, traitorously, to look down at his lips. They looked so soft, and for a split second you imagined yourself leaning in, capturing his lips with yours and kissing him into oblivion. You snapped back to reality half a second too late, seeing the edge of Abbot’s mouth turn up in the barest hint of a smile.
Clearing your throat, you quickly excused yourself to see a patient, all but running to the exam room. You managed to slow your breathing and compose yourself before you entered the room, squaring your shoulders and getting back to work.
This was going to be a lot harder than you anticipated.
Jack was being honest when he told you he deleted the text thread with that photo in it, a fact he was coming to regret as he laid in bed post-shift, body tired but too wired to relax and fall asleep. He’d committed the photo to memory, though, losing himself in it as he dragged his hand up and down his cock, thinking about how soft you’d be, how sweet you’d taste, the sounds he’d pull from you as he fucked you with his tongue. He’d fallen into this routine an embarrassing amount of times since he received that photo, feeling like a pervy, dirty old man all the while, but doing nothing to stop himself either.
His hand glided over his shaft once more, imagining that it was your warm, wet walls wrapped around him instead, and he was coming hard, painting his stomach with streaks of warm, wet goo. He sat there, breathing heavy, as a twitch of shame rolled over him. He shouldn’t be jerking it to the remembered image of a resident’s pussy, a woman at least 15 years younger than him, if not more.
But it was harder than he’d thought it would be to put that photo behind him. It was all he could think about as soon as he saw you that first morning, the image looping in an endless projection in his mind. It was completely unprofessional, and frankly dishonest. He’d told you that you could both pretend it had never happened, but he wasn’t so sure that was possible anymore.
And it was clear you hadn’t forgotten either. You were jumpy around him, the easy quips you used swap in the morning abandoned for stuttered greetings and awkward silences. He’d also caught you looking at his lips on more than one occasion and stealing glances at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. He wasn’t sure if it was true attraction, or just some morbid curiosity that was sparked by the unusual situation you two found yourselves in, but Jack wasn’t about to get his hopes up for the former.
As difficult as it was to keep his head on straight after seeing that photo, the more troubling part was that he’d lost the 10 to 15 minutes he spent every morning talking to you, a small ritual he looked forward to every shift. He hadn’t realized how much those moments meant to him until they were gone. Even the worst nights were magically better when he was able to make you laugh at handoff, your smile making his chest swell with pride and head fuzzy with feelings he had no business feeling.
Jack knew he had to do something to ease the tension, to get things back to normal. Or maybe a new normal, if he had anything to do with it.
The days passed in a similar fashion to that first day. Jack would greet you politely and attempt your typical banter, and you would awkwardly stutter out an adequate reply before making your escape as quickly as possible. You weren’t sure why you weren’t able to be a fucking adult and put it behind you, but you just couldn’t. Every time you thought you had the courage to revert back to your typical routine with Abbot, you chickened out almost immediately, bumbling your wall through some moronic excuse.
To make matters worse, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. It was worse than it ever had been before; what used to be an errant thought that would arise only in the throes of pleasure were now occurring during the most mundane tasks. You thought about what his full, silver curls would look like buried between your thighs while you were doing laundry; what his mouth would feel like on your breasts, teeth pulling at the pebbled skin of your nipples while you cooked dinner; how he would fuck you–would it be soft and slow, or hard and punishing?–while you cleaned the bathroom.
Your luck ran out about a month after the incident, as you were calling it. For the most part, you were able to keep your interactions with Abbot brief, albeit awkward. But today he was scheduled on day shift, covering for Al-Hashimi while she was home sick with her son. You’d only found out when you walked in, seeing his name on the board despite the fact that he was off last night.
You felt a wave of nausea wash over you; how were you supposed to go a whole day avoiding him? You managed pretty well for the first half of your shift, presenting exclusively to Robby, which wasn’t all that different from your normal routine. You avoided the traumas Abbot was running, hiding in exam rooms under the guise of checking vitals or reviewing scans. It was working fairly well until midday, when you were unfortunately in the vicinity of the ambulance bay when paramedics burst through.
“Santos, Mohan,” Abbot paused, eyes flitting over to where you stood before calling your name as well, “with me!” he said, already moving into the trauma room and gowning up. You reluctantly followed, slipping on your own trauma gown. He was behind you before you could secure your gown, fingers brushing against the nape of your neck as he tied the strings for you. It shouldn’t have sent a thrill down your spine, but it did. You stuttered out a thank you as you moved to assess the patient.
The paramedic was halfway through the bullet when you arrived at the bedside, hands moving to transfer them from the stretcher to the bed. “– multiple lacerations, bruises to the face, chest, and abdomen. Possible tib-fib and facial fracture.” You looked down at the patient, a teenage boy who couldn’t have been older than 15.
“BP’s low, 70 palp; pulse ox is 85,” Princess called out.
You slid the chestpiece of your stethoscope over the patient's chest, listening to the lungs. Unfortunately, your brain went blank when Abbot sidled up next to you, arm pressed tight against yours in the cramped trauma room.
“What do you think, Doc?” he asked, listening with his own stethoscope now.
You blinked, brain lagging as you tried to compose yourself; to try and save this boy’s life.
“Uh-um good breath sounds?” you said, a question more than an answer, though you were certain about the breath sounds. “Airway is patent, no tracheal deviation, no blood in the canal,” you finished, regaining a bit of confidence as you averted your gaze from his.
“Good,” he said, hand grasping your elbow and moving you down to the end of the bed. “What do we need to order?”
Santos, blessedly, answered before you could embarrass yourself further, “C-spine, chest and head CT.”
“BP is down to 60!”
“Alright people! What are we dealing with?” Abbot called out, eyebrow quirked at you.
Every differential evaporated from your mind. “He’s bleeding from somewhere,” was all you could come up with, though that was obvious. Instead of dwelling on that, you turned your attention to the boy, your eyes examining his body, searching for the source of bleeding. With Samira’s help you flipped the boy over, desperate to find a stab wound or gash, but coming up empty.
“Must be the belly,” Santos said.
“Alright, lavage kit please!” Abbot said, turning to you, “you ever done one of these?”
You shook your head.
“Well, today’s your lucky day, then,” he said, handing you an 11-blade.
Despite your best efforts, your hand shook as you pressed the blade against the skin.
“I-I can’t,” you whispered, low enough that only he could hear.
“You can,” he said, stepping behind you to steady your hand, guiding as you made the incision. He handed you the tubing next. “Make sure you’re into the peritoneum,” he whispered, lips right next to your ear. His hand was still on top of yours as you slid the tubing in, “I’m in, hook up the saline and extension tubing,” you said, breathing a sigh of relief.
Your relief was short-lived. The results of the lavage came back–negative. “Shit, nothing. It’s not the belly,” you said, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
“What the fuck? Where the hell is this kid bleeding from?” Abbot cursed, pacing around the bed to see if anything was forgotten. “You check his back?” he asked.
“Yes, nothing there. Maybe it’s a faulty blood pressure cuff?” you said, grasping at straws, but moving to flip the boy over and recheck his back again anyway.
Abbot was next to you, eyes raking over systematically to find the source when suddenly Mohan pointed out a tiny mark on the boy’s lower right side, “What is that?” she asked.
“That is a very small puncture wound. Probably an ice pick, if I had to guess,” Abbot answered.
Fuck. You should have caught that. You were standing right there, staring at the lower quadrant of the boy's back. You’d even seen the small mark, but dismissed it as a mole. You felt sick to your stomach, fear and shame welling up in you. You had never had a reaction like this in a trauma, not even on your first day as a med student.
Garcia burst through the door just as Abbot was getting the patient ready to head up to the O.R. “Puncture wound, probably hit the kidney or renal artery,” he said, passing off the patient. She nodded, taking over from there.
“Good pickup,” you congratulated Mohan weakly as you walked out of the trauma bay, hoping you could make it to the bathroom and wallow in self-pity for a few moments.
You heard him call your name shortly after you exited the trauma bay. Heart sinking, you turned to face him. “Yes, Dr. Abbot?” you asked, fidgeting with the hem of your scrub top. You weren’t sure you could handle being yelled at by him today. You’d never been one for tears at being reprimanded, but you could already feel the tell-tale prickling behind your eyes, and you were almost positive that the dam would burst at a harsh word from Abbot.
“A word, please?” he asked, gesturing you to the stairwell, the only place with a semblance of privacy in the ED. You sullenly followed after him, bracing yourself for impact.
You leaned back against the wall, fully expecting him to start yelling as soon as you were situated under the staircase, hidden well enough from passersby, but all you felt was a warm, heavy weight on your shoulder.
“You have to settle down, okay?” he said, one hand planted firmly on your shoulder and the other grasping your chin between his fingers to direct your gaze to his. “Look, I know what you sent me was embarrassing, and we probably should’ve talked about it, but you can’t get this worked up over it when I’m on shift as your attending. It can’t affect your work, you're too good of a doctor to let something like this throw you,” he said earnestly, eyes sincere when you looked into them.
You stood there, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. Your mind still hadn’t fully caught up. “I… you didn’t bring me out here to yell at me?” you asked, voice coming out weaker than you intended it to.
He shook his head, confused, “What? No, of course not. I barely noticed that puncture wound myself,” he said, alleviating your anxiety somewhat.
“What I’m concerned about is how wound tight you are around me. I’m not saying you have to like me or anything, but you have to be comfortable working with me. You didn’t make an error in this trauma, but you could have. And I know it would eat you up if something like that happened,” he said, thumb gently sweeping over your chin.
“I can’t let you jeopardize your education because you’re embarrassed about mistakenly sending me a revealing photo. It would kill me if you didn’t reach your full potential because of something like that, if I had any part of it,” he shook his head, a pained look on his face.
Oh. You couldn’t breathe, your cheeks surely inflamed at this point. You were suddenly very aware of how close he’d gotten–and of his hand on your face. His fingers were warm against your face, skin rough, providing delicious friction as his hand repositioned, thumb stroking along your jaw as he subtly tilted your head back. He smelled like clean laundry and coffee, with a slight tang of antiseptic.
Your lips parted, ragged breaths falling from your lips.
“Dr. Abbot–”
“Jack. Call me Jack,” he murmured, so close that you could feel the heat radiating from his body. If you tipped your head up just a fraction, it would close the distance between you; would bring your lips flush together. Your eyes fluttered shut at the thought.
“Jack, I don’t know why I can’t stop thinking about that picture,” you admitted quietly.
“Can I tell you a secret?” he asked, tongue darting out to wet his lips, “I can’t stop thinking about it, either.”
“Really?” you looked up at him from under your eyelashes.
He nodded, moving impossibly closer, lips ghosting against yours. He hesitated briefly, a look of doubt flashing across his face before his gaze steadied–a decision made; a line ready to be crossed. His grip tightened against your jaw, “I can’t stop thinking about you spreading that pretty little pussy open, or about the prick who wanted you to shave before he’d think about going down on you,” he said, shaking his head in disgust.
“You know how many times I fucked my fist to the memory of that photo? How much I’ve thought about how you taste, what sounds you’d make when you cum?” he asked.
A strangled moan escaped your lips at his words. You’d never seen this side of Jack Abbot before, and it was intoxicating. “I-i think about you when I touch myself too,” you whimpered, your admission seeming tame compared to his vulgar words, but you wanted him to know you were also going crazy over him; that this wasn’t one-sided.
“Yeah, pretty girl? You think about me when you stuff that little cunt with your fingers? Wish it was my cock instead?” he asked, his other hand snaking down to your hip, fingers inching their way under your scrub top to caress the skin there.
You nodded, the proximity and dirty talk stealing your breath and leaving you unable to form an intelligible sentence.
“Did he eat your pussy, sugar? You got all dolled up for him, did he at least treat you right?” he asked, breath fanning over your lips, stubble just barely grazing your sensitive skin.
You shook your head, dazed. “I didn’t send it to him,” you said, a little bashful, “was too embarrassed after I sent it to you.”
He groaned, forehead falling against yours, “poor baby, put in all that effort and didn’t even get to cum, did you?” he asked, just the slightest bit condescending.
You let out a pathetic whine, shaking your head ‘no’ at his question. Heat pooled deep in your belly and you felt your panties quickly dampening.
He tsked, “we’ll have to rectify that,” he said, “You shave again? Or you let her grow back natural?” he asked.
You bit your lip, still a bit shy despite all the filthy words that he’d spoken in the last 5 minutes. “I’m au naturelle,” you whispered, a slight smirk tugging at your lips.
“Good fucking girl,” he growled before his mouth was on yours. His lips moved against yours with a ferocity you’d never experienced before. There was nothing uncertain about the kiss, his lips firm as he devoured you, tongue licking into your mouth and sliding against yours deliciously. One of your hands slid up the side of his neck to play with the curls at his nape while the other fisted in the fabric of his scrub top.
His spit tasted like the stale breakroom coffee and the spearmint of his gum, and you couldn’t get enough. You suckled at his tongue, trying to keep up with his relentless pace, but eventually let him take the reins and kiss you silly.
You were both panting when you pulled away, a string of spit drawn taut between your lips before snapping. Jack held your head between his hands, thumbs brushing softly over the apples of your cheeks.
“Talk with me. Tonight. Come have dinner or a drink with me, and we can talk about it all,” he said, a borderline pleading look on his face.
You nodded, still a little dumb from the kiss. “Yeah, yeah, sure. Okay,” you said, slowly extricating your hand from his scrub top.
He let you go with a final squeeze to your jaw, moving to re-enter the ED before you.
You stood there a moment longer, wiping your lips to get rid of your combined saliva and to lessen the kiss bitten look you were sure you were sporting before getting back to work.
The rest of the shift was painfully slow, the hours passing by like molasses. You couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss, the way his lips molded against yours like it was their rightful place. You did make a concentrated effort not to let it impact your work, though. Jack was right about that; nothing could come between you and finishing your residency.
It was just after 7:30 when you exited the hospital, and you immediately spotted Jack leaning against his truck waiting for you. You smiled as you approached him, nervous butterflies erupting in your stomach. Despite that breathtaking kiss, you still didn’t know where you stood. Was he just satisfying a sexual curiosity? Or was it possible that he also had feelings for you?
He cleared his throat, “So I was thinking we could order something to my place and talk there. Unless you want to go somewhere else, to a restaurant or your place,” he rambled, nerves undercutting his typically confident energy.
“Your place sounds good,” you nod, still a bit shy.
His hand was warm on the small of your back as he guided you to the passenger side, opening the door for you and helping you step up into the cab. The ride to his house was quiet, but not uncomfortably so. Some 90s alternative rock playlist hummed quietly in the background while you ordered pizza for the two of you–on his phone, with his card, he insisted. His hand rested lightly on your knee, the heat of his palm burning through the fabric of your scrubs.
You arrived at a beautifully manicured house in a suburb far enough from the city to be peacefully quiet. It’s different from what you pictured, you realize as you walk in. You assumed that a man who worked as much as he did wouldn’t have the time or energy to put into making a house a home; you pictured a sterile kitchen and minimalist fixtures, white walls with abstract art.
But it was homey. The walls were painted, photos scattered across them. The couch looked comfy, something picked out with intention, not the first option plucked from a furniture catalog. There were plants, beautiful, well taken care of ferns and pothos littered about. Warm light filtered through the kitchen, the island topped with butcher block and bracketed by two upholstered stools.
“Do you want anything to drink? Water, wine, beer?” he asked, opening the fridge and grabbing a beer for himself.
You focused your attention back on him, abandoning your pseudo-psychoanalysis of his house and drifting over to perch on a stool. “Wine would be nice,” you said, grateful for something to occupy your hands. He nods, pours you a modest glass of red–something French that probably costs ten times the amount of your shitty grocery store wine.
The pizza arrives soon thereafter, and you sit down at the island to eat. Conversation is easy, and you feel more at ease with him now than you ever had before, a drastic 180 from this morning. You talk about your day, life, post-residency plans; he lets loose a few embarrassing stories from his own residency days, one featuring a very unfortunate Robby being pantsed by a 6 year old in the middle of the ED. Eventually, though, plates are cleared and glasses are downed, a natural lull falling over the conversation.
“So,” he starts, head resting against his palm, arm propped up on the counter, “that photo…” He’s got that sly smirk on his face now, comfortable now to tease you about it.
You groan, burying your head in your arms. He laughed, “you don’t have to explain yourself, but I am curious what series of events led to me receiving that photo,” he said… “a series of events for which I am very thankful for, by the way.”
You turned, resting your head sideways on your arms, and started explaining all about James and his preferences, how he was your only real option for some skin-to-skin contact. Jack, for his part, listened quietly, offering little commentary until you finished your great tale.
“So you’re telling me that this kid can’t even fuck you right, yet he demands you shave before he’ll go down on you?” he asks, a horrified look on his face.
“Welcome to the joys of modern dating,” you joke, shooting him a halfhearted smile.
He shook his head, “unacceptable,” he said before hooking his leg around your stool and pulling you closer. You gasp, steadying yourself with a hand on his thigh as you fight not to topple onto him completely. He was close now, one hand coming up to rest on the hollow of your neck while the other slid up your top, thumb strumming over your ribs.
Jack didn’t hesitate this time. This kiss was different–no less searing, but a little more leisurely–like he wasn’t worried about scarcity anymore, confident that he had the time to take you apart and put you back together again before the night was over. His mouth was molten against yours, tongue delving deep in your mouth and swallowing up the steady stream of desperate whines escaping you.
The hand on your neck coasted upward, tangling in your hair and angling your head back to deepen the kiss. Your hands slid under his shirt, groaning as they came to rest on his tummy. He was warm, the muscle firm under your hands as you lightly scraped your nails over his flesh. His chest rumbled under your touch, the hand in your hair tightening, the twinge of pain a welcome contrast to the overwhelming pleasure of his lips against yours.
He barely broke the kiss to whisper into your mouth, “let me show you what its like to have a real man fuck you. Please, sugar,” he pulled away finally, resting his forehead against yours.
“Please fuck me, Jack,” you said, eyes hooded with lust. A moment later you were being scooped up from the stool and carried toward his bedroom. While Jack focused on not running into anything, you trailed open-mouthed kisses along the length of his neck, sucking the skin between your teeth before soothing it over with your tongue. You nipped gently at his adam’s apple, smiling when he yelped at the contact.
“You’re trouble, you know that?” he chuckled before dropping you down onto his bed, your body bouncing slightly before settling. He stood between your legs, face cradled between his meaty hands. “I want you to listen to me, okay?” he asked, waiting for you to nod before continuing, “I want to do so many filthy, obscene things to you tonight; want to fuck you into oblivion as many times as you’ll let me, but I want you to know that if you want to stop, at any point, you just say the word and we’re done. No questions asked. Understand?”
You nodded once more, but that was insufficient for Jack. “need you to use your big girl words, okay, pretty? Tell me you understand,” he said.
“I understand, Jack. If I want to stop, I’ll tell you,” you replied seriously, even though you knew there was no chance you’d want to stop.
“Good. Now, I want you to take off your scrubs, scoot up to the headboard, and get comfortable while I take care of my leg, okay?”
You did as he bade you, left only in a pair of pink cotton panties and bra. You hadn’t planned on being in this situation, but you were glad they were a matching set at the very least. Settling against his pillows, you watched as he shucked his pants off, the sleek metal of his prosthesis glinting in the low lamplight.
He sat down at the edge of the bed, fingers undoing the mechanism with practiced motions, twisting the appendage off and setting it to the side. The skin looked a little chapped, but not raw, which was a good sign.
“Is there anything I could do to make things more comfortable for you?” you asked. You wanted to make sure he knew you weren’t put off by his leg, wanted to make sure he didn’t feel like he had to overcompensate because of it.
“No, thank you, sugar. You’re doin’ plenty already,” he assured, turning around to face you. His eyes darkened as he took you in, his gaze hungrily raking over your newly exposed skin. He moved to hover over you, forearms braced next to your head as kisses you again, this time a sweet press of his lips against yours before he began trailing his mouth along your jaw and down your neck, laving hot kisses all across your neck and collarbone.
A gasp punches out of you when he sucks harshly at the spot just below the ear, the spot that turns your insides to putty. He grins against you, focusing his attention there until you’re a writhing, moaning mess under him. A hand reaches behind you to make quick work of your bra clasp, the flimsy material soon thrown across the room, forgotten immediately. His hands are on you in a flash, thumbs teasing along the underside of your tits.
Whining, you claw at his shirt, desperately wanting to feel his bare chest against your nipples, and he obliges, one-handedly throwing the thing off. The fine silver hair on his chest scrapes against you, your nails digging into his back as you pull him flush to you. Jack groans, hips involuntarily rutting against you, his hard cock a delicious pressure against your aching cunt. Your hips cant up, chasing the friction and grinding yourself against him.
“Careful, you keep doin’ that and this’ll be over before it even starts,” Jack warns, nipping at your bottom lip before continuing his maddening descent, mouth exploring your breasts–conveniently ignoring your painfully hard nipples. “Jaaaack,” you whine, thrusting your chest upward. He takes the hint, lips suctioning against a nipple and using his tongue to flick the pebbled flesh. Your hand fists in his curls, holding him there as his hand moves to tug at your other nipple. When he decides he’s given enough attention to one nipple, he switches sides, giving the other the same treatment. By the time he moves on, your tits are sure to be sore and red tomorrow, but you could not care less about that right now.
He kissed down your stomach, lips lingering at your navel before pulling back, eyes travelling down between your legs. “Fuck sweetheart, is all this just from me playin’ with your pretty tits?” he asked, eyes fixated on the wet spot on your panties. You whimper in response, mind too fuzzy to form words. His fingers skate over your waistband, your tummy contracting in anticipation. Ever so slowly, he drags your panties down your legs, discarding them over his shoulder as he settles between your legs.
His pupils were blown wide, utterly entranced by your pussy. The attention made you want to shrink in on yourself, your legs subconsciously moving to close, but his wide shoulders and firm grip on your thighs stopped you. “Fuck, sugar, this is what she looks like with some curls on ‘er? And you let some boy convince you she needed to be bald?” He shook his head, a genuinely pained look on his face.
He moved to spread you open for him, thumbs stroking up and down your lips as he took you in. Without warning, he surged forward, pressing a chase kiss against your clit before sitting back and continuing to admire your pussy. You squealed, hips twitching forward in search of more friction, the brief contact making you dizzy with need. It was slightly embarrassing, being watched like this, but you were growing impossibly wetter anyway.
Jack’s hands moved back to your thighs as you squirmed, grip tightening, fingers sinking into your soft flesh just enough to ache, and spread you further open. “Don’t hide from me, pretty girl,” he said, pressing hot kisses from your knee to your inner thigh, stopping right at the crease between your pussy and thigh, breath fanning over your puffy folds. Your clit was throbbing, your hips subtly shifting against nothing.
“‘m gonna show you just how pretty this pussy is, not gonna stop until you feel it,” he said, looking directly into your eyes, “you okay with that?”
No sooner had you nodded than he was on you. He didn’t waste any time, swiping the flat of his tongue through your folds from entrance to clit in one long stroke. His tongue was hot against your cunt, the muscle firm as it lapped hungrily at your folds, exploring every inch of you. He groaned, nuzzling his face deeper into your pussy. “Fuck, you taste better than I could have ever imagined,” he moaned, tongue dipping into your hole to collect the slick gathering there.
He didn’t surface for air, mouth working against you relentlessly; like he’d been deprived of something vital that had been restored to him, and he wasn’t about to let it go again. It was primal, almost animalistic the way he licked, sucked, and nipped at your cunt. Your back arched almost painfully off the bed, hands fisted in the sheets and moans slipping from your lips unbidden.
He alternated between circling your clit in tight little circles with the tip of his tongue, and suckling on it, lips wrapped snug around the bundle of nerves. Your body was hot, your legs trembling as the coil in your core wound tighter. One hand moved to grip his curls, the hair soft between your fingers as you tugged at it. He moaned into your pussy, the vibrations bringing you right to the edge.
“Fuck, right there, Jack,” you gasped, “I’m so close, so–”
“Cum for me, sugar, let me taste you,” he said quickly, head bowing back down to suck your clit harshly, teeth grazing it just the littlest bit.
And you did, white hot pleasure coursing through you, body contorting, legs squeezing his head between your thighs as you rode out your orgasm. You felt like a live wire, your nerves firing on all cylinders while Jack kept gentle pressure on your clit, drawing out your release as long as possible. Jack lapped up all your spend, not letting a drop go to waste. Boneless, you weakly pushed his head away, the overstimulation too much.
He sat back a fraction, face dripping with your juices and his saliva. There was a gleam in his eye as his thumb replaced his mouth, rubbing soft circles against your clit. A high-pitched whine escaped you, your sensitive nub begging for reprieve.
“You can give me another one, can’t you pretty girl?” he asked, voice brooking no argument.
“I d-don’t–fuck–I don’t know,” you blabbered, the painful overstimulation quickly giving way to pleasure, your hips canting forward against his thumb.
“I think you can,” he murmured, swiping a thick finger through your folds before sinking it in and curling lazily against that sweet spot on your front wall. “Fuck, Jack, feels so good,” you moaned, moving you hips in time with his finger. Before you knew it he was adding another finger, a slight sting accompanying the stretch. All you could do was whimper, his fingers switching between slow and deep, and fast and hard strokes.
Your second orgasm hit you without warning, pleasure reverberating through your body from the top of your head to the soles of your feet, your toes curling as you came harder than you ever had in your life. Jack’s fingers kept moving, wringing every last after shock from your body. You were panting now, trying to catch your breath but failing miserably.
And yet, Jack’s fingers were still moving, scissoring you open now. It was too much, the sensations bordered more on pain than pleasure. “I can’t–can’t do a-another one like this,” you stuttered out.
Jack looked at you, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Tell me you have the prettiest pussy,” he said, fingers slowing a fraction as he waited for you to answer, gaze leveled directly at you.
You whined, face heating at the order, “J-Jack, please, just wanna cum on your cock,” you said, hoping it would break his resolve.
“I’ll fuck you as soon as you say it, sugar. Say you have the prettiest pussy.”
You squirmed, cheeks hot as you whimpered, “I can’t–I’m not–” was all you managed to get out before a sharp slap landed on your pussy. You gasped, the pain shocking but not unwelcome.
“If you want to cum on my cock, you have to be a good girl,” he said, face severe as he continued curling his fingers against your sweet spot. “and good girls do what they’re told. So, I want you to say, ‘Jack, I have the prettiest, sweetest pussy’ okay? Can you do that for me, pretty girl?” he asked, thumb circling your clit.
You huffed, trying to catch your breath. “Ja-aack, fuck, I-I have, hng, I have the p-prettiest, sweet–ah–sweetest pussy,” you stammered out.
“Knew you could do it for me,” he praised, fingers leaving your cunt to pull off his boxers. His cock sprang out, curving slightly and resting against his abdomen. It stole the breath from your lungs–It was obnoxiously thick and decently lengthy, tip flushed red and leaking precum steadily. Your hand reached out to feel him, maybe jerk him off a little before he fucked you, but Jack stopped you, pinning your wrist down on the bed. You whined, lip jutting out in a not-so-faux pout.
“I’m trying not to cum in 5 seconds like a teenager, sugar, and if you put your soft hands on me right now I’m not gonna be able to last,” he said, reaching over to his bedside table to grab a condom. He stroked his cock a few times before rolling the condom on and lining himself up with your entrance, neither one of you interested in teasing anymore.
He eased the tip in, your walls fluttering around him to accommodate his girth. Your legs spread open wider for him as he settled between your hips, pushing the rest of his length in slowly until he was flush against your hips, his pelvic bone rubbing your clit just right. The stretch was intense, your walls fluttering and clenching harshly at the intrusion. Your hips wiggled slightly, trying to get used to the twinge of pain from the sheer size of him.
Jack hovered over you, one arm resting next to your head while the other gripped your hip tight. His face was twisted, almost painful looking. “You gotta relax for me, sugar, you’re gripping me like a fuckin’ vise,” he grit out, head falling into the crook of your neck, placing chaste kisses there, trying to loosen you up. You tried, willing your muscles to relax around him.
A few moments passed before Jack was able to move, pulling out to the tip before thrusting back in harshly, setting a brutal pace. You moaned, Jack’s hips snapping hard against you, cock dragging through your walls exquisitely. You tried to keep up with his pace, your hips meeting each thrust, cunt greedily sucking him back in each time.
Your back was arched, hair splayed out across the pillow as you took what Jack gave you.
“So pretty for me, sweetheart,” he said, sitting back on his haunches, “my perfect little pussy.” He grabbed at your thighs, pushing them up toward your chest, knees nearly at your ears. The new angle forced him deeper than before, his thrusts fucking you into the mattress. You were entranced by the view of him fucking you, curls dripping and chest glistening with sweat as he pounded into your pussy.
The room sounded obscene between the slapping skin, your combined moans, and your squelching cunt. Moans were falling from your lips at a near constant rate, and Jack was louder than you’d expected, throaty groans and grunts reverberating like music to your ears.
You’re honestly not sure you’ve ever come more than twice in a night, but it didn’t take as long as you thought for your third orgasm to build, the waves cresting fast. The only thing you could think about was Jack’s cock hammering into your pussy.
“I think I’m gonna, gonna cum again,” you breathed, “don’t stop, Jack, pleasepleasepleasepleeeeeeease,” you keened.
Jack’s hand found your jaw, tilting your face up to kiss him sloppily, “cum for me, baby, let me feel you milk my cock,” he said, thrusts growing more uncoordinated as he neared his orgasm.
It only took a few more deep, punishing trusts before you were coming undone around his cock. You held eye contact with Jack as your orgasm washed over you, your mouth parted wide, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes at the overwhelming sensations. You felt so full, your walls pulsing mercilessly around him.
Jack gripped your hips in both hands, his trusts faster and harder than before as he chased his release. “wanna feel you cum in me Jack,” you croaked, throat raw, hands reaching out to paw at any skin you could.
Jack groaned, hips stuttering a few more times before thrusting deep into you once last time and cumming. He ground his hips into yours, milking every last drop from his cock. You felt the warmth of his cum through the condom, your cunt clenching again at the feeling, your mind already flashing forward to imagine him fucking you raw–you let about another garbled moan at the thought.
Spent, Jack collapsed into you, cock softening inside your still pulsing cunt. His weight on top of you was comforting, grounding you back to earth. You were content to lay there, coming down and catching your breath.
Eventually Jack rolled off of you, disposing of the condom and grabbing a few wet wipes from his nightstand to clean you both up.
He pulled you against his side, big hand petting your hair, “You okay, sugar? Was that too much?” he asked, voice hoarse.
“no, was so good, Jackie,” you mumbled, feeling floaty and sated.
“Good,” he whispered, pressing soft kisses onto your hairline.
You sat in comfortable silence for a while, head resting on his bare chest, his heartbeat a comforting thrum in your ear. One large hand ran up and down the smooth expanse of your back while the other held your hand against his chest, fingers intertwined together.
“I hope you know this isn’t just a one time thing,” he said suddenly, his arm tightening its hold around you.
“No?” you asked, trying to keep the hopeful edge out of your voice.
“Uh-uh, you’re mine,” he says possessively, hand snaking down to cup your sensitive mound, “this is my pussy now.”
You want to be offended, want to point out that you’re more than your cunt. But you know Jack knows that, and more than anything your head grows warm and fuzzy at the thought of being someone’s. Of being Jack’s.
“Yeah, ‘s all yours, Jackie,” you mumble, falling asleep against the gentle rise and fall of his chest, happier than you’ve been in a long time.
a/n: whew that was a lot!! thank you if you made it all the way through!!
Shawn Hatosy characters & their favorite parts of your body MDNI
Sammy Bryant is an ass man (that’s his stress toy. He’s always slipping his hand down your back to palm it, even in public. Everyone knows you’re his anyway, so why should he care if they see him touch you?)
Pope Cody is a boob guy (where else would he lay his head?? Nothing soothes him quite like laying half on top of you, his face turned in to your cleavage, your soft skin against his lips. He’ll lay sideways in your lap, sucking your nipples while you jerk him off, murmuring about how sweet and perfect he is for you.)
Titus Danforth has a thing for necks (so he can mark you as his. He’ll leave the craziest hickies and he absolutely refuses to let you cover them. He likes to fit his palm to the base of your neck and hold you still while he fucks you. He sits you at his feet during meetings, one hand cupping your neck under his desk while you cockwarm him)
Jack Abbot would say some shit like “personality” but really he’s got a thing for your thighs and stomach (he likes to fuck your thighs, he loves to bite the soft swell of your tummy when he goes down on you)
Grant Reilly worships your hands. Soft, but strong (he likes to play with your fingers, intertwine them with his when you go out. He trembles and swears when you jerk him off, your fingers standing out against the flushed skin of his cock.)
Brett Richards loves your hips (he palms them when he walks up behind you and kisses your neck, grips them tight enough to bruise when he goes down on you so you can’t squirm away, uses them as handles to pull you back against him over and over, driving his thick cock into your fluttering hole)
cw: very big gross age gap (19 & 50), somnophilia on both sides, sub/dom dynamics, established relationship, cockwarming, fauxcest (again! yes i know i love it!), slight exhibitionism, lowkey toxic abbot, dingy reader again..
dad bf abbot who loves you very much, but has many strict rules for you, including a bed time. he has to. don’t get him wrong he’s very lenient with you, so he comprises with 10:30, but you still weren’t satisfied. so, when he first told you, you whined out ‘whyyyy?’ but to jack you have to understand.. you’re only nineteen, a literal kiddo to him.. so you need all of your beauty sleep & rest you can get. which is exactly why you will not be having a job with him. you’re only job is to look pretty for him & be his sweet little girl.
dad bf abbot who doesn’t like when you try to do things on his own.. infact he’ll say- “why didn’t you come get me..? let dad help you out okay?” “i’m a big girl, dad! i can do a few things on my own..” he frowns & grumbles at that. if he can’t do things for you then why is he even here?
dad bf abbot who doesn’t care about the weirds stares you two get in public. everyone can clearly see his age spots, greying hair & silver beard, & facial wrinkles- but then they see you.. the cute young girl clinging to his arm with glowing skin & a pretty smile. so when they all see the way you kiss him right on his lips they all wonder, ‘how did he even get someone like her..?’
dad bf abbot who actually doesn’t even let you refer to him as jack, only daddy or dad. but you don’t have a problem with that. it makes you feel safe & protected with him. plus you love all the nicknames he’s gives you. “my girl.” “baby.” “bun.” “doll.” “kiddo.” “princess.”
dad bf abbot who spoils you insanely. like i said he loves having you all dolled up, so, he pays for your nails, makeup, heels & all things girly you love. ask him to paint your toes? he does it. asks him can yall go to the mall? he takes you happily. asking him to help you satisfy yourself when you’re needy?.. he’s working his big cock into you before you know it.
dad bf abbot who can never give you normal kisses. everytime you try to stand on your tippy toes to wrap your arms around him & give him a little peck, jack holds the back your head to push his lips onto yours so he can lick into your mouth & taste your sweet tongue. you immediately love the way his scratchy grey stubble feels on your face- so gruff & jagged. he grunts when he sucks onto your plush lips & laps up your face- planting sloppy kisses everywhere- making you whimper & whine because of him, feeling yourself slipping from the way he’s trying to slowly devour you whole.
dad bf abbot who you gave your first kiss & virginity to actually. when you first told him how inexperienced you were he was so, so fucking hesitant to do anything with you- (he swears he has a conscience) but, the way you looked into his eyes with a hungry need in them & with a heightened lilt in your voice, you managed to convince him so easily- “i trust you, daddy.. i just want you to make me yours.. please.”
dad bf abbot who actually really gross when he’s fucking you. he says shit like- “yeah? you like it when dirty old cock is in your young little pussy hm, kid?” or or “i love fucking stealing your innocence baby.. makes me feel like a filthy pervert.” you don’t do anything but moan & squeal in delight.. loving the way to talks to you with his deep gravely voice.
dad bf abbot who gropes you in public sometimes. taking a handful of your tit or simply going under your skirt & cupping your fat, warm mound. & it looks so filthy from an outliers standpoint.. an old man touching & taking advantage of a young girl.. he hopes no one will ever catch him, or someone might accidentally call the cops.
dad bf abbot who loves the way you suck his cock- flaccid or hard. the way he’s woken up out of his sleep because his little girl was feeling needy- even though she’s supposed to be sleeping. once he gains more consciousness he starts to get hard & throb in your mouth. you moan at way your lips began to widen around him, nose brushing up against his grey pubes. jack tuts at you. “couldn’t even wait for your dad to get up hm?… naughty little girl.”
but it’s also because dad bf abbot likes to do the same to you. on the days he comes home slightly early from his shifts at the crack of dawn & you’re still asleep, he can’t help but to be aroused at your sleeping form. so, he gently crawls on top of you & wastes not a second before pushing his cock into your unprepped hole. vision slightly blury but you can see jack’s shirtless form thrusting above you- and feel him inside you. he’s groaning at the feeling of your pussy stretching around him. when he finally sees your eyes open- he greets you. “morning, my girl. ready for a good day with your dad hm?”
dad bf abbot who loves when you shyly ask to cockwarm him. “m’ feelin so empty..” you say with watery eyes & a shakey tone in your voice. jack wastes no time with pulling out his cock & pressing it into your bare, warm pussy up under your sheer night gown.. you can’t do anything but sigh in relief when you feel him stuffing your cunt to the brim. infact you lay your head on his chest.. drifting off slowly. jack quietly chuckles while stroking your head. he really loves it when you’re clingy like this towards him.
dad bf abbot who really loves & cares about you despite your large age gap. hence why he acts like a dad towards you, because no one can protect & care for you like he can.
a/n: want a dadbf so bad!! im basically just writing out my dreams & thoughts here lol ! hope yall like it <33
oh & i had to use that most recent pic of shawn.. he looks so sexy :0
summary — loving jack always had a price. you just assumed you’d seen the worst of it.
warnings — 4.7k words. ex-spouses with a major case of unresolved feelings, toxic relationship dynamics, codependency, unplanned pregnancy, discussion of abortion (it’s both a genuine deliberation but it can be read as reader using it as a weapon in the argument), vague flashbacks to the divorce (not detailed), emotional cruelty from reader, referenced emotionally painful marriage. reader can be read as too mean plz bear with her
author’s note — yayyyyy part two i hope you guys are enjoying it
There was a certain dichotomy you’d realized was present in you when you presented Jack divorce papers eighteen months ago, yet were now incapable of denying his touch. You had been the one to end it. You were also the woman who’d left her door unlocked at two in the morning for months because if you had locked it, it would’ve said you wanted to keep the person on the other side out. Both things lived in you at once and never fought, there was no war in it. You’d divorced him cleanly and you wanted him constantly; the two facts just sat side by side in you like organs, each doing its quiet work, neither aware of the other.
“You’ve got work,” you said, and you knew that was far from refusing him.
Jack heard that, and it took him slow seconds to fold into the gurney beside you. “I’ve got time to spare.”
He didn’t, and both of you knew that.
It was a gurney built for one, and he was not a small man. You watched him fail to make it work and do it anyway; he got an arm behind you, easing you forward off the rail so he could fit himself into the few inches of mattress. He arranged his own bulk around you with none of the certainty his hands often had. He bumped the line in your arm and went still, careful of it, then moved aside.
He folded himself beside you like the eighteen months hadn’t happened. He settled you off your left hip without a word, the way he'd done it for years, the way his hands knew to do before the rest of him had weighed in. You let him. You hated that you let him. You were too emptied out to do anything but let him, and some part of you that you'd stopped trying to govern wanted the weight of him more than it wanted to win.
The dog tags swung forward when he leaned to get comfortable, and then they were against you; they settled cold at first, against the side of your throat, then went warm as they sat. Your felt your body do the obscene traitor thing of recognizing it as the sound that meant you were allowed to stop being awake.
“This doesn’t fit,” you said. Your voice came out wrecked and small, nothing like you usually used.
He only hummed.
The curtains opened again, then.
Robby came through the gap with his eyes already half-down on the tablet, mouth open on whatever he’d rehearsed walking over, then it stopped. The room wasn’t the same one he’d left, for this one had Jack folded onto a single-width gurney with his arm behind you and his whole body curved around yours like he’d grown there.
Jack stayed exactly where he was; there was no startle or guilty peel-back, nothing that would’ve held onto the cover. He turned his head, slow, and met Robby over the top of yours, and his arm stayed exactly where it was. If anything, it settled with a small claiming pressure against your hip.
You watched Robby’s whole earlier misread come apart behind his face, all of it landing wrong now against the actual picture in front of him. He'd come for something else and he visibly decided to stay on task, because the task was the only safe thing in the room.
“Jack,” he said. “It’s six. The board’s yours.”
You felt the small tension go through Jack as his body registered the pull of the thing that had always, always won. Six o’clock; the department on the other side that was indifferent to what had just detonated in here, the one that needed its attending the same as every night, that had been needing him the entire time he’d been folded around you pretending the clock wasn’t running.
The job, the oldest competitor you’d ever had for him that used to take him out of bed at the worst hours, out of arguments mid-sentence, and out of the marriage by degrees, reasserting itself now, on schedule.
“Give it to Shen for an hour,” he said, almost flatly.
“Shen’s not on till eleven.”
Jack breathed in sharply. “Then give it to yourself for an hour,” he said, and there was an uptick at the end of his sentence.
Robby’s brows went up a fraction, because Jack didn’t hand-off. Jack had built an entire reputation on being the one who never had to make anyone else’s Friday night worse, the one who stayed past his own shift so the next attending walked into a clean board, the one who'd missed two of your anniversaries and a Christmas because someone had to be the one who didn't go home and Jack had decided, permanently, that the someone was him.
Robby had worked beside him for years. Robby had probably never once heard the words come out of his mouth.
You felt it land in you, too, and you hated the place it landed. That had been the thing about Jack and the job; it’d never been about the laziness or ambition or even the easy excuse of patients needing him, though God knew he’d hidden behind that for years. The floor was the one place he was allowed to be needed without being known. Down here, he could pour himself out completely, give everything, be the steady voice and unflinching hands and the man who stayed without it costing him the things staying did with you.
The department took everything he had and never once asked him to say a word about himself. It was the perfect marriage, one he could survive, and he’d chosen it over the one he couldn’t—every single time—until you stopped making him choose.
You wanted to tell him not to bother, that you knew exactly what an hour was worth from a man who’d spent your whole marriage proving the floor came first, and that one borrowed hour eighteen months too late didn’t undo a single missed Christmas. You wanted to be cruel about it the clean way.
“Yeah, alright. I’ve got the hour,” Robby said finally, still watching him with almost curiosity. He paused and looked at Jack a moment longer, something unsurprised in it, like he’d suspected for years Jack had a far side and just had it confirmed. “Take your time.”
He pulled the curtain halfway behind him, then stopped and looked at you. “He gives you any trouble,” he said, nodding at Jack, “tell me. I’ll have him removed.”
The rings dragged shut behind him before Jack could say anything, and it was just the two of you and the drip and the impossible four inches of mattress, and Jack let out a breath you felt move all the way through him, the held-rigid thing in him easing by a fraction now that the door had stopped calling his name out loud.
“Go,” you said into his chest, voice coming out hollow. “I don’t need you here.”
You felt him take the words—he absorbed them instead of returning them—and decided, against every reflex in his body, to stay anyway.
“Of course you don’t,” he said into your hair. “I need to be here, though.”
You sucked in a sharp breath. “One hour.”
You should have pushed him off. You had all the right words for it. But his heart was going too fast against your cheek, scared still, and you were so emptied out; the crying and the floor and the thing growing six weeks inside you. The traitor warmth was rising again underneath the grief, and you were just too tired to clamp it down this time.
You stopped holding yourself up. Your weight went all into him all at once, the same surrender and failure of the legs. You felt the breath go out of him as his arm came all the way around. He gathered the dead weight of you in against his chest like it was the thing he’d been waiting to hold.
You thought, distantly, you should be cataloguing this so you could be appropriately disgusted with yourself later. You should hold onto this fact of his fear, the fact that none of it was free, that a man could hold you like this and still have been the one who had completely torn you apart.
“There,” he murmured, a broken relief. “Okay, I’ve got you.”
There was a part of you, quietly insistent at the back of your head, that this was the first time you were letting yourself fall asleep near Jack since the divorce. No, before that. Long before the papers, since the last year of the marriage had become two countries with a cold strip of sheet for a border and you’d both lain on your sides pretending to sleep.
You hadn't slept like this in two years. Maybe longer. You couldn't pin the last time because you hadn't known to mark it, the way you never knew to mark the last time anything good happened until you were standing a long way past it.
You were going under, the room pulling far and soft the way it had before you hit the floor. The last thing you felt before you lost it was his heart slamming and his body rigid and wide awake beneath you, holding himself together by main force so you could come apart, and you let yourself go anyway, because you couldn't not, because his chest was the only place the floor had ever held and you were too tired tonight to pretend it wasn't.
This was far from safe. You knew that. He was the least safe place left in the world.
You woke to a ceiling you didn’t immediately recognize in a dark room with the lights dialed to their lowest setting, not off, never off in this building, but dimmed to the brown-amber of a monitor on standby. A family room, you placed after a second. The one off the back hall with a couch that folded out. Jack had moved you there, probably carried or walked or wheeled you to a room where you could sleep without the overheads cooking you awake. The knowing of that—that he’d thought it all through—sat in your chest like a swallowed stone.
There was a blanket over you that was heavier than the cotton waffle-weave they kept in the warmer. It had a cedar scent, faint, the same one that had lived in his locker for years because he sometimes ran cold and refused to admit it.
The line was gone from your arm; someone had pulled it and taped a cotton ball into the crook of your elbow, the tape overlapped carefully. It was in Jack’s way, only his. Your shoes were by the couch, set together, toes to the wall. Your badge was on the side table, clipped to nothing. He’d unclipped your badge so it wouldn’t dig into anything while you slept.
He’d done all of it without waking you. A man could take his ex-wife down a hall and do a dozen tending things with his hands, and never have once met her eyes while he did them. You’d been unconscious for the only version of Jack that knew how to take care of you.
The space beside you was cold. Your hand went looking before you’d decided to send it, flat across the vinyl where his heat should have been, and there was nothing. Your fingers drifted up to the side of your throat next, the hollow under your jaw where the tags settled their weight when he leaned over you, and you found your pulse instead.
What came up first—before the grief—was relief.
It was cowardly and it filled you to the back of the teeth. He was gone, and his being gone meant you wouldn’t have to do the other part. You wouldn’t have to sit up and find his face going blank. You wouldn’t have to acknowledge you’d sobbed yourself empty into his shirt then accounted for it over the top of a paper cup of bad coffee.
He’d left, and that handed you the one thing you were good at holding: the version that none of it happened.
You sat up, and the room slid bright then dim at the edges. Underneath the dizziness was the other fact, the six-weeks-old one, riding quiet under your ribs through every gray-out, and you breathed around it and stood anyway. You got down to your shoes where he’d left them and worked them on.
You folded his blanket over the arm of the couch and you didn’t let yourself hold it to your face first, though the wanting was right there, quick and humiliating. You clipped your badge back to your waistband and left the family room. The hall caught you in its fluorescence all at once, that flat ER light that made everyone look a little dead, and you kept your eyes down and aimed for the ambulance bay doors because the lot was through them and the car was in the lot and the car was the whole plan.
You made it past the supply alcove and the second set of doors before you heard your name.
“Oh, good. You’re vertical.” Ellis, coffee in hand, fell into step beside you. “Park had to finish your consult, by the way.”
“Yeah.” You didn’t have anything for it. “I’ll find him.”
“You don’t look like you’re finding anyone,” she said, the words coming out easy but still slowing to match your pace, which told you what she actually thought. “You’re off home?”
“Unless someone’s found me a second job to faint at, yeah.”
“Smart.” She was already peeling off the way she came. “Drink water. Drive safely.”
You let out a laugh devoid of humor. “No promises.”
She lifted the coffee at you and turned to go. Her eyes caught on something past your shoulder, and you felt it before you heard it, the way the air in a hallway shifted when he walked into it.
“You’re up,” Jack said from behind you.
Ellis took in the picture and quickly decided that she wanted to be anywhere but here. “I’ll leave you to it.”
You stopped because your body stopped before you'd ruled on whether to, and you turned and there he was at the mouth of the corridor with a chart in his hand he was not looking at.
He came down the hall and toward you. “How’s the head?”
“Fine. I slept it off.” You hitched your bag higher on your shoulder, which was a small flag to say you were leaving, and he caught it.
“You don’t have to bolt.” He stopped a few careful feet off, close enough to lower his voice while being far enough to not corner you in. “Give me twenty minutes. I’ll finish on a patient and I’ll drive you. You shouldn’t be behind the wheel after going down.”
“I’m okay to drive.”
“You went gray today,” he said, his voice even. He raised a brow at you, like he was trying to make you see his point. “Twenty minutes. I’ll get you a real meal first. Or I take you home and we get something on the way.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw when you went quiet. “Or I’ll call out. I’ll call out, I’ll come with you, you don’t have to—” He stopped himself when you started shaking your head in the middle of his words, recalibrating in real time, hearing how much of himself had spilled into the offers.
“Just because I’m pregnant doesn’t mean I’m helpless,” you said.
His thumb moved against the edge of the chart, finding the corner and working it. “I didn’t say that.”
“Then what is this?”
A tech rolled a cart past behind him and he shifted his weight to let it through without ever moving his eyes off you, still like he was making sure he wouldn’t flinch.
When he spoke again, his voice had dropped out of the hallway and into the register that had no audience in it, the one aimed directly for you, and hearing it out here under the lights with his clothes on did something to the floor of your stomach.
“Can we talk about this.” It came out as anything but a question. His eyes dropped to your middle then back up, so fast you would’ve missed it had you not been trained in him.
Your brows narrowed as your hand went over your stomach. To shield it or simply try to erase it from his view, you weren’t sure.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” you said flatly. “Not for another seventeen weeks anyways.”
You watched him take the sentence and turn it over for the meaning, and you watched the number do its work behind his eyes—the number, the window he knew to the day because of course he knew it—and you watched the second it arrived.
“Are you actually considering that?” His voice had gone rough, like he was forcing the words out.
They’d set themselves into your orbit wrong, because there was no doctor left in him—nothing neutral—and there was only the bare thing underneath, the disbelief that you were going to close the door.
You let out a laugh that sounded more like a broken breath. “Bye, Jack.”
Three days later, Jack came to get Kevin.
He texted first—heading over for him, 20 min—with no question in it, because Kevin was the one thing the two of you could still do without negotiation. Wednesdays were his.
You buzzed him up without saying a single word back. You heard him on the stairs—you knew the weight of him on the staircase—and you’d already got the leash, the half-bag of food, and his joint chews lined up by the door so the handoff would be thirty seconds, so it could be nothing. You needed it to be an exchange where two reasonable adults move a dog between them and don’t bleed on each other doing it.
You opened the door before he knocked; he had his hand half-raised and lowered it slowly.
“Hey,” he said.
You handed him the leash. Kevin was already losing his mind at the sight of him, the whole back of the dog going, and Jack crouched to take the assault of it with one hand buried in the scruff, his eyes coming up to you over the dog’s head. You’d handed him the food and the leash and were holding the door like that said the rest of it.
He looked at the door, at you, and then you watched him decide to not take the easy exit you’d built for him.
He stood up, making Kevin get on his hind legs to scratch at Jack’s hip. “So, we’re not even gonna say hi now?” he said looking at the bag of food that had found its way into his hand.
“Hi, Jack,” you said, fingers tightening around the door. “There’s his food. He’s been scratching at the left ear again, so—”
“I am not asking you about the ear.”
“—so you might want to have someone look at it, or I will, on Friday.”
“Oh, my god—” He stopped, and his jaw worked. Kevin sat down between the two of you and looked up, ready, leash in his mouth now because he’d learned to carry it himself, oblivious. “You’ve been like this since you found out. You won’t—” He exhaled through his nose. “I texted you about a gyno—I sent you a name. A good one. You didn’t even—”
“I didn’t ask you for a name.”
“No. You don’t ask me for anything.” It came out before he could quiet it down, and you watched him hear it and land in the air with more weight than he’d meant to give it. “That’s sort of the problem.”
There it was, the door you’d held open so carefully, and he’d walked past it into the apartment anyway.
“Don’t,” you said.
“We both did this.” He held the bag of food in his fist, and he didn’t try to come past the doorway. “I keep—you keep looking at me like I did this to you. You were in that bed too. You let me in. You don’t get to—”
“We both did not do this.” Your hand came off the door and flat to your stomach before you’d told it to, and you saw his eyes track the motion and stick there, and you hated that you’d explicitly brought attention to where this lived. “You want to split the bar tab, fucking fine, Jack. Split it. But this part’s mine. And I’ll fix it. For both of us, since you’re so big on both.”
Something in his face went pale. “I don’t want you to,” he said, low and stripped. “I don’t want that.”
You should have let that be the last thing. You knew that the merciful move, the one a better-built woman would make, was to close the door on the both of you. But he’d carried his weight up the stairs and the meanness was already loaded somewhere under your tongue and you'd already decided, without deciding, to fire it.
“Why?”
He blinked as he moved around his mouth, a nervous tell. Kevin had given up on the both of you and flopped down across the threshold, half in the hall, his ribs going up and down, the leash still hooked in his teeth out of some loyalty to the idea of a walk.
“Why don’t you want me to do it?” You stepped in off the door, which was the wrong direction and toward him. “Go on. Say it. Tell me.”
“You know why.” His thumb found the rolled top of the bag and worried it, the same restless thing his hands did to a glass, to a pen, the tell he didn't know he had and you'd had years to learn.
You felt something behind your ribs knot at that. The pen sliding back across the table at you.
You say it. You’ve always been the one that says it. You do it better.
You’d said ‘I love you’ into the dark of a call room first, twenty-nine and stupid with it. You’d said ‘let’s just go to bed, we’ll talk tomorrow’ a hundred times into the back of his neck. You’d said the word ‘divorce’ first, out loud, because he’d stood across from you with it lodged behind his teeth and made you reach down your own throat to pull it out into the air where it became real. Five years of finishing Jack; a whole marriage being his interpreter, translating his silences into things he never had to put his name under.
“No.” Your voice gave at the seam and you let it go rather than fight it in front of him. “No. You don’t get to—not this time. You can’t get away with it this time.”
“Please.” His voice went low, lips moving like there were a million things behind them caged. “Just think about this. Let—” It died there, and he started over. “Don’t do anything yet. That’s all I’m—just don’t do it yet.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“I’m not—”
“If I keep it, it’s not for you,” you said, shaking your head slowly, and felt the words come out colder than the room, cold enough that some small lucid part of you flinched away from your own mouth even as the rest of you reached for the next one. “Don’t ever get that twisted.”
His thumb stopped on the bag.
“And you don’t get to ask me for anything. Not when you can’t even say why.” Your voice came out even, which took everything and cost more than crying would have. “You want it? Say one true thing.”
He didn’t. Down through the floor came the muffled bassline of the couple below you, the ordinary Wednesday of people whose lives didn’t face the same detonation every day. Kevin had given up on the walk entirely and was now turning to his side on the threshold, pawing at the ground.
“Right,” you said, nodding.
He stood in the frame of your door with the food against his hip, and that one muscle going in his jaw, and you wanted to take it off his face with your bare hands, wanted to get under the flat of him and find the thing it was sitting on top of, the way you used to be able to, the way only you ever could.
“That’s funny,” you said, teeth grinding slightly. “You had a lot to say once.”
You watched the color go out from under his stubble in that same downward draining, the blood leaving a face by degrees, and his hand came up off his hip an inch and hung in the air of your kitchen with nowhere it was allowed to come down.
Because there had been one time in five years Jack got a sentence out whole and clean on the first pass. The one time he’d looked at you across a living room of the house you no longer drove past and said the thing he meant, all of it, so evenly.
You’d asked for it; you’d stood in front of him with your hands shaking and begged him to tell you, and he had. Of every sentence caged in him, of everything he might have finally let out, he'd been articulate about that one. On his first try with no problem at all.
You’d asked for honesty and he’d handed you the single cruelest true thing he owned, and then he’d gone quiet again for the rest of it and made you do the housekeeping; the divorce, the paperwork, the saying-out-loud. Because apparently that was the deal, he’d said the unsurvivable thing and made you carry it the rest of the way.
“You know I didn’t mean that,” he said, voice hoarse.
“I don’t,” you said, heat building up behind your eyes. You’d go back down on the floor before you’d cry in front of him again. “I really, really don’t, Jack.”
Some part of you had wanted him to fight it. Some animal part that had been hoping for a wall to throw yourself against, and he’d given you what he always gave you instead, which was the absence of one, the open air where resistance should have been, so that you went through it and kept going and there was nothing on the other side but the cold.
“I’ll have him back before six on Friday,” he said to the bag. “If that’s—if that works.”
“It works.”
Kevin, hearing the word Friday, hauled himself up with a groan and pressed his skull into Jack’s knee. You watched Jack’s hand go down to the dog’s head without looking and he scratched the spot behind the left ear, the bad one, and Kevin leaned his whole stupid weight into it. For a second, the two of them just stood in the doorway, the man and the dog, the only easy thing left between the two of you.
You cleared your throat. “Get the ear looked at.”
“I will.”
He clipped the leash and straightened. There was a moment—you felt it coming—where he looked like he might try one more time, might reach back into himself for the sentence he'd left in halves on your kitchen tile.
“Alright,” he said finally, which was nothing. He got the dog to the door. The cedar of him moved past you in the chokepoint of the hall, close, close enough that your body did the unforgivable thing it always did and tipped a half-degree toward the warmth before you caught it and stood it back up straight.
At the top of the stairs he paused without turning around. You saw his shoulders rise with one of those breaths he took that bought him a second he didn't have, and you braced for whatever it was.
Then he let the breath go without anything riding out on it, and went down, the right side favored, the uneven weight you'd have known in the dark in any building in any life, the tags ticking, the dog’s nails on the stairs, the whole sound of him getting smaller by degrees until the street door went and took the last of it.
Summary: When you’re lost in a sub drop spiral after being ghosted, Jack’s the one person who realizes what’s actually going on – and knows how to fix it.
Tags/Notes: hurt/comfort, getting together, sub drop, established friendship/maybesomethingship, dom!jack, sub!reader, light daddy kink, lots and lots of praise, body worship, inspection kink, fingering (f), oral (f), aftercare/sweetness, this is really just a very very soft bdsm fic establishing a dynamic it’s not anything wild and is very tame, also langdon is mean in this sorry
Content Warnings: the sub drop depicted here is very self-hatred/self-punishment focused. there is also a scene where reader and langdon are handling a complicated high stress emergency birth, jack to the rescue, but if that’s a potential trigger the scene can easily be skipped past. also a major grey’s anatomy season 11/12 spoiler? in case?
Author's Note: this won the weekly “(finish your) wip wednesday” poll by a whopping .8% so just know your vote matters more here than in your national elections!
Word Count: 16.5k
Stupid.
That’s the only word you’ve been able to use to describe yourself for two whole days.
So stupid it hurts.
You’re gripping the lip of your bathroom sink hard enough to ache just to ground yourself to some semblance of reality as you try to convince yourself not to call off work. This is a stupid reason to call off work. It’s a stupid thing to be so upset about in the first place. You’re being stupid, stupid, stupid. You wash your face robotically, scrubbing hard enough to roughen your cheeks until they sting, and wipe your skin harshly with an old towel. You’re trying to make your face look alive instead of half-dead like it’s been since Friday night.
Digging through your dirty laundry, you find the most acceptable pair of Figs you can, maroon from last Thursday, and tug them on. You didn’t do your laundry this weekend. Couldn’t. The scrubs barely cover the bruises at the tops of your arms, a fading reminder of when you still had hope for a new dynamic that could give you what you want. Need. If you’re being honest. You imagine in excruciating detail someone at work catching you with bruises. Fuck, is that a hickey above your neckline? Dammit, you told the guy not to do that. Stupid, desperate, useless – and in med school. Good work, Lefty.
Turtleneck it is.
The whole bus ride over – you miss the first one, of course – you’re just trying not to cry. Eyes burning, breaths shallow, little old ladies glancing your way with concern on their faces. You fidget with your sleeves, pick at your hang nails, anything to avoid checking your phone for the billionth time to see if he’s messaged you or returned your calls or done anything but give you the radio silence that’s had you questioning yourself every second of every day since he left you in your bed.
Pushing into the hospital, you take a few deep breaths and try to let the familiar sterile smell steady you. The clock in the locker room nags at you for being half an hour late. The tears nip at your waterline again and you focus on the deep breaths, giving yourself mental orders to keep your head on straight. Open your locker. Put your bag away. Clip on your badge. Head to the nurse’s station. Plaster on an apologetic smile and beg.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” you say as you check in with Dana. “I missed my bus by, like, thirty seconds and-”
“Save it, kid, we need you working ASAP.”
She hands off your clipboard with notes from the day shift and you pore over it as quickly as you can. With embarrassment burning your lungs, you mumble, “Right. Of course. Thank you.”
You turn around – and walk directly into Langdon after not even three steps.
“There’s my favorite fourth year,” he sighs sharply. “Late and careless; strong start to the night as usual, Lefty.”
“Sorry, Dr. Langdon, I just-”
“Can it. We’ve got an MVC five minutes out and I need you to take my patients in six and nine.”
You nod quickly and take a step back from him because you can’t breathe all of a sudden. “No problem. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“From you?” He rolls his eyes. “I’m sure I won’t.”
It cuts you deep. Frank’s been sharp with you for years now and usually it slides right off your back; most nights, you can even match him and reach a point where he borders on respecting you. But not tonight. Tonight, you take the charts from him and walk away, meek as a mouse. Your heart’s pounding and your palms are sweaty just from the way he looked at you. Like you’re stupid.
Because you are.
And everyone knows it.
The universe apparently can’t even give you one second of pity, though, because the next person you walk into – shoulders bumping too hard – is Dr. Abbot. Unlike Langdon, though, he immediately steps back. “Shit, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
Oh god. You can’t look at Dr. Abbot right now. Sweet, intense, gorgeous Dr. Abbot. His eyes are always too sharp, seeing right through you, with that edge of paternal kindness that makes your knees weak. With your eyes anywhere but his face, you grimace and reply, “All good. Don’t worry.”
I always worry about you. He gives your shoulder a soft squeeze and says, “It’s good to see you, ace. Didn’t see your check-in on the shift board earlier.”
Your eyebrows pinch together. You miss the first half of the greeting, of course, brushing past anything nice anyone could have to see about you because it couldn’t be true. Instead, that familiar coil of guilt wraps tighter around your throat. “Fuck, I know, I’m sorry, it was just a really slow start to the day and I was running for the bus and I missed it by like thirty seconds and…”
As your voice trails off into self-conscious awareness, he presses gently, “And?”
He’s the first person so far who hasn’t interrupted you. So you have to stop yourself because what would’ve come tumbling out would be way too much for the workplace and especially for Dr. Abbot specifically. You force a half-smile. “Nothing. Just a hard weekend. But, y’know, Dr. Langdon asked me to take his patients, so I’m getting back on the horse.”
He shakes his head. “Hand those off to Javadi; we’ve got an MVC coming in.”
You hold onto them like a lifeline, though. “Dr. Abbot, I, um, I think I’d like to keep Dr. Langdon’s patients instead. If that’s okay with you, I mean.”
He studies you for the spare few seconds he has. “Are you sure? I’m guessing Langdon was just being a dick. We could use you.”
“No, I- I don’t mind.” Before he can prod, you avert your eyes and stammer out, “I’m, um, I’m kind of still recovering from the weekend. Need to, I dunno, warm up a little, I guess.”
Jack tilts his head at you. Curious. Eyes narrowing. “Alright. I’ll page Javadi.”
Relief floods you.
The last thing you need right now is pressure. A life in your hands.
Precisely why it was stupid of you to take a risk like you did on Friday. You can’t act like this in emergency medicine and you know it. You know it but you still decided to be selfish and desperate and pathetic and-
“I can see you overthinking something from here.” Jack’s hand goes to your shoulder and your eyes snap upwards at the interruption to your derailing train of thought. Suddenly his tone lowers and he takes one small step closer to you. You smell his sharp aftershave. Then he says in that perfectly gravelly voice of his, “You know you can talk to me, right?”
You hear your voice threatening to break as you reply, “Of course. Thank you.”
But he doesn’t move his hand. And he doesn’t drop his eye contact. Your heart rate starts to pick up because you can see the care in his eyes and it’s too much for you to cope with. You need to be small, invisible, a crack in the wall he walks past without paying attention to. But he goes on, “I mean it, ace. Everyone has their off days, especially in this job. Find me if you need someone to talk to.”
His offer is so human it borders on hysterical. You honestly want to laugh. Off days. This isn’t an off day. This isn’t a normal med student having a normal slip in their composure. This is your own fault and you just have to get through it. So you try to muster your courage and assure him, “I’m fine.”
“You don’t always have to be,” he murmurs softly. Then the sound of sirens at the nearest bay takes his attention. You don’t catch him cursing under his breath as if the incoming trauma is nothing more than a distraction from being able to talk to you first and foremost. Finally his hand leaves your arm and he repeats, “Find me if you need me, okay?”
With your heart pounding against your chest, you nod. “Okay, Dr. Abbot. Thanks.”
And, finally, blessedly, you can escape.
For once, you’re thankful that Langdon was being a dick. He’s pawned off two incredibly easy cases to you, which means you can breathe and calm down as you check on them. You definitely give too much attention to the nervous, heavily pregnant patient who has nothing wrong with her but needs reassurance. And you listen to every single concern from the man whose wife took a fall and broke her wrist. She’s healthy as a horse otherwise, as she repeatedly insists, but there’s something soothing about helping him eliminate everything from the mental checklist that’s been driving him crazy with fear for hours on end. You manage to make it all the way to your lunch break without being snatched into any life-or-death situations, hiding in the comfortable shadows of scut and stitches.
Meanwhile, in every quiet moment of supervising the trauma, Jack replays your conversation. Something about your expression felt too familiar to him. The darting of your slightly glassy eyes, stuck on a skipping record going between thoughtlessness and overthinking a million times a second. Too far away but also claustrophobically close. One hand twitching at your side while the other gripped the chart for dear life. Too many contradictions to fit inside your precious, shallow-breathing body.
As soon as both his patients are stabilized and headed up to surgery, Jack’s scanning the ED for your familiar silhouette. He’s done two full laps before deciding concretely that you aren’t with any patients and you aren’t handling any traumas. He finds you in one of the breakrooms, standing with the fridge door open and your brows furrowed.
Just to start the conversation, Jack puts on a soft lilt and tries a joke first. “Whitaker forget his leftovers in there again? You’re mean-mugging the shelves.”
Slowly, robotically, you close the fridge. Still looking at the handle, you reply, “I thought I packed myself a lunch, but I guess I didn’t.”
He doesn’t miss how absent your voice sounds. Like a glass shattered on the kitchen floor that you’re trying to piece back together without nicking your bare hands.
That’s when Jack realizes.
The hesitation in your movements. The foggy way you’re speaking.
You’re dropping.
Well, more accurately, you’ve dropped. You’re in the middle of it now.
Jack’s been a dom since soon after he left the army. He missed the structure, the protocol, the sense of control. In emergency medicine, he’s always putting out fires that someone else started. When he’s with a sub, he gets to break someone down and build them back up, to make the decisions and get the rewards that come from them, to be the center of someone’s universe for even a few moments. More importantly, he has someone to care for. That matters more than he would’ve admitted when he was a cocky 25 at one of the local kink clubs.
He’d had suspicions about you before. How you puff up your chest at the slightest praise, how you crave rules and rewards in equal measure, how you’re always so hesitant to answer questions about your personal life and especially your dating life. All things that he could write off easily – but, now, with your eyes clearly searching for something you can’t find, the details are slotting into place.
With you still frozen in place, Jack takes his own lunchbox from the fridge. Then he touches the small of your back, nods at the nearby table, and tells you firmly, “Sit with me. Have half my sandwich and we’ll both get something from the vending machine after. The good one on the third floor.”
You stare at him for a second. Gears grind against each other in your mind. Autopilot flicks on. “That’s okay, Dr. Abbot, I can just- It’s alright. I’ll order something to the hospital.”
“You won’t,” he counters. Soft. Certain. You’re lying to him and he knows it. His expression says you won’t be getting away with that. He pulls out a chair at the table and insists, “Sit.”
It’s uncomplicated. Direct. Clear.
Your current haze has turned even the most mundane tasks into foreign mazes, but Jack’s decisive, simple instruction feels like a map to get out.
So you sit.
He sits with you.
You try to argue again when he cuts the sandwich in half on the diagonal, but a single look from him quiets it. He slides it over on a hospital paper plate and asks, “Where’s your water bottle?”
Staring at the objectively delicious-looking sandwich – Jack goes all out with fancy bread and farmer’s market fillings – with no semblance of hunger, you tell him, “I left it in my locker. I’ll go and grab it in a minute.”
He shakes his head and stands. “I’ll get it now. Does your locker have a lock on it?”
The answer settles heavy in your gut. You whisper, ashamed, “I forgot to put it on this morning.”
Christ, he wants to strangle whoever left you alone like this. He doesn’t know what’s going on in your personal life – if this is a breakup, a hookup, a mistake – but he knows a good partner wouldn’t leave someone who looked even a fraction as broken as you look right now. Most of your coworkers are surely assuming this is just ‘one of those days.’ Even Abbot had thought that at first. But now he can see the splinters in your irises. You can’t push through this on your own. You need someone else to put you back together.
Not wanting to overstep or push prematurely, he gently touches the top of your head and says, “Just eat. I’ll be right back.”
Jack swears he’s never made the walk to and from the locker room faster. No matter how fast he goes, though, he can’t outrun your racing thoughts. When he returns, you haven’t touched a bite of the sandwich, just picking apart tiny pieces of the crust. In that moment, he guesses you haven’t had a full meal since…whenever this started. He saw you at work on Friday, so sometime this weekend. He sits down across from you and hands over your water bottle. “Here. Drink some.”
You take a few small sips of water and mutter a thank you.
Jack doesn’t say anything, but the way he looks at the tiny mountain of crumbs you’re creating on your plate bores through your skin. He knows you’re putting off eating. When he lifts his own triangle to his mouth, you do the same, mirroring his movements. You don’t want to disappoint him, too. He swallows, you swallow. He takes a swig of water, you take a swig of water. He doesn’t push you to talk, least of all to interrogate you about your mood, but his presence anchors you.
Before you know it, you’ve actually finished eating. You hadn’t felt hungry, but you somehow notice its absence.
Then Jack smiles at you. Sincere and warm. “Good job. I’m proud of you.”
The words open up a dusty window in your chest. A touch of warmth and light breaks through the mildew and cobwebs. Objectively, you know it’s silly. Proud of you for…eating half his food? For doing the absolute bare minimum to keep yourself alive? But that’s not what your brain’s saying right now. Your mind is begging for more of his soft affirmations. All you can manage is a soft, “Thank you.”
Jack watches you incredibly closely from there. He’s not sure if he should bring it up to you. That he knows. It would seismically shift the dynamic of your relationship. If he plays it wrong – makes you feel embarrassed, ashamed, afraid – then you’re never going to see him as anything but a dom and you as a sub, a permanent power imbalance that goes far deeper than mentor and student ever could. You’ll always feel like a weak, pathetic little thing if he doesn’t handle your drop correctly.
While he decides whether or not to reveal his hand, he resolves to help you in a way he knows only he can. Sure, you could go to Dana the way you often do when you need something. You can vent to Whitaker or lean on Ellis. But there are ways he can support you that are unique. That’s what he tells himself as he scribbles your name in the journal he’s kept for his past subs, writing out his observations about your current state and how he thinks he can address it. He always makes sure to keep himself in order first and foremost. If he brings his best self to you, he’ll inherently help more than if he didn’t dedicate time to it.
He resolves to guide you as much as he reassures you, to praise you twice as often as he corrects you, to watch out for you and shield you. And he’ll make sure you eat, take your breaks, and don’t push yourself too hard. That’s what you need to get through this. Someone to see you. Someone to care for you. If he’s careful, you won’t even notice the role he’s going to step into until you’re sure on your feet again.
He tells himself it doesn’t have to mean anything. That this isn’t an admission of the feelings for you that he’s been shoving deep down for – if his drunken confessions to Robby are anything to go by – years. You’re older than most of the students in your year, more sure, and kinder. Life has made you kind the same way it’s made you vulnerable. He needs that in his life, a compliment to his closed-off brashness. You bring out his ability to be open with patients and softer with his doctors.
So helping you through this certainly isn’t about his feelings. It’s for the good of the night shift and the hospital as a whole, really.
Really.
After another shit day of sleep and half-finished breakfast, you’re more irritated than anything the next night when you clock in. At least you’re on time today, so there aren’t any jabs about your arrival – which is good, considering you’re ready to bite the head off anyone who bothers you. You felt it before you even fell asleep this morning, restless and sweaty. Your racing thoughts have stopped pulling you under and now they’re just pissing you off. You’re fidgety and annoyed with fingers that flutter absently at your side and a jumpy heart rate that leaps when anything catches you off guard.
While you flip through the charts left by the day shift, Jack strolls into the ED with two boxes of donuts from a shop he knows you like. He breezes past, giving you a warm smile, and takes them straight to the breakroom. Unsurprisingly, a row of ducklings follows him to snag their favorite ones. You don’t bother; your stomach still feels more like a twisted fist than something you actually want to put a meal into. You’d made it through half a bowl of cereal before your shift, which is the best you’ve done on your own since Friday.
But, as you start to put together an order of operations for the first half of the shift, Jack approaches you with his hands behind his back. “Morning, ace.”
“Evening, Dr. Abbot,” you reply without looking up.
“Just wanted to make sure I let you know how good of a job you did yesterday with Mrs. Jacobs yesterday. The pregnant patient with anxiety. She filled out a patient satisfaction survey-” which Jack had personally asked her to do “-and you got tens across the board.”
That perks you up slightly. “Really?”
He nods, happy to see you on the verge of smiling, and grabs an iPad from the charging station. You don’t notice him setting down a small box so he can handle it. After tabbing through for a minute, he reads off, “‘When I left, I felt heard, like she actually cared about me as a person. It’s the most validated I’ve felt by a medical professional in a long time.’” Jack’s smile is affectionate. Proud. Like he’s really seeing you for who you are. “Great work. Bedside manner is one of the hardest skills for doctors to master. Keep it up.”
Trying not to let your lip wobble, you near-whisper back, “Thank you for telling me. It means a lot to know I didn’t screw everything up yesterday.”
Moving his large hand to your arm, he corrects, stern in a way that makes you bite your lower lip inadvertently, “You didn’t screw up anything.”
“But I didn’t help with that car crash and-”
He shakes his head. Something in the way he does it – maybe the tiny scoff under his breath, maybe the way his silver hair catches the light, maybe just the fact that he’s slowing down your inner monologue – makes you shut your mouth to listen to whatever he’s going to say. He gives your arm one more gentle squeeze and tells you seriously, “Being a good emergency medicine doctor is about more than scrubbing in for complicated, impressive procedures and saving lives with beating hearts in your hand. Your notes were perfect, you cared about your patients, and you showed up. It’s the beginning of your career; I’d say that’s damn good.”
After biting back tears for a minute, you put on a semi-teasing smile and nudge him. “You’re being awfully nice today, Dr. Abbot. Compliments, donuts.”
“I’m always nice,” he replies, smirking conspiratorially. He nods back towards the breakroom and asks, “What’s your go-to?”
Grimacing, you reply, “I usually get a bear claw, actually.”
“I’m glad I remembered correctly.” Jack takes the smaller box he’d set down and opens it to flourish a big, fluffy, thickly-glazed bear claw like a proud magician, holding it out to you with wax paper. “Got one for you special.”
Your irritation at the day so far breaks. When you look up at Jack, it’s with eyes that are innocent and wide. You take the bear claw from him like it’s an engagement ring or something even more precious. A crown jewel. Your voice goes a little breathless as you ask, “You remembered my favorite pastry?”
He chuckles, “The gray adds ten years; my mind’s not going on me yet. Maybe I should dye it so people stop assuming I’m ancient.”
You giggle, “No, the gray is sexy.”
You only realize you’re saying it when it’s already tumbled out of your mouth. As pink creeps into Jack’s cheeks, you snap your lips shut and avert your eyes. Fuck, you’re so disoriented you actually said it out loud instead of keeping it in that apparently very, very smooth brain of yours. Stupid. The word that’s been haunting you just keeps on knocking around your psyche. You stammer out, “Sorry, Dr. Abbot, that was- I’m sorry. I’m still, um, waking up.”
Then he reaches forward and tilts your chin up with his thumb and forefinger. The gesture is way too intimate for standing in the middle of the ED, but the world has just narrowed in to the two of you and nothing else, so you don’t care in the slightest. God, his hazel eyes. They’re smoldering with warmth. You want to curl up by his feet. To have him hold you. To rest under his protection. When he’s satisfied at your eye contact, he slowly withdraws his hand and says, low and firm, “Don’t apologize. Eat.”
There’s no way out of eating the hearty pastry – it’s not like you can put it in your backpack or trash it right in front of him – so, even though your brain is still screaming that you don’t deserve to eat by not sending hunger cues, you take a bite. If nothing else, the soft sugary flavor is nice. Jack doesn’t move and you can tell it’s a silent order, like when he ate lunch with you yesterday. So you force yourself to take another bite and then another. When you finish it, you lick the sugary glaze from your fingers and Jack prays you don’t notice how his eyes are glued to your pretty lips.
After rolling his shoulders, Jack praises, “Good job. We can get going now. You’re shadowing me today.” Nodding in another direction, he informs you, “We’re starting off rounds in trauma four.”
He didn’t offer you any other options, so you can’t go searching for them. The thousand directions your day could’ve gone in fizzle away into one path: You’re shadowing me today. His clarity is pure relief compared to the chaos of your mind.
You follow behind him obediently and start the shift.
Things make more sense when you’re under Jack’s direct supervision instead of Langdon’s or even Dana’s. You feel more like yourself, like you can trust your own hands because you know there’s a second pair waiting in case you fail. Any time he lets you take the lead on a minor procedure, even something as simple as sutures, he places a hand on your back or your waist or your arm, never holding you too close or too hard to be suspicious. It doesn’t melt you; it builds you. He’s scaffolding.
You’re just starting to feel like your feet are firm beneath you when all the attendings are pulled into a major trauma, leaving you unmoored without the north star of Jack for you to follow. You’re taking a rare moment to fill your water bottle and drink it when you hear Langdon’s voice a few rooms down.”
“Lefty, get in here!” He sounds seriously urgent, in his gown and gloves, so you jog over right away. He’s tying on your gown before you’ve even gotten a look at the patient. “You’ve done a vaginal delivery before, yeah?”
Gloving up, you nod and confirm, “A handful – supervised.”
He leads you back into the room where a barely-conscious patient with a gnarly head wound is in very, very active labor. There’s a lot of blood around her head and neck; you can’t tell what’s wrong. But Langdon focuses you: “OB’s on the way from her house, but I have to focus on getting mom stabilized up here. She’s nearly crowning; we’ve gotta get the baby out.”
Standard vaginal delivery. You run through the steps mentally, visualizing the ones you’ve both observed and assisted. “How far apart are contractions? Where’s she at?”
“Two and a half minutes. Fully effaced and dilated.” He gives you a pointed look as he resumes his work on the patient. “Should be simple.”
“Got it.” You take your position in front of the stirrups, checking over the equipment that a nurse has prepared for you. After checking the fetal vitals and taking a second to compose yourself, you guide the mother through the next contraction. Despite her obvious exhaustion and pain, she’s able to push and make progress. You smile and praise her louder than Langdon’s gruff grunting, “Head is out. You’re doing great, mama, just stay focused on your breathing, okay? A couple more contractions and we’ll be done and you’ll both be on the road to recovery.”
She gives you a woozy nod and half a smile. No matter how hard she’s fighting it, you can tell she’s tethered to consciousness by thread thin as floss.
You watch the next contraction wash over her – and the baby’s head doesn’t move. His chin tucks forward a little. Shit. His shoulder is stuck behind her pubic bone. Keeping your voice calm, you tell Langdon, “Doctor, I think I’m seeing shoulder dystocia.”
Distracted at her chest, he replies quickly, “You’re going to need to deliver the posterior arm.”
The posterior arm. Right. In this position, you aren’t even sure which one that is. You haven’t done your OB rotation yet. So you offer, “Should I go and get-”
The patient slips out of consciousness before the question’s out. Langdon curses as the monitors go off. He snaps at you, “Just pull!”
“No, that’s-”
He’s not listening to you.
He’s not listening to you and the baby can’t take a breath yet.
I know that’s not the right thing to do. That’s not the right thing to do. But what the fuck is the right thing to do?
You know the situation requires very specific maneuvers that you just can’t do, especially not without someone very heavily guiding and supervising you. “Dr. Langdon, I really think we should switch places at the very least. I can handle stabilizing while we wait for the-”
Sweat on his brow, he shouts back, “Shut up and let me focus.”
You nod. Try to steady yourself. As careful as you can be, one shaky hand slips to your pager on your waist while the other desperately tries to stay in place. Your mind races. The baby’s face is still nice and pink, not yet going dusky, so you know there’s time. But that time is ticking by fast.
You know it’s more dangerous for you to try something you’ve never been trained in than to find someone else to take over, even if it uses up the sixty seconds you have before things get serious. So you look at the baby’s straining face and whisper, “It’s okay. Just hang on, alright? Dr. Abbot’s gonna come and help you. He always comes when I need him.”
After a deep breath, you try again, more firmly this time, “Dr. Langdon, I don’t know how to do the McRoberts maneuver by myself and I can’t move from this spot without someone else stepping in. I really, really think we need to-”
Langdon slams a hand down on the table where his equipment is laid out. “You don’t need to think anything! Just fucking get it done!”
The door shoves open behind you, cold air rushing into the claustrophobic space. Jack storms in, grabbing his gown and gloves and moving superhero comic book fast. “What the hell is going on that I’m getting an emergency page for a vaginal delivery?”
Langdon’s hands keep working over the patient as he starts to admonish, “Seriously, Lefty? You paged our-”
You manage to find the courage to cut him off, informing Jack as clearly as you can with your heart in your throat, “Baby’s presenting with shoulder dystocia. OB is on the way but I- I need help. I can’t do this. I don’t know how.”
Jack rapidly scrubs and assesses the situation. Seeing that Langdon’s doing procedures you could’ve handled while other help came, he barks, “Langdon, why the hell haven’t you switched with her?”
“Because I thought your star pupil could handle one goddamn-”
“She’s a fucking student, Frank!” Jack shouts back and drops down onto his knees next to you. He places his hands over yours, prepping for the maneuver, and says, “You can let go, ace. I’ve got him now in plenty of time.” You collapse backwards from the relief as the nearest nurse moves in to assist Dr. Abbot. Your heart’s pounding and tears bite at your eyes. In the split second before he gets to work, Jack makes determined eye contact and orders, “Go get some air. You did the right thing. I’ll find you after.”
It’s another half hour before Jack’s able to go searching for you. On a normal day, he would’ve expected you to bounce back, take a quick break, and jump to another patient, probably seeking out Shen to get your hands on something interesting from the ambulance bay. But not this week. Definitely not this week. Jack knows a handful of your usual hiding places, so he scouts through them going from the closest to the patient's room out, using his last break of the night for you.
He finds you in a far, seldom-used stairwell, underneath the first set of steps so you’re completely invisible. The only sign of you is quiet sniffling; Jack opens the door quietly so the sound doesn’t startle you. He’s met by your soft, tentative voice carefully peeking out from behind the stairs. “Dr. Abbot?”
Following your voice, he tucks into the dusty corner and sighs. You’re sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around your knees, eyes puffy from panicky tears. You haven’t stopped crying since you left the delivery; he’s sure of it. “Hey, ace.”
“You shouldn’t call me that,” you whisper. “Not when I keep fucking up whenever someone needs to rely on me.” Before Jack can contradict the self-hatred, though, you swallow hard and ask, “How are the patients? Did the baby- Did you deliver him okay?”
“Baby’s up to the NICU for monitoring, mom’s in surgery.” Jack sighs – heavier than you’ve ever heard – and tells you, “Langdon shouldn’t have put you in a position like that knowing full well you’re a student and not a doctor yet. He wanted to make the dramatic save, not deliver a baby. Selfish prick could’ve cost both their lives for his own goddamn ego. I’m filing a report.”
You shake your head and pinch your eyes closed. “I should’ve-”
“Should’ve what? Ripped a baby’s arm off trying a complex delivery? Let him go hypoxic? Risk a maternal hemorrhage?" Jack leans down and offers you his hand, hoping that you’ll take it so he can pull you back out of the ocean of doubt. As he helps you off the floor, he urges gently, “You did exactly the right thing. You questioned the doctor who was giving you bad orders. When it was obvious he wasn’t going to listen, you called for help. Langdon’s gonna take it poorly because he’s an ass, but you were perfect. That was a master class in handling yourself well under pressure.” He touches your cheek, just enough to get your attention, and adds, “Makes me even more certain you’re going to be a great doctor.”
You can’t even say thank you. Your throat’s too thick with how badly you needed to hear his sweet and true affirmation after Langdon shouting at you and making you second-guess everything you’ve been taught. The problem, though, is that your brain keeps pushing back against it. Your lungs are hot and tight as you struggle to even breathe. Jack’s eyes are just too warm, too kind, too lovely for you to possibly deserve. You hang your head and try to focus on breathing as your thoughts move too fast for you to even get a look at them.
Seeing you falling apart beneath the praise, Jack touches your chin to make eye contact. There are a thousand questions on his lips, but ultimately he asks the simplest one: “Can I hug you?”
It hangs for just a moment too long. Jack doubts himself for a split second.
Then you nod. It’s tiny, meek, hesitant.
But when he wraps his arms around you, strong and steady, you break. The sobs come hard and fast and frantic as a child lost in a store. You’re weak and small. You ball your fists up in Jack’s shirt and heave out wicked, fast tears so intense they make you want to throw up. Everything shakes like the chase scene in a horror movie. It hurts.
With his arms absolutely locked around you, Jack orders, stern but soft, “Match your breathing with mine for a minute. In and out. You can do it.”
You keep sobbing and shaking against his chest, but he stays steady. His chest rises and falls. His breaths are warm and slow against your ear. And eventually the rhythm pulls you out of the fear and the doubt and the panic. Your breaths are trembling and hiccuping, but you manage to force them to calm down.
As you begin to come down, Jack rubs your back and murmurs, “Good. That’s good.”
“Jesus, this is so stupid.” You sniffle, pulling away from him a bit, and swat at your tears like they’re parasites. He hates how rough you are when you touch your own skin. He’d never show you anything but softness. You ramble on, “Sorry for being so – I don’t know– ridiculous the last few days. This isn’t- I promise I’ll be better. This is- It’s a temporary thing. I promise.”
Jack takes your face between two hands. They’re calloused and experienced but perfectly and completely gentle. He vows, “I’m here for you – even if it isn’t.”
You’re silent for a long time. The only sound is the soft whooshing of the vents in the stairwell, the cinderblock walls insulating all the chaos of the ED. Realizing slowly that Jack is still holding you close, you whimper, “Why are you being so nice to me?”
Jack almost scoffs. “Because you deserve it.”
The response is so immediate you have to believe it: “I don’t.”
Sensing that this might be his one opportunity, he asks with nothing but sensitivity on his lips, “Who made you think that? You were fine last week; what happened?”
You drag in one more breath that wavers. Shame is heavy in your gut but you’re spilling it out like vomit, unable to hold it all by yourself anymore. “I- I had this date on Friday night and he- We were having a really good time- What I expected. And then I needed- I needed him to stay but he- he left. And I was alone and I know that doesn’t make sense and it sounds crazy compared to how I’ve been acting but-”
“It doesn’t sound crazy.” He cups your face in one hand. His calloused thumb brushes your cheek so sweetly it makes your throat tighten up. He’s treating you like gossamer. “I understand.”
Biting your lower lip, you reply, sound small and alone, “You don’t. I’m sorry, but you don’t.”
Jack takes a step forward, his body pushing yours, so you’re pressed against the wall.
Placing one hand on the side of your head, he rakes you over with a gaze that burns.
In one look, your whole body turns to melting wax and drifting smoke, burned to the bones by how completely and totally dominant he looks in this moment. It’s not frightening and you can tell he’s not even trying to be as sexy as he is. Which is very, very sexy. His biceps push against his short sleeves and his jawline is tight and you’ve only ever caught flickers of this particular darkness in his eyes. Little moments over the years – protecting one of his doctors, advocating for a patient, taking command of a crash – you’ve seen a flash of how he’s looking at you right now.
But you never realized what it is.
Then he repeats, “I understand.”
And it’s clear as day after a long night shift.
“I’m here for you, ace, because I understand completely.” He wraps his arms around you one more time, tight and fast, and says, “Until you’re through this, I’m here for whatever you need. You can always come find me. Got it?”
The relief that washes through you is nothing short of heavenly. You needed this. Needed someone to know. Even if Jack isn’t your dom, he still sees the truth of what’s happening. That’s enough to matter a hell of a lot. You take a breath – no shaking – and give a tiny smile. “Thanks, Dr. Abbot.”
“Jack,” he corrects gently. “I want you to call me Jack from now on.”
Dr. Abbot – Jack – wipes your tears, leads you through a few more breaths, and then guides you back to the ED and through the rest of your shift. He makes it perfectly clear that, until you feel back to normal, your job is to stick to him like glue, only leaving his line of sight if absolutely necessary. With that order in your mind, the night ends easily. Your charts are immaculate, your notes clear, your sutures straight as an arrow. All because Jack sees you. Every layer of you.
As you’re collecting your backpack from the locker room – you haven’t been changing at work this week because of the bruises all over your body – Langdon approaches you. Jack, idling a few paces away as he waits to walk you out, stiffens up as soon as Frank’s shadow eclipses your light.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” he says quietly. Quickly. Like it’s a shameful secret. “I was in over my head, too, and all the attendings were out, so I just- I snapped. I’m gonna have to do a review and everything so, just, y’know, first steps. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks, doctor,” you reply, barely above a whisper. “I understand.”
“Alright, good. We’re cool, then. Great.” He runs a hand through his hair, touches your shoulder, and says, “See you tomorrow, Lefty.”
You sigh and force a smile. “Bye, Dr. Langdon.”
As Langdon heads out, not even able to look at Abbot, Jack nods for you to join him. You fall into step on the way to the staff entrance and he asks, “Why do they call you that anyway? You’re right-handed, yeah? Must’ve started on day shift; I never heard the story.”
The familiar embarrassment of the nickname you can’t shake warms your neck and chest. Trying not to sound affected by it, you begin, “Langdon started it. As a joke, I guess, not that it- I don’t think it’s funny, obviously. Maybe it is and I just- Whatever. At the end of my first handful of shifts with him. I don’t think people even remember why anymore. They just hear a nickname and repeat it. Like Crash.” You shrug a bit, grimace, and explain, “Lefty. Because I can’t do anything right.”
Jack rolls his shoulders and sucks in a sharp breath.
Rage shreds his ribs apart.
He doesn’t exactly need more reasons to loathe Langdon – having him stuck in nights the last month has made him seriously debate his ‘no groveling to Robby’ rule – but he knows one thing for certain: Nobody’s calling you that in his ED again. Nobody’s going to make you feel small. Not while he’s dedicating himself to building you back up.
Out of nowhere, Jack turns on his heel, takes you by the elbow, and says, “Come on, let’s go to the skills lab. I’ll get us food after. I’m gonna teach you the damn McRoberts maneuver.”
You don’t freeze because you’re in Jack’s orbit, once again following your sunshine, but you still ask, “What? Why?”
Jack doesn’t even have to look at you; you can feel the intensity in his words. The protectiveness. This is personal to him. He growls back, “Because you’re not fucking stupid.”
By Sunday night, the last shift of your seven on, you’ve actually gotten a full night’s sleep and eaten a breakfast with real protein and carbs. And honestly? You’re doing it because you know that Jack’s going to glow with pride when you tell him. Stepping off the bus and into the light, you feel most of the way to being a person. Being yourself.
Jack’s waiting at your bus stop.
You hop into his field of vision and laugh. “What are you doing here, Jack?”
“Thought you could use some company for your walk,” he replies effortlessly. He takes your backpack from your hand and slings it over his own shoulder. “Weather’s gorgeous and I thought we could use a minute to check in before the day starts.”
You can’t contain the grin that comes with Jack going out of his way for you. Heading toward the hospital, you ask, “Anything in particular we need to check in about?”
He starts simple: “How’d you sleep?”
“Pretty good, actually. No nightmares for once.”
Jack nods, making a mental note. “What did you have for breakfast?”
“Eggs on toast,” you tell him. The way it feels like you’re reporting back to a teacher about finishing your homework helps your brain get itself in order for the day ahead. Wanting your gold star sticker, you tell him, “And I packed a big lunch with a couple snacks for my breaks.”
“Good job. Really good job.” He gives you a smile that’s nothing short of hunky. “I know you wanted to do laundry last night. Any luck there?”
You shake your head meekly. “I was way too tired. I didn’t shower before my shift, either.”
“Did you brush your teeth?”
“Yeah, and flossed.”
“That’s enough for today,” he assures gently. Pushing through the staff entrance, he asks, “Have any plans for your week off besides R&R?”
“I think I should probably take it easy,” you admit with a sad little sigh. “I want to catch up on cleaning and get back into my self care routines.”
“That sounds like a plan. I’m off, too; we can call when you need accountability.”
You smile and look at your sneakers, thankful that he can’t see your heart stammering for more and more of his attention. “Perfect. Thank you.”
He hands your bag over again before you reach the locker room, not wanting to catch any wayward eyes. “It’s no trouble, ace.”
The way he says it, you believe him. He really doesn’t mind carving out space in his life to help you, even if it feels silly and stupid and frivolous at times. He’s too human to let you fall. The two of you put your bags and lunches away. You fall into step behind him as usual, following him like a puppy to the nurse’s station where he goes through handoff with Robby. You listen intently as he gives orders to everyone, catching up on patients and procedures that need to be tended to.
Once the ED starts churning for the night shift, you go to check on one of your patients from yesterday who’s still admitted. At the same time, Langdon’s approaching you with a fresh chart, his step peppy. “Evening, Lefty, ready to-”
Jack’s bark – from more than ten feet away at the nurse’s station – interrupts him: “Langdon, c’mere a second.” Despite cutting him a suspicious look, Frank walks over to Jack at the nurse’s station. You follow slightly behind, curious. Jack was listening to Langdon with borderline military skill, trained in on a conversation far on the periphery just because you were in it. When Langdon’s close, Jack says, short and direct, “I don’t want to hear any of that nickname shit anymore. No Crash, no Lefty. No more putting each other down. Job’s hard enough as it is.”
Langdon laughs and puts on his puppy dog eyes, gazing over at you as if that could help him get off Jack’s shit list when he’s already deep in it. “Aw, but Lefty doesn’t mind, do you?”
Jack slams his hand on the counter and snaps, “If I hear you call her that one more time, we’re going to have a serious problem.”
You try to squeak out, “It’s okay.”
When he turns to you, all the anger leaves his face. There’s nothing but softness, that desire to help you right at the surface. “It’s not. It’s really, really not okay with me. Give us a second, ace.” After you scamper away, headed back to your intended patient (suppressing a smile because you know Jack is about to ream Langdon on your behalf), Jack tugs Langdon close by his scrub top. Frank’s never seen his eyes so dark. “Don’t say it again. Or you’re gonna be ‘Righty.’”
Langdon rolls his eyes to hide his nerves. “And what’s that mean, gramps?”
“You’ll have nothing left when I’m done with you.” Jack lets go of Langdon’s shirt and shoves the center of his chest. “Better yet? Stay away from her. Until HR’s reviewed your case from yesterday, I don’t want you within six feet of her.”
“I think that’s a little bit of an overreaction to-”
“You don’t want to see me overreacting,” Jack bites back. His words are gravel to be picked out of an open wound. “Do your job. That’s it.”
The shift is a killer. The kind you’ve been dreading all week. It’s non-stop energy. As a med student, you spend the whole night running around from doctor to doctor, nurse to nurse, jumping in wherever they need you and clearing up paperwork and doing all kinds of scut. The flow is intoxicating and stressful at once, both rejuvenating and draining. You feel your adrenaline spike every time the exhaustion threatens.
But, every step of the way, there’s Jack. He’s a whirlwind, but he’s always there. A touch to your waist, a quick word of affirmation, maybe just a brief moment of eye contact to ground you. Even when he’s not actually by your side, you hear his voice in your head. Great work, ace. Smooth and steady. You know this. You’ve got this. Somewhere amid the chaos, that voice mingles with your own. You start to actually believe in yourself again. Jack’s been the scaffolding, but you’re still the structure he’s been repairing. Your breaks have been mended, your scars patched. And in the surfing wake of Jack’s healing, you’ve remembered that you’re worth something on your own. Even when you lose sight of it, that can’t truly be taken from you.
You’re so deep in the rhythm of the shift that you barely notice the night passing. By the time Dana taps your shoulder to remind you to take your last break, you’re practically glowing because you’re so proud of yourself for getting through emergency after emergency without breaking down. With your Gatorade and granola bar in hand, you peek around for Jack and frown when he isn’t in any of the usual spots. Because it’s become commonplace, you shoot him a text: i cant find you anywhere :(
His text back is almost instant. Just enough time to take his phone from his pocket and type. Roof.
You’re in the elevator within seconds. The ride up feels ten times as long as usual and the final set of stairs to the roof access is even worse.
Jack’s right where you expect. Where he often is this time of night. Watching the sunrise over the city. His silver hair is illuminated by glowing pink and orange, making him positively radiant as he smiles at you. “Good morning, ace.”
You join him by the railing, taking in the sunshine and opening up your granola bar with a smile stained to your lips. “Morning, Jack.”
His eyes trace every line of your face. A tiny smirk plays with his lips as he notices, “You’re smiling again.”
“I’m happy,” you hum in return. “I did a thoracostomy all by myself. Shen said I was perfect.”
Jack has to bite his cheek to resist the urge to scoop you up and spin you around. He’s been fighting all week to see that self-assured smile he loves so much. “I’m sure you were. That’s my girl.”
Those two words reverberate around your chest, warm and cozy. The two of you stand in comfortable silence for a minute, you finishing off your granola bar and him admiring either you or the city depending on if you’re at risk of catching him staring or not. As you tuck your trash in your pocket, you nibble your lip a moment and then tell him, “It’s been really nice working so closely with you this week, Jack.”
Eyes linked with yours, he assures, “The feeling’s mutual.”
You want to ask if that’s the only feeling that’s mutual.
But you can’t bring yourself to. The fear of his rejection is too heavy. After days of coming to rely on his strength, you can’t imagine blowing it and losing the foundation you’ve built. Anxious all of a sudden, you ask him softly, “You really don’t think it’s kind of, I don’t know, pathetic to be so affected by some shitty one-off dom ditching me?”
Jack scoffs and turns toward you properly. “Pathetic?” He gives your hand a quick squeeze, shakes his head, and explains, “When you open yourself up like that to a partner, it’s sacred. It means everything. You’re saying, ‘hey, here’s all of me,’ even if it’s new. For someone – anyone – to take that trust and use it up and then leave without building it back up…” He swallows hard and runs a hand through his curls. You can tell he’s choosing his words carefully. “Honestly, that makes me fucking sick. You’re not pathetic in the slightest. He is. If you were my- I would never treat my sub like that. Never.”
You wrinkle your nose like a bunny. “Sounds like I might need to raise my standards.”
“If the standard is basic aftercare and courtesy, I’d definitely agree.” He leans against the railing, tries not to imagine you as his, and asks, “Where do you even meet a chucklefuck like that?”
“FetLife.”
“Figures.” Jack takes a long pull from his water bottle like it’s a beer. “He block you on everything right after?”
You cringe and confirm, “Mhmm.”
“What a dirtbag.”
“Mostly I’m just mad at myself,” you admit sheepishly. “I was being-” at his challenging eyes, you quickly adjust your wording “-irresponsible. I skipped steps that I usually follow. I wasn’t as thorough as I’ve been in the past. All just because I really need to be-”
You close your mouth and laugh at yourself. Yeah, as close as you and Jack have gotten this week, he definitely doesn’t need to know how that sentence was going to end.
Jack takes a deep breath and sighs it out. No matter what you need from a dom, he knows exactly how he’d give it to you. But this isn’t the time nor the place to broach the possibility of that. He just tells you, “We’ve all done shit like that when times are tough. The important thing is bouncing back and learning.”
You giggle at the idea. “You’ve made some reckless kinky decisions?”
“Oh, absolutely,” he laughs. “Last one? Summer 2021. Post-pandemic munchies, if you will.”
Your eyes widen. Jack’s being playful with you. It’s…everything. “Seriously?”
“Ended up hogtied suspended from the ceiling.” He shakes his head at himself again. The way he chuckles is worth drinking down. “I had to use my Alexa to call Robby to get me out. Never gonna live that one down.”
Your brain’s positively tingling. “You’re a switch?”
“No,” he confirms, saying it like the idea’s ridiculous, “but I like to try things out myself before I have a sub do them. Call it a safety obsession. I don’t screw around with unnecessary risk. Submission is a gift; I protect that gift. Treasure it.”
Fuck, that’s hot.
You want to drop to your knees.
He can taste it in the air.
Into the way-too-thick silence, Jack urges, “So stop punishing yourself. We all crave that connection and sometimes it gets the better of us. Just keep yourself safe; that’s all you can do.” Then he opens up his arms and offers, “C’mere.”
It’s impossible not to slide into the embrace. The morning air nips at your ears but Jack’s warmth counteracts everything. Your hands settle just below his ribs; you can feel the taut muscles beneath his shirt where you fist your fingers in the fabric. He sighs into the hug, deepening it with his breath, and you just breathe together like that for a minute. Maybe two. Maybe five. In, out. Jack, you.
“You’ve done such a good job this week. It’s so hard to put yourself back together when someone takes advantage of you,” he murmurs against your ear. “I’m so proud of you.”
Sweet and placid as soothing chemicals bristle through your body, a mix of lightness and laughing and desire, you coo against his impossibly broad chest, “Thank you, daddy.”
The moment you hear the word tumble from your lips, you stagger away from him like you’ve been shot. Anxiety strangles you. All of the calm, earned confidence of the previous moment sloughs off and sheds at your feet, leaving you raw and exposed. “Oh god- Oh god I- I’m so sorry. That wasn’t- I don’t know why I said that. I was just feeling so safe and- I promise that- Fuck fuck fuck I’m so-”
“Don’t you dare,” he almost snarls, the sudden flare not directed at you but at anything that’s ever made you believe it. The low rumble of his voice is downright possessive. “Don’t you dare call yourself stupid again after all the progress you’ve made this week.”
Jack takes your hand and tugs you back to face him. Close. No disgust in his eyes like you’d feared. Tears flood your cheeks and land on your chest, darkening your shirt. You’re on the verge of hyperventilating now. You can’t bear to look at him, the shame too hot and too alive, so he bends down, catches your eyes, wipes your tears. He pulls you into an embrace and kisses your hair, over and over, until you realize he’s not shutting you down but letting you in.
When he feels you shaking from the intensity of your vulnerability, he rests his chin on your head, creating a cocoon with his body, and breathes, “My sweet, sensitive girl. I hate that you’ve had to be so scared and so brave when all you need to thrive is someone to take care of you.” Touching his forehead to yours, he pleads tenderly, “Would you let me take care of you?”
Your heart’s fast-beating in your throat.
The sun’s risen now and the sky is blue.
The sky is blue.
Jack’s pager goes off and he sighs, checking it with furrowed brows. The bubble of the moment pops. Still, he doesn’t move. He holds you. Lets the intensity fade naturally. He urges, “I need to get back onto the floor, sweetheart. Would you come home with me so we can talk?”
“I think-” You swallow hard and try to tamp down the butterflies whirling around inside of you at a thousand miles a minute. Deep breath. You bite your lower lip a minute, then smile, then nod. “I think I’d like that, Jack.”
He kisses your forehead. It lingers a moment. Like he’s breathing you in to fortify himself for the rest of the shift. “Wait by my car at the end of your shift.”
It’s actually Jack who ends up waiting for you, but he doesn’t seem to mind as you jog up to his truck with a bashful smile. Sweat clings to your hairline from the last few tasks of the night and your scrubs are rumpled and you know you look like hell, but Jack’s gazing at you like a damn princess on a throne. He wraps you in a quick hug and confirms, “You still okay with this?”
“Completely and totally,” you confirm – but your voice shakes a bit. It’s a mix of nerves and excitement and adoration and so many more things you don’t even have words for.
Jack notices. Of course he does. He makes sure nobody can see the two of you around his truck and then leans in, hand going gingerly to the side of your face. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m nervous,” you admit, biting your lip for a moment.
Jack touches his thumb to the place where your teeth connect. “We need to work on that habit.”
Your cheeks warm, especially hot where his hand lingers. “We?”
He gives you a cute, sly smirk. “I have a funny feeling that I’m going to be holding you accountable very soon.” Dropping his hand, he walks you around to the passenger’s side, opens the door for you, and then goes back to slide in next to you on the bench seat. Turning over the engine and heading out of the parking lot with his arm slung behind your shoulders, he urges, “Tell me what you’re nervous about.”
It takes a minute to recover from the feeling of Jack’s arm hair tickling the back of your neck, so simple and so sexy it’s hard to think straight. When you’ve finally accepted that Jack is comfortable with touching you so easily now, you glance at him sideways and reply, “I just like you, honestly. A lot. And I feel like maybe this could be, y’know, something big. Something good and important and- and real.”
His eyes flick over to yours. His expression manages to be both teasing and warm. “And that makes you nervous.”
“Yeah.” You stifle the corresponding laugh that threatens. “Really nervous.”
His hand slides from the back of your neck, down your arm, and to your thigh. Even through your scrubs, the touch sparks with electricity. “I’m sure I can fix that in no time.”
Your breath catches in your throat and a nervous laugh makes its way out. “Touching my thigh certainly isn’t helping with the nerves.”
“Your nerves aren’t a bad thing,” he replies simply. His hand slides toward your inner thigh, pinky brushing the seam. “That just means you care about how this goes. You’ll feel better the more comfortable you get and you’ll get more comfortable when you realize I’m not going anywhere.” Then, as he pulls off into a lush neighborhood full of old, cozy family homes surrounded by spring blooms, he tells you, almost whispering, “I’m nervous too, if that helps.”
You scoff, torn between wondering which of these expensive houses belongs to Jack and actually paying attention to him. “What could you possibly be nervous about? You’re the hot salt-and-pepper doctor who always swoops in to save the day. I’ve seen enough Grey’s to know where that gets you.”
He eyes you and chuckles. “Brain dead due to a delayed CT scan?”
“I meant more ‘able to fuck any med student you want,’ but I’m absolutely thrilled to know you’ve seen the show.”
As he parks the truck in the driveway of perhaps the cutest storybook house you’ve ever seen, he replies modestly, “Well, I’ve never wanted to fuck a student before.”
Giggling so that you don’t have to acknowledge the butterflies once again launching into your chest, you tease, “I don’t believe you for a second.”
Jack snickers; the idea is so ridiculous to him. “Cross my heart.”
He gets out of the truck and then opens your door, offering a hand to help you down the step. When you’re on your feet, he grabs your backpack and shoulders it along with his own. Then he leads you inside the front door, which opens into a living room outfitted in soft fabrics and neutral tones. You’d pegged Jack for being modern and industrial, lots of leathers and woods, but the reality is far more intimate and endearing.
Like he can read your mind, Jack mutters, “Don’t be too impressed; I hired some lady who wore too much turquoise to pick all the stuff out when I bought the place.”
“It’s nice,” you say, really only speaking so that you don’t retreat back into your nerves.
He nods toward the nearby couch – plush boucle like a cloud – and says, “Sit down; I’ll bring you something to eat and then you can shower.”
“I don’t have a change of clothes.”
He sets both your bags on the floor and says, “I’ll grab you something of mine to wear.”
Once you’re sitting on the couch, your posture a little too stiff, Jack kneels in front of you. He methodically unties each of your shoes and then slides them off your feet to set by the door where he’s abandoned his. Your heart stutters. He’s so fucking gentle with you. After pressing a kiss to each of your knees, he stretches himself upwards and instructs, “Just relax for a minute. I’ll be right back.”
As he leaves the living room for the adjacent kitchen, you try to get comfortable. You imagine Jack curled up here with a book or his laptop, walking up the nearby stairs to his bedroom, which has a lofted split-level balcony overlooking the living room. Fuck, his bedroom. You’re going to find out what Jack Abbot’s bedroom looks like. Does he have a soft mattress or a firm one? Does he sleep on one side or in the center? Does he make his bed before work? Shit, of course he does. That’s obvious from, well, everything about him.
Jack returns with two steaming plates of fried rice and orange chicken, already apologizing as he sits by your side. “Not the sexiest meal I could’ve offered, but I didn’t think we’d be doing this tonight.”
“Leftover takeout is fucking perfect after tonight,” you assure him, digging in right away. After you’re satisfied by a few bites, you nudge his knee with your own and ask, “Didn’t think we’d be doing it tonight or didn’t think we’d be doing it at all?”
“Tonight,” he replies. Blunt. Immediate. “I didn’t want to push you. Or do things too soon. Be too much. But I wasn’t going to let you go home thinking you’d made a mistake by calling me-”
“Don’t say it,” you blurt out. “It’s too embarrassing.”
“I’m not allowed to say it?” Mischief lights up his eyes and he turns his body properly towards you, setting his plate on the coffee table. Then he says, way too sexy for his own good when he’s being torturously cutesy, “Daddy, daddy, daddy. Thank you, daddy. Hi, daddy. Yes, daddy. I need it, daddy.”
You shriek, hands flying over your face. “Jack, please!”
“Oooh, I love that one,” he purrs, pouncing on you like a leopard. You lean onto your back as he cages you between his arms. A grin splits your lips open even if you’re way too exposed to meet his eyes. His knee slots between your legs, right against your core, and delight bubbles up in your core. He nips up your neck and teases mercilessly, “Please, daddy, stop it, daddy, I’m so embarrassed, daddy, it’s too much, daddy.”
Your face is absolutely burning and you squirm in your skin, covering your silly grin because Jack’s lightness is so delicious you can hardly stand it. “Fine, fine! It’s not embarrassing, you win!”
Finally he relents, letting you breathe in the laughing quiet, and says, “I liked when you called me daddy. A lot. I hope it wasn’t for the last time.”
And then you’re kissing him.
You physically can’t stop yourself from pulling him down by his scrub top, letting him bracket you with his weight, and crashing your lips into his. You’ll forever remember the way he laughs into that first kiss, bright and vibrant, not shying away from being as silly with you as he is sweet and stern. When you pull back, a little breathless, you insist, “It definitely wasn’t the last time.”
He kisses you again. Slower this time. Tongue gentle but insistent. Hand on your waist, over your stomach, in your hair. Against your lips, he murmurs, “Good girl.”
And you know you’re done for. You’re soaking wet from thirty seconds of teasing and your mind is a serene summer lake. He’s got you. Hook. Line. Sinker.
Jack maneuvers himself off of you, shaking his head and laughing under his breath one more time.
The two of you finish eating in a charged but comfortable silence, legs brushing, smiles threatening, everything becoming easy. Your nerves are still beyond present but they’re hotter now, sharper, more exciting. You don’t dread; you want.
After clearing your plates – he insists that you don’t need to do anything – Jack offers you his hand and says, “C’mon, sweetheart, let’s go upstairs.”
You take his hand eagerly. Outside of the hospital, you don’t have to worry about anything when it comes to Jack. Neither of you ever mentions this being an out-of-bounds relationship, whether because of age or status, because it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but Jack’s hand around yours, leading you up the stairs toward his bedroom suite.
It’s perfectly neat, which you’d expected, but there are undeniably more signs of Jack here. It’s his sanctuary. The books on his shelves downstairs are neat and new; the ones in here are dog-eared and leafed through time and time again. Elbow crutches lean against the wall next to the bed. On the nightstand, there’s a pair of reading glasses, a folded plug-in heating pad, a small black Moleskine notebook, and an old-school analog alarm clock.
Jack opens up the door to the spacious en suite bathroom and the closet before telling you, “Have a shower. I’ll use one of the guest bathrooms.” He throws a wink at you and adds, “Figured you’d like a chance to snoop uninterrupted.”
You scrunch up your face. “Okay, you’re not wrong, and I hate you for that, but what about your shower chair? Pull bars? Don’t make things harder for yourself for me.”
“You’re so considerate,” he sighs affectionately. A little quieter, he adds, “You’re so fucking special; you have no idea.” After another beat, he goes on, “All the showers in the house are accessible, though, so don't worry. Lots of other stuff around the place, too – lower table and counters so I can use my chair while I cook, pull-down shelves so I don’t have to strain, voice-activated lights so I don’t have to move. New construction perks.”
“That’s awesome,” you say, sounding almost drunk, very distracted by the fact that he’s stripping off his shirt and tossing it in his hamper. Absently, you add, “I’ll have to think about what I can do in my apartment to make things easier.”
He smiles to himself again. Considerate. He loves loves loves that about you. Even though he wants to say ‘just stay here with me whenever you want,’ he’s grateful for your thoughtfulness. You’ll make the perfect little plaything for him, always eager to please. If it were any other day, he’d tease you unrelentingly for how you’re ogling his bare chest, make you list off every pathetic thought you’re having when you see him, but this morning, he has other goals. So he just repeats, “Shower. The towels on the rack are clean. Take whatever you want to wear from the closet. I’ll only be a few minutes.”
You nod obediently, feeling yourself slipping into a soft headspace with Jack watching out for you every step of the way. He gives you one more soft kiss before leaving you alone. Since he invited you to, you decide to do just a little snooping. The bathroom is categorically boring. There’s supplies for caring for his residual limb, a perfectly organized skincare routine that impresses you, and a medicine cabinet that screams of order. Medication labels facing out – an antidepressant and a blood pressure pill, not particularly surprising – next to a pill case that’s clearly never experienced a missed dose. Naturally, Jack Abbot is a religious floss pick and mouth wash user.
Showering with Jack’s products is weirdly and wonderfully intimate. You’re wrapped up in his scent, all woodsy and sharp and masculine, as steam curls around your body like a lover’s touch. The water pressure is amazingly harsh and there are shower heads on both far walls. It’s built for showering together. God, you’ve never met someone who manages to be so hot when he isn’t even in the room.
After your shower, it’s time for snooping in the closet. The surface level is boring – how could one man own so many white, gray, black, and navy clothes? – but you find some hidden gems. For example, most of his boxer briefs are patterned. Red hearts, peaches, bumble bees, dinosaurs. There’s so many you wonder if he has one of those subscription services for new cute ones every month or something. He’s also got a collection of old band tour tees. If these are all from concerts, he must’ve spent a few years dirtbagging following bands around. Green Day, Nirvana, Oasis, Blink-182. You tug on a Rage Against the Machine one, worn and soft, and some heather gray boxer briefs.
Once you’re dressed, you discover an entire dresser in his closet dedicated to kink gear, neatly organized and methodically maintained. Ropes in different colors and materials, sets of restraints from cuffs to straps, implements you only recognize from the couple of clubs you’ve visited where more experienced people did scenes for everyone. Crops in more than one size, a bamboo paddle full of holes, a many-tailed flogger, a fiberglass cane. An entire range of sensations waiting to be inflicted. A ball gag, a bone bit gag, a ring gag with a large opening. The toy collection is particularly impressive. Dizzying almost. A flight of butt plugs in different sizes alongside small and large beads, different clit-sucking toys, vibrating wands from pocket-sized to plug-in beasts. Your nightstand drawer pales in comparison, even with your blindfold and bunny tail plug at the ready.
Your whole body’s tingling with anticipation.
Suddenly Jack’s voice behind you snaps you back into reality. “Snoop to your heart’s content?”
You turn to him, eyes widening when you see him still shirtless, gray sweats slung low, the outline of his soft cock mouthwatering. You give a sheepish smile and admit, “I absolutely did.”
He takes a step closer. Predator to prey. “Find anything you like?”
“Mhmm.”
“Want to share with the class?”
You shake your head and giggle, “Uh-uh.”
“Keeping your cards close to your chest I see.” He smirks and closes the distance between you, hands going to your waist. Discovering the slope of your hips. His thumbs rub circles along yours sides. His eyes devour you. He runs his fingers lightly beneath the hem of the tee, checking to see which one you’re wearing, and praises, “You look good in my clothes.”
“You look good. Period.” Finally, you let yourself touch him. Careful. Your fingertips on his stomach. You can feel the strength of his stomach beneath a soft layer of comfy middle age fat. His chest hair is wispy and silver. Freckles dust his shoulders, sparkling down his chest and arms. You dip down and kiss a few particularly enticing clusters, just needing to taste his skin, clean and yielding. He hisses in a breath when your lips make contact with his collarbones. You feel his abs flex beneath your hands like he’s holding himself back from demolishing you. Lifting your eyes again, you tell him, “You’re really beautiful, Jack.”
“And you’re exceptionally sweet,” he replies. Studying your expression like only he can, Jack checks in, “How are you feeling? Tired? Nervous?”
You shake your head and nudge up onto your toes so your lips are even with each other. You wrap your arms around the back of his neck, give him a soft kiss, and murmur, “Horny.”
As he chuckles – you’re getting addicted to his low raspy laugh – you deepen the kiss and press yourself against him. The warmth of his chest, the safety of his arms. His hands go to your waist and then they part, one going to loop around to your lower back and the other cradling the back of your head. Embracing you. Cradling you. Cherishing you.
You feel his cock hardening against your hip and try not to smile too self-satisfactorially. Honestly, it boosts your ego a bit to know you get him as worked up as he gets you. You reach down to palm him through the sweats with a hungry little moan when you feel how thick he is.
Then Jack’s hand covers yours. When your eyes open in surprise, he lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your fingers, telling you, “Not today, baby.”
Your eyes water immediately. Your headspace is so vulnerable that rejection feels unbearably heavy, especially from Jack. Blinking back the tears that make you feel pathetic, you manage to whimper out, “You don’t want me?”
Jack shakes his head ardently, seriously, and assures, “I want you, sweetheart. I want you more than anything.” Touch as soft as if he were handling a Fabergé egg, his thumb traces your cheek and his eyes stay on your face. He explains, low, slow, serious, “But I’m not going to fuck you today. Right now, you don’t need my dick; you need someone to take care of you. I want to be that someone for you from now on.”
Hope and gratitude pools inside you. “From now on?”
He smiles at you, so warm it’s like a home-cooked meal in the dead of winter. “This week I’ve realized I can’t go on pretending I don’t want you to be mine – and only mine.”
You repeat gently, “Yours.”
“Mine.” His first finger drags along your jawline. Inspecting. Discovering. “If you’ll have me.”
You give a tiny nod and gently whisper, “I need you. I want you.”
“Then I make the decisions today. I decide what you need from me and when – because you obviously need me to tell you what to do, you silly little thing.”
As you start melting beneath his intense, owning gaze, he positions you in the center of the room. Trying not to squirm under his gaze, you ask, “If you’re not going to fuck me, what are you going to do?”
Jack’s lips trace the tendons of your neck. The only contact between you. He places feather-soft kisses that make your toes curl. When his lips reach your pulse point, just beneath your ear, he breathes out, “I’m going to worship you.”
“Jack, I-” You swallow hard and let out a deeply pathetic high-pitched whine as his breath tickles your rising goosebumps. “I don’t even know what to say.”
“Then don’t say anything,” he replies easily. You can tell he’s being so sincere and so wanting as he insists, “Let me do all the thinking. Just let go for me. Let me take everything for you. Can you do that?”
Despite your shaking breath, you tell him, “I’ll try.”
“That’ll do for now,” he assures, pressing another soft kiss to your forehead. Then he steps back and informs you, “I’m going to take a good long look at you now. I want to learn every inch of my new favorite toy. Is that okay?”
“Very okay,” you confirm breathily. The word ‘toy’ has sent you through the stratosphere and into the stars. “And you don’t have to ask permission.”
“I do,” he corrects, eyes roving along your limbs instead of meeting yours. Though you can see the lust plain as day in the pink of his cheeks and the quickening of his breath, his gaze is more scrutinizing than desiring. Clinical. Doctor Jack Abbot. “Until we establish your safewords and I learn to read you, I’m always going to ask when I start something new. You’re in charge here.”
Even though you nod, you definitely don’t feel in charge when he starts to examine you like a piece of furniture he’s thinking about buying. First, he takes your shirt off. It’s borderline unceremonious; the fabric is nothing more than a distraction between him and his possession. That’s what you feel like. A possession. His hand-selected treasure to keep and cherish and know. When the air conditioning perks up your nipples, your breaths get heavier and you squirm, shifting your weight eagerly from foot to foot just to get some friction against your clit.
In that gravelly voice of his, he orders,“Be good.”
God, he’s reading your mind.
Then he lifts one of your arms, turning your hand over to expose your pulse, where he places a kiss that embeds itself into your veins and pumps straight to your heart. Then he lifts your arm with one hand and drags the other down your side, tracing the entire length of you from fingertip to hip, stopping only at the waistband of your underwear. When he grazes the side of your breast, not paying attention to the sensitive skin but just skating by, you can literally feel wetness pooling between your legs. Which is new. You usually have to use lube or a hell of a lot of foreplay with a new partner, but you have a feeling that getting you wet isn’t going to be an issue for Jack.
And he’s noticed.
Of course he has.
On his way to the other side of your body, he taps your inner thigh and orders, “Widen your stance.”
Once you do, his fingers drag up the damp center of his own gray boxer briefs, darkened with your wetness, eyes locked to your face to memorize every reaction. He bends down to kiss your stomach and then over your hip, tongue writing in cursive along the stretch marks you’ve had since puberty. He runs his index finger underneath the waistband of the underwear, still refusing to touch you anywhere that you really crave. He smiles, almost to himself, and coos, “You’re already being so good for me, baby. I’m going to have so much fun with you.”
Breathily, you moan, “Jack, if you’re not gonna fuck me, you should probably stop turning me on so much.”
His movements still and he gazes back up at you with challenging eyes. “I didn’t say I wasn’t going to get you off.”
You whimper. Literally whimper.
Jack tugs down the underwear, carefully sliding them down your legs and then helping you step out of them. His hands roam all along your legs, bristling every single hair follicle and goosebump and nerve, the whole time he’s talking. Unrelenting touch. “Look, baby, sometime soon – very fucking soon if I have anything to do with it – we’re going to sit down and have a good long talk. I’m going to write down all of your limits and commit them to memory and tell you mine. You’re going to tell me all about your history with doms and vice versa. You’ll tell me every single thing your brain and that pretty little pussy of yours want – no matter how embarrassed that makes you. And I’m going to use all that information to be the best fucking dom you’ve ever had. The kind you actually deserve.”
With your breaths speeding up and shallowing, Jack finally touches your nipples. One thumb on each. So gentle. So fucking stupidly awfully gentle. Barely more than a ghosting breath. Somehow that’s way sexier than if he shoved you onto the bed and took you as hard and as fast as you know he’s craving. His self control is honey.
Standing up again, Jack rests his hands on your waist, kisses you, and says, “Until then – until I know everything I need to know – you have to be good and take what I’ll give you. No brattines or begging. Because the most important thing to me is always going to be keeping you safe, princess. You’re still coming out of some really nasty sub drop; I’m not going to do anything intense to you right now that might send you back under. And I’m always intense when I’m fucking.” His eyes own yours and he goes on, “I’m just gonna get you off enough times to know you’ll sleep well in your new daddy’s bed. That sound good to you, sweet girl?”
You nod eagerly, chest rising and falling with lust as he plays with you.
Jack tuts, the sort of sound you’d make at a puppy having an accident. With his dominant fingers teasing gently through your pubic hair, he instructs, “You have to use your words with me. You’re gonna figure it out soon enough on your own, but I’m big on talking. Wanna hear that sweet voice say the filthiest things. Tell me what you want.”
You bite your lower lip until his eyes catch you red-handed. You’re so desperate for him that you’re stupid all of a sudden – stupid in the best way. Not the ‘stupid’ you’ve been weaponizing against yourself. No, this thoughtlessness is safe and breezy. It’s anticipation and toes curling and trust. You’ve never had a dom place so much focus on you. Not just tossing you around and calling you names but getting inside of your head and making you viscerally present in the moment. It has you tongue-tied and wide-eyed.
Jack crosses his arms over his chest and insists, “I’ll wait as long as it takes. Deep breaths.”
You match your breathing with his for a minute, one thing that always makes you calm down. He notices, slowing his breaths, guiding you without saying a word. When you can finally come up with the words, they’re so wanting and breathless it honestly surprises you even in your current state: “Touch me, daddy.”
Pure want blows Jack’s pupils wide and dark and all-consuming.
“There’s my good girl,” he purrs, closing the small distance between your bodies. “On the bed. Spread your legs and get comfortable. And I mean actually comfortable – don’t try to pose yourself for me. I promise you’re always going to look sexiest when you’re not overthinking it. Understood?”
With lust filling your every nook and pore, you sit back on the large, comfortable bed’s silky soft linens and tell him, mustering the confidence you know he wants, “Understood.”
He gives you an approving nod – so you get comfortable. You move his many pillows around until you’re fully supported and relaxed. Legs spread. His eyes are locked onto your glistening pussy, so inviting to him it might as well be his drug of choice. He sits in front of you on the bed and breathes, “Jesus, your body is…fucking perfect. No other way to say it. I’ve imagined this so many times I can’t believe you’re even more gorgeous than I pictured.”
“You’ve pictured me naked?”
Unashamed, he grabs rough handfuls of your inner thighs just to watch you gasp and writhe as he answers, “Absolutely. I’ve spent hours and hours on these thighs alone.”
Jack bends down and drags his teeth over your sensitive flesh. His canines dig in just slightly, clearly testing the waters, learning your sensitivity. He lets up only when you let out a sharp cry, nowhere near your personal limit but enough to discover your first pain threshold.
“And your hips,” he croons, kissing one as he grips the other. His hands are so strong and commanding; you can’t help imagining how good that exact grip would feel wrapped around your neck while he pounds into you. As his thumbs rub circles into your waist, he sighs, “You have no idea how many times I’ve imagined bending you over just so I can grab these perfect fucking hips. Look so good even in your damn scrubs.”
Then he finally lets himself gaze at your tits. He’s looking at your body like you’re a piece of meat. You never understood that phrase until now; Jack Abbot looks like he wants to devour you. Stone-cold serious, he nods and remarks, “These may be the prettiest nipples I’ve ever seen in my twenty years as a doctor.”
You let out a self-conscious laugh. “That’s your medical opinion?”
“Purely objective, I assure you,” he replies, wearing that sexy smirk of his. Then he bends down, one palm by your head, and wraps his lips around one of your nipples. The way his eyes flutter shut spikes your confidence like little else ever has. He’s positively rapturous. He really has been envisioning this moment longer than you would’ve let yourself dare believe. When he sucks hard, he pinches and rolls the other side between his thumb and forefinger. Instinctively, your legs snap up to wrap around his hips as you gasp. With a satisfied groan, he lets up and confirms, “Yup, the best. Objectively the best.”
Then he gives you a slow, unhurried kiss. His index finger tilts your chin upward and he tells you, voice like a lullaby, “Only thing better is this pretty face of yours.” His thumb parts your lips, gently brushing the tender places where you bite your lower lip. “I’m going to take the best care of you, princess. Treat you better than you even thought possible.”
You believe him.
You believe him.
In response, you open your lips further and take his thumb into your mouth. When you swirl your tongue around the digit, he fights to suppress a moan. You see it in the flex of his stomach and the setting of his jaw. He admires the shape of your lips wrapped around him, imagining how lovely it’ll be to watch them stretch around his cock. Soon, he reminds himself so that he can stay calm. As he withdraws his thumb slowly, he poses, “Fuck, you’re gonna take care of me, too, aren’t you?”
You nod, all mischievous and coy. “I’m gonna be your new favorite hobby.”
“I don’t have a single doubt about it,” he chuckles. Drawing his hand down once more – your neck, your chest, your stomach, your pubic hair – he orders, “Now look me in the eye while I fuck you with my fingers for the first time.”
He knows you’re fucking soaked, so there’s no question of whether or not you can happily and comfortable take his two fingers sliding into your entrance. As he gradually pushes them inside, you let out a sound that starts as a moan and turns into a squeaky, pathetic little thing that lights Jack’s brain on fire with need. Your eyes start to roll back from finally getting the attention you need, but Jack grabs your jaw with his free hand and forces your face to center. “I said look at me.”
Your doe eyes lock onto his.
He curls his fingers back toward himself, right against your g-spot, and your mouth falls open with pleasure and need. His thumb moves upward to find your clit effortlessly, adding firm pressure. You nearly weep out, “Thank you, daddy.”
Jack smiles in earnest. “You’re welcome, baby. You can relax now. Just enjoy yourself for a while.”
You half-giggle/half-moan, “Yes, sir.”
Jack snickers. “Mmm. That’s what I like to hear, pretty girl.”
Then the time for talking and flirting is over. Jack shifts his weight so he can focus completely on getting you off. He twists his wrist so that you feel the full thickness of his two middle fingers as he works them in and out of you, not so much thrusting as massaging. At the same time, the fingers of his other hand replace his thumb, adding more precise pressure around your clit in methodical circles. You go between watching Jack’s rapt face, locked on your swollen pussy, and closing your eyes, lost in the way his fingers stretch you and please you.
You feel the orgasm building for a hell of a long time before Jack finally lets you fall over the precipice into pleasure. It’s slow and controlled, the way he works you up, like carefully turning a corkscrew. So when he does finally decide you’re ready to cum – you’re grinding against his hand, moaning and whining, babbling out cute little pleas – it’s champagne. You burst into a million bubbles that run down Jack’s greedy hand and wrist.
The whole time, there’s his voice. Insistent and low. Good girl, that’s it, right there, huh? Joining you all the way through. Never letting you get lost. When you open your eyes at the peak, you find his hazels staring back at you. His tousled hair. His freckles. His everything.
When you’ve finally simmered through all the aftershocks, you expect Jack to pull back and put you to sleep. But he doesn’t. He leans forward and replaces one of his hands with his mouth, tongue effervescent on your over-sensitive clit. You whine out his name and he just grunts into your pussy, making it perfectly clear that he won’t be letting up any time soon. Not until he’s satisfied with how totally blissed out he can get you using nothing but his mouth and hands. It’s an ego high like no other to have you losing yourself all over his tongue. His high-strung, deeply competent student turned into nothing but babbles and whines like a needy toddler.
With you falling – no, leaping – into that perfectly simple headspace where nothing exists but the bliss between your legs, Jack lets himself get drunk on your taste. Bitter and sweet, creamy and sharp, like a custom cocktail of summertime and holidays. He’s finding himself dipping in deeper, nose on your clit, tongue deep in your cunt, just chasing the high of you.
He feels a fresh wave of wetness and your pussy fluttering around his fingers and he knows you’re close again. Your moans get deeper and slower. You’re relaxing into him now – no hiding, no acting, just pure admission of need. He can feel you becoming his as surely as he can feel the muscles of your thighs tightening around his ears and neck. No better accessory than a woman getting off. Jack focuses his tongue’s attention on your clit, staying firm and strong against it, while his fingers speed up and grow more intense. Curling. Insistent. Fuck, his forearms look so good when he’s pumping his hand like this. When he adds a third finger to your hungry cunt, your whole body shudders, back arching, thighs clamping, fingers in Jack’s hair, moans rolling out of your mouth and down your body and straight into Jack’s ears.
You cum again and think that has to be it – you’ve never even been together before, for Christ’s sake – but Jack doesn’t let up. Not completely. His turns his touches slow and light, caressing instead of consuming, but you’re the exact opposite – bucking like a bronco from the overstimulation of him latching onto your swollen, sensitive clit. You whimper out, “Too much, Jack. I- I can’t-”
Because it’s new and you’re at where you’re at, Jack listens. He carefully withdraws his fingers from inside of you, licks them clean, and moves up the bed. On top of you not, propped on his hands, he plants blooming kisses over your face, your warm cheeks and your sweat-sheen forehead. In between gentle kisses, he asks you, “Think you can do one more for me, baby girl?”
Eyes wide and hazy, you reply, “I- I dunno, daddy. Dunno anything.”
He smirks and runs his thumb across your lower lip, all swollen and cute from biting while you got off. He checks, “The good kind of ‘dunno anything’ or the bad kind?”
“Good kind,” you giggle back, all bashful and sweet as you nudge up to catch another kiss. Then you nuzzle into his shoulder, pulling him down to embrace you and breathing in his scent. “Feel really good, Jackie.”
“Jackie,” he repeats with a chuckle. “Been a hell of a long time since anyone called me that.”
You pull back and look at him with eyes on the verge of watering. “Is that okay?”
He places a firm kiss on your forehead and assures, “Honey, you can call me whatever the hell you want as long as you’re mine. You’re too good and too cute for me to deny you anything.”
You give him a silly grin. “Yeah?”
“Absolutely.” He turns you both onto your sides and asks, “Now, do you want more or do you want to get ready for bed?”
You shake your head, still buried in the crook of Jack’s shoulder, and murmur, “You pick.”
“Uh-uh,” he tuts. After kissing your temple, he insists, “Not this time. We’re not skipping any steps here; I can’t learn what you need when you need it if you don’t know and tell me first.”
You go still for a minute and then look at him with something close to anxiety in your eyes. Jack clocks it: Fear of rejection. “I think I’m ready to be done and go to bed. Is that okay?”
Jack feels that familiar flicker of protectiveness in his gut. He holds your chin and his expression turns serious. “You are always allowed to be done. Even when we reach the point where I’m making all the decisions and you’re just my dumb little slut following orders, you’re safe to tell me whatever you need whenever you need it.”
You poke him in the chest and giggle again, “You’re whipped already, Dr. Abbot.”
“Yeah, I am,” he admits freely. “All I want is to be yours.”
Jack stands up next to the bed, loops his arms beneath your body, and lifts you like it’s no big deal. You squeal out of a laugh and he smiles back, the perfect mix of silly and strong.
He takes you into the en suite bathroom, sits you on the low countertop next to the sink, and orders, “Open your mouth, sweetheart.” You do so without question and get met with another lovely ‘good girl’ that makes your heart dance, more of a waltz than a tango now that you’re coming down. Jack’s brow furrows in concentration like he’s performing a complex procedure as he brushes your teeth, covering each quadrant with military precision. His free hand holds your chin carefully so he can tilt your head based on the teeth he’s cleaning.
Once he’s satisfied with his work, he lifts a cup of water to your lips and says, “Swish and spit.”
Again, you follow his orders. Folding into Jack’s guidance is so natural for you. It’s easy. And in a life where so many things are so fucking hard, that’s worth everything. Then he winds floss around his fingers and you sleepily offer, “You don’t have to do all that.”
“I’m going to,” he responds plainly. Opening up your mouth again and getting to work, he says, “I take care of what’s mine. When you’re with me, you don’t have to do anything for yourself unless you want to.” He throws the floss out and kisses the tip of your nose. “I always tend to my pet.”
implicit cnc/free use, pope being the little freak he is (i apologize for the english mistakes i wrote this in 30 minutes on my phone curled up in blankets)
also a moment for him all in black like… he’s so husband
needy husband!pope that comes behind you while you’re cooking or doing the dishes and humps his clothed cock against your ass, kissing your neck and groping your tits, while whispering shakily “please baby just a quickie, please i need your pussy so bad” into your ear.
needy husband!pope that loves interrupting your shower or bath by getting in with you, having wet hot sex and being clingy, and then softly looking at you with his puppy eyes and asking “can you please help me wash my back” with pinkish cheeks as if he didn’t just fuck your brains out five minutes ago.
needy husband!pope that NEEDS to sleep with some part of him touching you, and if you move to pee or get some water, he wakes up immediately thinking something bad happened to you, so when you come back he has to sleep with his face crushed into your neck breathing your smell, dropping his weight on you so you won’t move again.
needy husband!pope that fingers you while you’re on his lap with his mouth glued to your ear talking dirty, “yeah, you like that?” “you’re so tight can’t barely take two fingers bunny” “such a pretty pussy, so wet for me”, when he realizes you got super aroused the first time, he wants to do it every time you two are on the couch watching tv, his hands find their way inside your panties, playing with your pussy for some time before he decides to do something about it.
needy husband!pope that jerks off to your ovulation underwear that’s in the laundry basket, because he swears that your smell changes completely and he’s a criminal first, and a panty thief second. so when you’re out for more than one night he resorts to smelling your underwear and jerking off to them, and he would never say but he allows himself to moan loud and clear during those moments, and maybe he will send you a picture if he’s confident enough.
needy husband!pope that loves random fucking during the day, doing the laundry? he will bend you over and slap your ass during it. doing your makeup? he will drop to his knees and eat it front the back like he’s starved. watching tv together? he will have you on his lap bouncing on his cock.
needy husband!pope that absolutely adores watching you do yoga outside because he loves to see you taking care of yourself, but also loves how your ass looks in those yoga see through pants and thin top that shows your hard nipples. more than once your garden yoga turned into garden fucking.
needy husband!pope that has a praise kink and needs reassurance in daily life, his face gets all soft and flushed when you say “yessss baby you did it” about something so simple and mundane as changing a lamp. makes him feel loved, needed and wanted, he will never admit it but he loves when you say he’s your pretty boy in a overly sweet voice.
needy husband!pope that needs just as much of aftercare as you do, he likes to cuddle and breathe your air, he’s not really a talker after sex but he loves hearing you, your day, your interests, everything you want to say. he needs back rubs, and in particular hard nights, he might just hide in your neck and sleep curled up in you.
photos and gif are from pinterest, they are not made by me!!
Someone who handles her own business, doesn’t need help and does her job like a pro.
A strong woman who would go toe to toe with a man to prove a point as Jack watches on.
She walks around with confidence, charm and witt that would leave most men speechless
Because he knows that she comes home she loses it all, when she gets home she leaves all of that independence and strength at the door.
Because she needs him to open then jar that’s just a little too tight, reach the pasta on the top shelf she would usually climb on the counter for and be the lap she falls into every night curling up as small as she can be.
To be the man that turns her into a sobbing, whimpering mess when he is balls deep inside of her as he pins her hands above her head as he says “oh it’s too much? - no I don’t think so, I think you’re gonna take it like a big girl”
The man who has he legs pressed to her chest while he fucks he so deep she can see stars, his rough thumb stroking over her pulsing little clit while she’s whines under his touch as he tells her “oh that’s a good girl- doing so well “
He likes them strong because then when she gets home she needs him to take over, to have her bent over, face pressed against the sheets while he fills her with warm ropes of cum as she writhes and mewls at every thrust, begging for more.
jack abbot doing that thing where he’s shushing you even he’s the reason you’re making all that noise. like he’s got you pinned to the bed on your side, curling his body over you to keep reaching that spot. asking “what’s all the fuss about, hm?” and holding your face with fake concern while railing you to literal pleased tears.
you’re grabbing onto whatever part of him you can, tugging the freckled skin as the thick of him splits you open with rough strokes. unraveling you thrust by thrust.
“j…jack,” is all your voice can bunch out of your damp-with-sweat, bouncing figure. the rest of what you say just spills into loud, melty, fucked-out noises.
“that’s my name, don’t wear it out,” he mumbles, lips against your ear. they peck a quick kiss along the shell before he grins at your loud pants—which is exactly how he wants them… wants you. loud and crying (good tears, of course) and stuffed full of him. you cry out his name again, and he just bucks into you harder. feeling a little light headed himself. “shh, baby, i know. we’ll getcha there.”
cw: 18+ mdni, d/s dynamics, dacryphílía, ov3rstím but he talks you through it!
Jack Abbot should’ve known something was wrong with him when he felt the crown of his cock twitch when he saw you crying in the hospital stairwell after a shift.
You’d been nothing but cool headed on your shift, showing compassion and drive when need be but nothing but aloof and nonchalant when it came to anything else. If you two didn’t look so different, someone would think you and Doctor Shen were siblings.
But it had been… a night shift for sure. Breaking up a fight at the nurses station, calming down some frustrated parents, having to take over for Lena because she had an emergency to take care of, saving lives, losing one, sprinting down the hall to calm a patient down. An usually you manage to carry it home with you and scrub it all off in the shower. But you just needed a second to recoup. A second, a second, a second— maybe it was five minutes. You’re not all too sure, neither was Jack. But when he saw you pressed against the wall of the stairs, in that shitty orangey hue, long lashes damp with hot tears down you’re angelic face, nose a little runny and that full, kissable bottom lip of yours wobbling—
Abbot knew he had to make sure there were… other ways to prevent you from being in another situation like this again..
Put your prefect little salty droplets to better use.
You never stood a chance.
The older man slid into your life so easily, it was as if he’d been missing the entire time. Jack takes care of you so well, you forget you can hold your own sometimes. But it’s mostly all in good nature, checking in on you during your shift, making sure you’re eating and hydrated, driving you home after your shifts and making sure you follow your nighttime routine, letting you lean against him for a minute our two before he gets called away, little touches to your back, your neck, your fingers. Becomes the safe haven you know is there for you.
So when he’s got his fat dick stretching your slippery walls out to the brim and his thumb pressed up against your throbbing little clit again tonight in the bedroom, you can handle it.
He’s made sure of it.
“Fuck, Jack- hck- wait- wait!” You choke out, crawling up the bed but it’s no good.
“You sure you wanna quit baby cakes?” His other hand is at the small of your back, arching your back into him as he slowly pulls his length out to the top. “Look at how she won’t even let me go, clinging on t’me like she needs it.” He shudders, pre blending in youth your dripping wet cunt.
“Sure you want me to stop?” He asks innocently.
Your chest is heaving, sweaty, the old man has basically fucked you into the mattress, you’re curls sprawled out and frizzy from the way he has been giving you the meanest and sweetest strokes of your life. Running your hands through his greying curls, hands going down his freckled back from the pain and the pleasure, all you can think about is Jack, Jack, Jack—
“—Jaaack.” Your mewl out, you’ve got that glint in your eyes he can read a mile away. Biting the inside of your lip, head all tilted to the side.
He almost cracks a smile at you, calloused hands caresses down your tummy, right where he could press and feel his cockhead pressed uo against your cervix not too long ago. He lets his hand travel further up, circling a finger around your hardened nipple, “Your words sugar.”
You whine, pouting and those pretty and glossy brown eyes staring up at him, unconsciously wiggling your hips, god you’re too damn adorable, “Jack- mmph- Jack- I-I need you.”
“There you go,” his voice is so sweet in your ears, smooth, ramming back into you with a snap of his hips. “You’re my gooood girl baby.” He croons, taking your legs above his shoulders.
His thrusts are relentless, deep, he’s aiming for your sweet spots like a damn target, spreading your swollen pussy lips to see the way you’ve got his manhood glistening with your juices. He’s still holding your hips up and in place, watching how you claw at his forearms, mouth slack while you let out such pitchy and breathless moans, “Aaangh! Jack! Fuuck- nnngh-”
And then you feel his give your pulsing bud a little pinch, tears pricking your eyes, shaking your head “Please, please- ‘s too much-”
“ ‘Please, please, please give me more Dr. Abbot’ “ he teases in a high tone ever so lightly, smirking down at you, “And I am, you’ve got it sweetheart, just gotta ride it out f’me. Know you can.”
It’s too much at once, the way Jack grinds right into that gooey g-spot of yours that has those fat tears streaming down your face that he’s been itching to get for weeks. His thumb presses down your button, rubbing it that makes your body jolt and shake. Sobbing out his name as you squeeze onto the pillows holding your head for dear life, your legs shaking.
“I knoooow baby, I knooooow, shiiit- ‘a lot, doin so good though honey- fuck, so good.” he coo’s, but this fucking maniac is still pistoning his length through your walls, only getting harder the more you tremble and cry. You’re stunning when you’re fucked out, only thinking about your boyfriend and how he can fix you in this moment. Too damn sexy for your own good. The way you babble for him to hold you, and he does with a loud groan, wrapping your arms around his neck and rocking into you while the bed creaks with every thrust. Kissing your wet cheeks and then slipping his tongue down yout throat till he feels your pussy grip onto him like the life line he is.
And he’s got sparks in his eyes, slipping himself out of your pulsing cunt while his cum paints your stomach.
He’s panting, “Good job sugar, shit, did so well,” he cups your face, wiping your tears while your body goes limp in his arms. You murmur his name once more, just to feet his weight press down against your body. Holding you in his warm and loving arms.
“So pretty like this gorgeous.”
a/n: but you haven’t seen my man, you haven’t seeeeeeen my man. I didn’t realize @/superhoeva already wrote something exactly like this till I finished😵💫😵💫. But that’s mother regardless!!
the first time Jack Abbot calls you sweetheart, you blush so hard you both think you're going to explode.
The first time Jack Abbot called you sweetheart, it was entirely by accident.
Which somehow made it worse.
Or better.
You still hadn’t decided.
The ER was chaos.
Not unusual chaos — not the manageable kind where everyone moved quickly but knew what direction they were running in. This was the kind that left the entire department buzzing like exposed wiring. Ambulance sirens screamed outside every few minutes, nurses were moving at near-sprinting speed between bays, and somebody in triage had apparently thrown up on a police officer.
Twice.
You’d been on your feet for eleven hours already, your coffee had gone cold somewhere around midnight, and your scrub top had a stain on the sleeve you were trying very hard not to identify.
Jack looked worse.
Not that he’d ever admit it.
He leaned against the nurses’ station beside you, flipping through a chart while rubbing a hand over his jaw. His curls were a mess from dragging his fingers through them all day, and exhaustion sat heavy beneath his eyes.
Still annoyingly attractive.
Still unfairly calm.
Still somehow capable of making every nurse in the emergency department straighten slightly when he walked past.
You were trying not to look at him.
Which was difficult because he kept standing so close.
“You alive over there?” he asked without glancing up from the chart.
“Barely.”
“Mm.” His mouth twitched faintly. “Good. Builds character.”
You shot him a tired glare. “I have enough character. What I need is eight consecutive hours of sleep and an iced coffee the size of my head.”
“That’s ambitious.”
“Jack,” you deadpanned. “I’m one difficult patient away from eating drywall.”
That finally earned a real laugh out of him.
Low.
Warm.
Dangerous to your emotional stability.
You hated how much you liked making him laugh.
A trauma alert suddenly sounded overhead, the intercom crackling loudly through the department.
Everybody moved at once.
Jack straightened immediately, exhaustion disappearing beneath sharp focus as he started toward the ambulance bay. You followed close behind him automatically.
“Twenty-year-old male, MVA,” a paramedic shouted as they rolled the gurney through the doors. “Possible internal bleeding, decreasing BP en route—”
The next fifteen minutes blurred together.
Voices overlapping.
Gloves snapping into place.
Vitals shouted across the room.
You worked beside Jack without thinking, both of you slipping into that strange rhythm healthcare workers developed together under pressure. Efficient. Fast. Instinctive.
At one point you reached for gauze at the exact same time.
His hand brushed yours.
Neither of you pulled away immediately.
Then the monitor alarm screamed.
Everything snapped back into motion.
By the time the patient stabilized enough for surgery, your adrenaline had completely crashed. You leaned heavily against the counter outside the trauma room, scrubbing a hand over your face.
Jack stepped beside you a second later.
“You okay?”
“Mhm.”
“You look like you’re about to pass out standing up.”
“I might.”
“You eaten today?”
Silence.
His eyebrows lifted slowly.
“Oh my God.”
“I had a granola bar.”
“At what time?”
“…Seven?”
“It’s almost one in the morning.”
You shrugged weakly. “Time is fake in the ER.”
Jack stared at you for a long moment before sighing through his nose. “C’mon.”
“What?”
“You’re eating something before you fall over and become my paperwork problem.”
You followed him mostly because you were too tired to argue.
The staff lounge was unusually empty for once, lit softly by buzzing fluorescent lights. Rain hammered steadily against the windows outside, turning the entire hospital grey and muted.
Jack dug through the vending machine with the seriousness of a surgeon.
“This place is criminal,” he muttered. “Why are there seventeen kinds of pretzels but no decent chocolate?”
“You’re very passionate about this.”
“You should be too, sweetheart, this is a humanitarian crisis—”
Silence.
Complete silence.
Jack froze mid-sentence.
You froze staring at him.
And then you felt it.
Heat exploded across your face so fast it was physically painful.
Oh no.
Oh no.
Jack looked horrified.
Not because he regretted it.
Because he realized exactly what it did to you.
Your entire face burned hot enough to qualify as a medical emergency.
He stared.
You stared back.
Neither of you spoke.
The vending machine hummed innocently in the background while both of you visibly short-circuited.
Jack recovered first, barely.
A slow grin started pulling at the corner of his mouth.
“Well,” he said carefully, voice rougher now.
You covered your face immediately. “Don’t.”
“Oh my God,” he laughed softly. “You’re blushing.”
“I know.”
“Like, aggressively.”
“I know, Jack.”
“That might be the hardest I’ve ever seen somebody blush.”
“You are making it worse.”
“I kinda wanna do it again.”
Your head snapped up so fast you almost got dizzy.
Jack was leaning back against the vending machine now, looking entirely too pleased with himself despite the faint color creeping into his own cheeks.
“You’re blushing too,” you accused.
“Am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
“Little bit,” he admitted.
Something shifted then.
Tiny.
Fragile.
But unmistakable.
The teasing faded slowly from his expression, replaced by something softer. Something more careful.
His eyes stayed on yours for a second too long.
“So,” he said quietly. “Sweetheart, huh?”
Your stomach flipped violently.
“You did that on purpose.”
“No,” he admitted honestly. “Actually didn’t.”
Which somehow affected you more.
Because that meant it had slipped out naturally.
Like he already thought of you that way.
Jack looked at you for a long moment before stepping closer, just enough that your pulse started acting stupid again.
“You know,” he said softly, “I’ve been trying very hard not to flirt with you at work.”
You blinked.
“What?”
His laugh was quieter now, almost nervous. “Thought I was being subtle.”
“You are not subtle.”
“Damn.”
“You literally stare at me across the nurses’ station.”
“I thought that was mysterious.”
“It was medically concerning.”
He grinned at that.
Then his expression softened again.
“You never seemed uncomfortable,” he said carefully. “So I kept doing it.”
Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs.
Rain rattled softly against the windows behind him.
The hospital noise felt far away now.
“I wasn’t uncomfortable,” you admitted quietly.
Jack studied your face like he was trying to decide whether he was allowed to believe you.
“And the blushing?”
You groaned.
His grin widened.
“Sweetheart.”
Your face immediately reignited.
Jack actually laughed this time, full and warm and delighted, one hand covering his mouth like he couldn’t believe he’d discovered your fatal weakness.
“Oh, that’s dangerous information.”
“You’re evil.”
“No,” he corrected, still smiling. “I’m in love with you.”
The words hit the room so gently you almost thought you imagined them.
Jack looked equally surprised they’d come out.
But he didn’t take them back.
Didn’t look away.
Your chest tightened painfully.
“You—”
“I know,” he said quickly, softer now. “Bad timing. Weird place to say it. But honestly? I think I’ve been in love with you for months and apparently all it took was one accidental sweetheart to ruin my self-control.”
Your eyes burned suddenly.
God.
You were exhausted and emotional and completely wrecked by this man.
“You absolute idiot,” you whispered.
Jack smiled carefully. “That a good idiot or a bad idiot?”
Instead of answering, you stepped forward and kissed him.
He made a small startled sound against your mouth before immediately kissing you back, one hand sliding instinctively to your waist while the other cupped gently against your jaw.
Warm.
Careful.
Like he’d wanted to do this for a long time.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you breathless, Jack rested his forehead lightly against yours.
“You have any idea,” he murmured, “how long I’ve wanted to do that?”
“Probably about as long as I’ve wanted you to.”
His eyes softened completely at that.
Then his grin returned slowly.
“So hypothetically,” he said, “if I called you sweetheart again—”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Sweetheart.”
You hid your burning face against his shoulder while he laughed quietly into your hair, arms wrapping around you tightly as the storm raged outside and the ER chaos continued somewhere beyond the lounge doors.
But for the first time in months, neither of you rushed back toward it immediately.
#68 from this list - "can you stay quiet if I take this call?" with the caller being Manny or Sharon.
Requested by Anon. Hope this okay!
Brett has you caged in beneath him, holding himself up on his hands so he can get a good look at the pretty, decorative harness he's tied around your torso with soft rope.
He likes the way it looks against your skin as you move, the way parts of it catch the light, and he particularly likes the way it digs in, ever so slightly, when you take deep, shuddering breaths.
The way you are now, in fact, as he stuffs you full of his cock, giving you deep, steady thrusts, making sure you feel every. Single. Inch. Of him as he moves.
Given the way you're moaning for him, wrapping your thighs tight around his hips, back arching off the mattress, he'd say you're feeling it just fine.
Leaning over you, pressing you into the mattress, he picks up his pace.
He's just establishing a nice rhythm, getting you closer and closer to release, if the way your cunt is tightening around him is any indication, when his phone starts ringing.
Considering he has the damn thing on Do Not Disturb, and he has exactly four people set for it to override, one of whom isn't speaking to him and another- being you- is currently beneath him and full of his cock, it's probably an emergency.
You whine as he slows down, leans over to grab his phone from the nightstand. Fucking Sharon. Of all the times she could be calling him...
He tries to tell himself it's either an emergency, or she's finally decided to give him a job at 42.
"Noooo, please don't stop-" you beg all needy and whimpering, making him seriously consider whether he needs to answer his phone. The responsible part of him wins.
Brett lowers himself down onto one forearm, brushes his lips across yours, still giving you shallow little thrusts.
"Can you stay quiet if I take this call?" He asks, voice a low, almost seductive purr.
You nod eagerly, mime zipping your lips shut, even as he gives you a doubtful look.
He figures that you probably can, so long as he doesn't give it to you too hard while on the call; his solution is to roll you over so you’re on top of him, giving you a warning look when you moan again, before he answers the call.
"Hello?"
You have to admit, you're impressed by the fact that he doesn't even sound out of breath. Of course, he keeps his body in peak physical condition; while he carries the signs of his age in his cinnamon sugar curls, in the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, he's still stronger than most men half his age.
Based on the way he nods as the person on the other end – Sharon, you think – is talking, it’s a serious conversation. You don’t care, not when the hand that isn’t holding his phone to his ear is smoothing over your body, up your thigh, over your stomach, tracing the rope expertly woven around your torso, brushing his fingers over your nipples.
You have to fight not to react, force yourself to stay silent as he shifts beneath you, trying to get comfortable, you think. Regardless of the reason, the result is the same; the movement temporarily has him pressed deeper inside you.
As you bite down on your bottom lip, Brett raises his eyebrows at you. You can kind of hear what Sharon’s saying down the line, something about staffing and shuffling the decks and making it work without stepping on toes.
You’ve met the division chief before, once or twice, at social things, because whilst you may be a little younger than Brett, he doesn’t hesitate to show you off. Doesn’t leave you with any doubt that you’re his, and that he has no shame about the age difference.
Sharon’s nice enough, but she doesn’t do a good enough job of hiding her judgement. You still remember the way she’d looked you up and down when you’d first met her, the way she’d said you weren’t what she was expecting.
There’s a part of you that’s pretty sure she just wants to be in your place instead. Not that you can blame her at all, so you always try your hardest to be polite, to be nice, because you don’t want to play into the idea of a younger than her partner woman who gets irrationally jealous.
You know that Brett loves you. Know how hard he worked to get himself to a place where he was comfortable building a relationship again, let alone with someone a little younger.
That doesn’t mean that you aren’t slightly tempted to let an audible moan out as Brett listens to her talk, answers with little mm-hmmand uh-huh sounds as she goes on and on about how she’s managed to fit him into 42, if he wants it, somewhere between a Captain and a Chief role, until there’s a space in one of the other surrounding stations to Edgewater.
You really do try not to be petty, but she’s drawing the conversation out for far too long. It doesn’t help that her son, Bode, annoys the hell out of you, too. He’s hotheaded and disrespectful, and he’s asked you more than once what a pretty thing like you is doing with some boring old guy like Richards?
You and Brett have more in common than people would suspect. You both prefer your quiet hobbies; the company of books, animals and a garden over socialising. Never mind the fact that after his wife had passed, Brett had gone through an entire… journey… of self discovery.
The kind of journey that’s resulted in the pretty rope harness woven around your torso, accentuating your tits. The same tits you cup in your hands, teasing him by playing with them before you plant your hands back on his chest.
Not trusting yourself to ride him properly and stay quiet, you start slowly grinding against him, letting the coarse greying curls at the base of his cock rub against your puffy clit.
It feels good, better than you expected. The pleasure that you get from it is evident in the expression on your face, in the way your eyes briefly drop closed, nose slightly wrinkled, lips parted.
All the while as you keep up this slow grinding, you lightly drag your nails across and over his chest. Over the light sprinkle of hair that dusts his pectorals. Down his abs, which honestly, you think are obscene with how defined they are.
Running your nails back up, you watch in satisfaction as his eyes briefly drop closed; Brett loves when you use your nails on his chest, his shoulders, his back.
It’s probably cruel of you to do while he’s on an important phone call, but you start moving properly, lifting yourself up an inch or so and then back down, slow, so there’s no lewd sound effects that the phone mic will pick up.
“Yeah,” he says in response to whatever Sharon’s saying, voice just a little ragged as he continues, “that sounds great.”
Narrowing his hazel eyes at you, he smoothly rolls his hips up, making you gasp; his free hand moves to cover your mouth, muffling the filthy moan that escapes you.
“Is now a bad time?” Sharon’s voice is vaguely audible through the speaker; a jolt of satisfaction rushes through you when you realise she may have heard you.
“What? No, now’s a good time, but we can always go over the details on Monday.” Voice even, Brett keeps rolling his hips, steadily fucking up into you, keeping his hand gently resting over your mouth.
Most of your little moans and mewls are muffled into his palm, quiet as he finishes his conversation. You have no idea whether Sharon has caught onto the fact that something’s up, but you also don’t care, are beyond caring.
He hangs up, tosses the phone aside, releases your mouth so he can hear your filthy moan as he rolls you again, pins you beneath him.
“I thought you were going to behave,” he purrs, plants an open mouthed kiss to your throat.
“You told me I needed to stay quiet, not to behave.” You counter, eyes sparkling with mischief as he shakes his head.
Luckily, he isn’t actually irritated with you, loves you too much to care that you disobeyed him… this time.
“Mm, well.” He braces one hand beside your head.
You can’t help but giggle a little, half embarrassed and half because you can just picture him blushing under interrogation. Brett smirks, not actually annoyed, hikes your thigh up around his waist and drawing high pitched moans out of you, grunting softly as he starts to move.
“You’re not the one that has to have a very awkward conversation on Monday.”
written by andrew-codys 2026 / do not feed into AI
