Shy!reader get sick and she visit the pitt at night
okay so this is set before they are a couple!!
thank you anon! i hope u enjoy <3
—
the waiting room was packed and sticky from the humidity.
almost every single chair was occupied as the television mounted on the wall played quietly over the constant murmur of conversations, ringing phones, and coughs.
she had been sitting there for nearly three hours.
at first she'd thought someone would call her back quickly.
and when an hour had passed, she decided to open her kindle app.
and when another hour passed she just couldn’t focus anymore. her book long forgotten.
because every time a nurse appeared through the doors, her head lifted hopefully before sinking again.
the fever hadn't broken and if anything… it felt worse.
her body ached. her throat burned from the constant coughing, and the room was too bright and too loud.
twice she'd considered walking up to the desk and asking how much longer it would be.
twice she'd lost her nerve.
everyone else looked like they needed help more than she did anyway.
so she waited… and waited… and waited.
by the time someone finally called her name, she nearly missed it.
"miss?"
her head snapped up.
a nurse smiled.
"we've got a room for you."
relief hit her so hard she almost cried.
the exam room wasn't much quieter than the waiting room. voices carried through the hallway. monitors beeped somewhere nearby, and stretchers rolled past every few minutes.
she sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded in her lap, trying not to feel overwhelmed.
was she sitting weird?
what should she say when the doctor arrives?
she sighed, closing her eyes to calm her nerves before the door opened.
a young nurse stepped inside.
"hey, i'm mateo." he offered a friendly smile while pulling up her chart and read her name aloud.
his brows furrowed, recognizing her name but he pushed it to the side as she coughed into her elbow.
“sorry.” she sniffled.
some of her tension started to ease though, because mateo was easy to talk to. he was kind and he was nice to look at.
"so..” he gave her a smile. “what brings you in tonight?"
she explained her symptoms softly.
the fever that just won’t break.
the cough.
the exhaustion.
and the fact that she had barely eaten all day— her stomach would churn and turn whenever she tried to take a bite of anything.
mateo's expression became more serious as he listened.
"how long has the fever been running?"
"um.. about three days, i’d say.”
his head lifted from the notes he took. "hmm, three days?"
she nodded, coughing in the process making her gasp for air.
“sorry.”
"have you seen anyone before tonight?" he wanted to know.
"uh no."
mateo stared. "you waited three days?"
she looked down immediately, clutching her hands tighter together.
“i thought it'd go away." she let out a nervous chuckle.
a cough following suit. she apologized again, mateo smiled, dismissing it with a wave of his hand.
but before he could say anything else, movement outside the room caught his eye.
someone was passing by.
dark scrubs.
broad shoulders.
a coffee in one hand and a chart in the other.
jack abbot. his attending.
mateo looked up.
jack looked in and halted.
for a second, neither man moved.
mateo frowned in confusion.
"what?" he said to jack.
jack didn't answer.
his eyes were fixed entirely on the patient sitting on the bed. a knowing and surprised look plastered onto his tired features.
she was deathly pale.
flushed with the fever.
and suddenly mateo understood.
"oh."
the single word carried far more meaning than it should have.
because mateo knew.
he pulled it out of jack one night, after he came in for a shift with one of those schoolboy smiles— and jack never did that.
jack abbot wasn't dating her.
but mateo kept telling jack that he could if he grew some balls.
jack stepped into the room, opening the door slowly.
"what are you doing here?" his question wasn't harsh.
it was concerned.. deeply concerned.
she blinked up at him.
clearly startled to see him.
"oh! uh.. hi."
mateo physically had to stop himself from smiling.
“he’s my neighbor.” she said to explain.
mateo nodded. he already knew but he’d never tell her that.
jack crossed his arms.
"you're sick."
she looked down at her hands.
"yeah?"
"how’s the fever?"
she hesitated and gaped at mateo.
mateo answered for her.
"well, she’s had it for three days."
jack's jaw tightened.
"three days?"
she shrank visibly beneath the attention.
"i thought it would get better!”
neither of the men in front of her looked impressed.
jack rubbed a hand over his face.
for a moment he looked less like a trauma attending and more like a man trying very hard not to be worried about someone.
yet unfortunately for him, he was failing miserably.
like, really badly.
"have you eaten?"
a pause between her and mateo. jack winced.
"n-no.” she finally let out.
jack closed his eyes.
mateo immediately looked away towards the ceiling, fiddling his thumbs awkwardly because now he was witnessing something deeply personal.
when jack opened his eyes again, he looked directly at him.
"did we order labs?"
"already done."
"fluids?"
"i was about to hang them before you came in." he pointed.
jack nodded at that.
then he looked back at her.
his expression softened immediately.
"so you're gonna sit here," he said calmly, walking towards her bed.
he stoped so close that he felt her knees against his thigh and spoke again, “and you're gonna let us take care of you. and your going to stop apologizing for coughing."
her cheeks turned pink despite the fever.
because she had been apologizing.
constantly.
and of course jack had noticed.
his voice lowered.
"you understand?"
she gave him small nod.
"good."
and for the first time all night, she felt herself relax.
summary: the two of you believed it was best to just remain casual, nothing more..but you’re genuinely falling in love with baran, with that being the case you began to distance yourself away from her—avoiding her anywhere to try to move on from what the two of you have. one day, baran notices doctors and nurses are flirting with you, getting extremely jealous which causes her to become a tough pill on everyone.
warnings: mdni (18+), jealous!baran, fingering (r!receiving), casual fling, established relationship in the waking.
author’s note: HELLOOOO, i genuinely meant to get to this request sooner but never had the time. to that sweet anon who sent this request, i hope you enjoy! requests are closed as of right now <3
It’s been a few days since you began distancing yourself from Baran, it was just a casual fling, there were supposed to be no feelings involved but no, you slowly began to fall in love with her. The atmosphere felt, different from what it was before—Baran noticed the distance, but never grew the slightest curiosity as if to why. You’ve noticed the way doctors and nurses would flirt with her, yes you were jealous but pushed it to the side, refusing to let everything get into your head because after all: you were distancing yourself from her..why get jealous?
Your eyes were fixated on the charts that needed to be caught up on, in the distance you can hear some of your colleagues talking about someone like they always do, but suddenly you heard your name and you froze.
“I mean technically speaking, it would be nice to get her in my bed— have you seen her ass?” Someone said, your cheeks flushed instantly then you placed the charts down on the desk and got up, approaching them with a smug look.
“Good luck trying to get me in your bed, dream on.” You joined in onto the conversation, your arms folding as you glanced at each and one of them then looked at Cassie. “Don’t play so hard to get sweetheart, I think we all know that we could easily get you in bed without even trying.” Cassie teased, her hand reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.
You scoffed at that clearly not amused at Cassie’s comment. In the distance, Baran stood there watching everything go on, her jaw clenched followed by her hands twitching—the jealousy taking course in her veins as she watched you get hit on from afar. Baran became absolutely furious, watching as her own colleagues continue to flirt with you. She took a deep breath then took a few strides, approaching you all.
“Ahem, this is a hospital, not some place where flirtations happen when you all need to be catching up with charts and examining patients.” Baran interrupted, her foot tapping impatiently—by the looks of it, she was growing impatient by the second by how everyone stood there then you broke the silence.
“Right, back to charting.” You mumble as you turned away, disappearing in the distance to return back to the charts.
And when you turned your head to glance over at Baran talking to Cassie along with the other nurses and doctors? They walked away frustrated at Baran cutting the fun off so soon.
After endless hours of charting, it finally came to a stop. You placed your head down on the desk, completely exhausted from updating everything thoroughly. “Finally,” you muttered under your breath and heard footsteps approaching near you.
“She’s been so hard-headed for no reason,” Santos groaned, completely annoyed about how Baran has been on everyone’s asses throughout the entire shift. You lifted your head up from the desk, raising a brow, “Who?”
Javadi looked at Santos, “Do you want me to tell her or did you?” She whispered. “Tell me what? What are you guys even talking about?” You became absolutely confused about who they could be talking about. Santos couldn’t help but laugh at your reaction.
“Earlier, whenever McKay followed by the other doctors and nurses who were flirting with you made Baran angry.” Javadi blurted out, her eyes widening after she realized what she blurted out then immediately used her hands to cover her mouth. Santos shook her head, looking over at you now.
“It’s true, she’s been giving everyone a hard time ever since everyone proceeded to hit on you practically in front of her. Basically a tough pill now.” Santos mentioned. Your eyes widened at the thought of that, a sigh escaping from your lips. “What am I supposed to do about that?” Your hand ran through your hair, unsure of what exactly to do. Why is Baran jealous? No feelings were involved, it was one of those casual flings, unless..
“Why not go talk to her, apologize and make it up to her?” Javadi suggested, Santos nodded her head in agreement. “What Javadi said, you better hurry though.” She took a glance at the clock, “Pretty sure she’s about to be done for the night and head home.” They had a point, why not go talk things out with Baran and apologize? Even though you didn’t do anything wrong.
You nodded your head, getting up from the desk. “Yeah, thanks guys. I’ll see you all tomorrow.” You replied, walking fast to go find Baran before she could leave. You made your way to the locker room, finding Baran grabbing her bag, her hair messy a bit and out of the usual up-do she wears.
“Hey,” you called out, Baran turned her head and looked at you, completely unamused then turned away. You sighed, approaching her more. “I’m sorry,” you went on, trying to get her attention again. “I didn’t know that you don’t like other people flirting with me and I’m sorry for dis—” before you could finish your sentence, Baran turned her head and grabbed your face, luring you into a deep kiss. Your body instantly melted against the kiss, a faint moan escaping from your lips as you felt her hands move away from your face to make their way down to squeeze your ass.
Her tongue pressed against your lips, sliding into your mouth. God, she had you weak in the knees, the way her mouth moved against yours sent sparks flying inside of your head. Next thing you felt was a hand sliding down the waistband of your scrubs, her fingers inching closer to barrier of your now soaked panties and she groaned as two fingers pressed against the wet patch. Your breath hitched at that, then you felt her fingers move your panties to the side and pump a finger inside of your entrance. You broke the kiss, your head falling onto her shoulder—your walls immediately clenching around that one finger then you felt a sudden stretch, another finger sliding into your entrance pumping steadily and you couldn’t help bucking your hips against her hand, chasing the friction.
Baran moved her free hand from your ass, grabbing your chin and pulled you back into the kiss—her fingers pumping faster inside you, curling just right that had your body trembling. Moans began to spill from your lips followed by cursing between kisses, your walls clenching harder around her fingers. She could tell that you were close, so close to that release and she needed to push you over that edge. Her thumb pressed against your clit, rubbing fast circles against the bundle of nerves while her fingers continue to pump inside you, her voice whispering sweet praises between kisses then she suddenly felt you shatter.
She swallowed your loud cry as your orgasm washed over you, her fingers slowing to help you come down from your high before coming to a full stop. She pulled her hand out from your scrubs and pulled her lips away from yours, “Apology, accepted.” She whispered, bringing her hand up to suck her fingers clean from the juices that coated her fingers. After cleaning her fingers, she leaned in, kissing your cheek quickly before she could grab her bag and leave. You watched as she left, then felt a buzz in your pocket coming from your phone. You pulled your phone out and it was a text from Baran.
BARAN
Come to my apartment after your shift? I think there’s more than the ‘keeping it casual’ statement between us.
You scoffed at that, a big smile appearing on your lips and you liked her message, agreeing to go to her apartment after your shift.
Summary: Jack Abbot is a tease and a bully and an overall menace to society, and you are utterly infatuated with him.
wc: 9.2k (what the fuck)
Warnings: f!reader, resident!reader, implied age gap, power imbalance, jack is a fucking tease, he is also a dummy, tension in the workplace, an almost bar fight, pining, explicit sexual content, brief oral (f!receiving), praise, p in v, finishing inside, oh no, they’re in love
A/N: not only did this get way longer than intended, it also got way softer than I had planned oops. Anyway, y’all are gonna roll your eyes at a certain scene when my clear bias toward Robby is put on full fucking display lmfao enjoy~
He notices it the first time you work a night shift with him.
Jack has seen you in action before. Hell, Robby has even sung your praises (a rarity). You have sure hands, follow spot-on gut instincts, and you’re great with the patients. You’ve proved that you’re competent and confident here in the EC.
However, as soon as Jack steps into any room you’re already in, that sugar-laced smile fades. You stutter, you hesitate, your hands start to tremble.
Initially, he thought it was because he intimidated you. It wouldn’t be the first time, but usually, if a resident is scared of Jack, they’re downright terrified of Robby who’s known to be hypercritical and harsher in his corrections (a side effect of all the stress he’s under, Jack thinks).
That doesn’t seem to be the case with you. He’s seen how you act around Robby, professional but relaxed. You grin, high five, and Jack is pretty sure he witnessed a warm, work-appropriate side hug shared after a particularly harrowing shift.
He comes to the conclusion that this is an issue you have exclusively with Jack, and that doesn’t sit well with him.
He isn’t angry, just curious.
Also, he can’t have you freezing up whenever he’s even remotely close by; that’s just not good in this line of work.
So, in the early morning hours of what Jack knows to be your last shift before you’re off for a few days, he catches your attention and jerks his chin to beckon you over to the nurse’s station. The manner in which you look around and over your shoulders, pointing to yourself in disbelief, makes his lips quirk up on one side.
Jack mouths the word ‘you’ while nodding and watches as you shuffle toward him with wide eyes.
“Um, what can I—” you clear your throat, “what can I do for you, Dr. Abbot?”
“You have a second to talk?” he asks, and you swallow, head moving up and down in slow, silent affirmation. “Don’t worry. You’re not in any trouble.”
“Okay, do you… do you wanna talk here, or is it—I mean, is it a closed door conversation, or…?”
Jack just does not understand why you get so timid around him. Why is it you can laugh and joke and work with Robby and Shen, but you can’t with him? What has he done to make you so mousy?
“Wherever you’re comfortable. We can step outside if you want, or we can stay right here,” he offers. You’re in control here. You have the choice. No wrong answers.
“Outside?” you half suggest, half ask, and Jack motions for you to lead the way.
It’s about three AM on a Tuesday morning. Not a whole lot of action right now, but you both know that can change on a dime.
As soon as the doors slide shut behind him, you look at Jack in concern. “Is everything okay?”
He crosses his arms over his chest, remembers it could come off as defensive or surly, so he drops them to his sides, except that feels awkward and wrong too. No fucking wonder Robby is always rubbing his face and holding the back of his neck.
Eventually, Jack settles on sliding his hands into his pockets, relaxes his posture, tries not to look like a soldier standing at attention.
“I wanted to ask you the same question.”
You frown, not quite pouty, more like you’re having trouble solving a riddle, so Jack continues before you can catastrophize any further.
“I get the feeling that I make you nervous sometimes,” all the time, “and I want you to know that you shouldn’t be. Nervous, I mean.”
No longer pinched together, your eyebrows shoot up in surprise, your gaze repeatedly flicking to and away from his face.
“See, that,” he chuckles, “you look like you just got caught stealing drugs.” Then, in an attempt to ease your discomfort, he lowers his voice to a conspiratorial volume and adds, “have you… been stealing drugs?”
It does not make you laugh. It just makes you shake your head urgently, “no, I’d never—Dr. Abbot, s—”
“Hey, hey, calm down. I was just teasin’, kid,” he tries to reassure you while smiling how he usually does, subtle but amused.
If he’s being honest, though, the deer in the headlights look is kind of endearing. Unnecessary, but endearing.
Then, Jack sees that wide eyed stare move down to the slight curve of his mouth and remain there for a few whole seconds, more than enough time for you to see that previously subtle curve lift a little higher on one side until it’s more smirk than smile.
So, that’s what it is.
Jack tries to clear it from his face, but it’s kind of impossible, especially when you’re able to detect the mirth dancing in his eyes.
“I should, uh—ya’ know, actually….” You start backing up toward the sliding doors, “you really don’t make me nervous, Dr. Abbot. I think you just… I mean, no offense, but I think maybe you got the wrong idea.”
A self-conscious laugh, then a little huff when you miss the doors and instead back up into the bricks beside them.
“Right.”
Jack moves closer, finding too much enjoyment in your tiny gasp when he reaches out and gives you a nudge to the side before placing his hands lightly on your shoulders.
He turns you to face the pitt, guides you through the entrance as his footsteps echo directly behind yours.
“Of course you’re not nervous—why would you be?”
You’re absolutely rigid in front of him, even curl forward a tiny bit when Jack gives your shoulders a gentle squeeze before letting go.
You pivot to hide your face so fast, he’s surprised you don’t tear a goddamn ligament.
It all makes sense now, he thinks.
You’re not nervous; you’re smitten.
How sweet.
•
You consider begging Dr. Robby to let you come back to days early. It would be out of line and a little pathetic, but you’d much rather deal with that fallout over the very real threat of dropping dead in a trauma room any time Dr. Abbot so much as looks at you.
A single glance is enough to make your heart skip a beat, and he is doing a bit more than that now, so you have a feeling that your time is about to be up.
<< Hey, how many more weeks am I on nights?
You type up some elaborate story about splattering spaghetti all over your dry erase calendar and having to clean it, wiping away your schedule, but the more details you give, the more suspicious Dr. Robby will get.
>> Is it not on Teams?
Damn.
<< Missed the window to change my password, so I’m locked out on my phone.
That seems believable.
It takes him a while to get back to you, but you almost wish he hadn’t when you read his response.
>> You’ve still got another 3 weeks
There’s no way you’ll make it that long. You’ll be a nervous wreck by the time you return to the daylight hours of the EC.
>> Miss day shift?
<< Maybe.
<< Yes.
You also miss working under an attending who doesn’t make you shake like a chihuahua.
>> I promise I won’t make you stay any longer than you have to, but Abbot and Shen need the help for now
Just reading his name is enough to make something jump in your stomach.
Three more weeks of surviving Dr. Jack Abbot as he tries his damndest to kill you.
And, you don’t even know why he’s doing it. You can understand why he’d want to suss out the reason you get so flustered around him, but now he has it. You know he knows because apparently you are incapable of concealing your feelings or even facial expressions when you see that barely-there smile of his.
The exact moment—you witnessed the exact fucking moment that he figured it out. God, just thinking about it has you mortified all over again. And, then he held your shoulders and he teased you and you still had to work another four hours without passing out from embarrassment.
From the very first day, or more accurately, the very first shift change, Dr. Abbot had too much of your attention. Something about his eyes and mouth and the salt and pepper stubble and silver curls and dexterous hands and really everything about him.
He knows that now—maybe not all the details and areas of focus, but he definitely has the big picture.
And, it amuses him. Entertains him. It’s almost like it brings him joy to make you squirm a little.
He isn’t preying on you, you don’t think. It doesn’t feel malicious or coercive. Just inconvenient and confusing and really fucking distracting.
In the shifts that followed shortly after his little discovery, Dr. Abbot just looked at you longer than he did before. Sometimes you’d see the corners of his eyes crinkle with a smile. Unnerving, but something you could cope with. Mostly.
Now, he’s getting a little bolder, a little closer. Physically. Will come stand right next to you at the nurse’s station or sit at the computer nearest the one you’re using to chart. He doesn’t stare at you when he inflicts this torture. No, the gazes are always from a distance, probably with the purpose of making the back of your neck burn. Here, when he’s right beside you, he just smirks. You think he might try to hide it, but he’s not very good at it, even laughed once when you’d stood up as soon as he sat down.
It’s just—it’s just rude. So rude.
The worst part of it all, though, is that it’s helped steady you. You’ve stopped shaking in exam rooms, rarely stutter when giving reports. It’s like some kind of awful exposure therapy, and while it’s made you a more efficient doctor (still not as good as you are during the day), it leaves you in a constant state of mild discomfort, hot all over for twelve straight hours.
It can’t get any worse, though. There’s no way that Dr. Abbot, revered and respected and selfless, would push things further.
He wouldn’t.
He wouldn’t.
(He does.)
•
The praise is genuine. Jack doesn’t say it to get a rise out of you; he wouldn’t do that.
He’s watching over your shoulder as you prepare to put in a chest tube. Your hands are unwavering, nimble fingers counting ribs and controlled around the scalpel.
In just a couple weeks your confidence in treatment has risen exponentially. He wishes he didn’t have to torture it out of you, but whatever works, works.
Plus, it’s not like he’s not having some fun with it. You may be well balanced while performing procedures, but around Jack, you’re still wide eyed and restless.
It’s cute, your little crush.
Surprising, a little baffling, but mostly cute.
Jack has been told that he has an… effect… on some women. More than he would’ve thought, and he still isn’t used to it. Fuck, he’s only just now started to notice it.
Samira, bless her, was able to break it down for him, said he was a ‘silver fox’. Gray hair, fit, “think Anderson Cooper!”
Then, she’d let him in on another secret.
“Your eyes are your best weapon, though.”
“My eyes?”
“Mhmm. It’s the way you stare. It makes it feel like nothing else exists. Very intense.”
She’s moved on to bigger and better things, as she should. Jack is glad she did, even if he misses having someone to explain the trends and lingo of the modern world. The pitt was never going to be big enough for Dr. Samira Mohan.
It’s perfect for him, though. Exactly where he wants to be, especially right now as you secure the chest tube just fucking right.
“Nicely done,” Jack tells you, still eyeing your work from behind you, catching the way your shoulders raise up close to your ears.
He chuckles, you let out a frustrated, squeaky grunt, and then Jack gives you a little pat on the back and leaves.
You avoid him as best you can for the rest of the night.
Apparently, Jack has more going for him than his silver hair and ‘intense’ stares.
Whether it’s proximity, his voice, or the words themselves, he isn’t sure. He’s more than willing to experiment to find out, though.
The next chance he gets, Jack stands unnecessarily close to you again. It isn’t enough to raise eyebrows, really just looks like he’s keeping an eye on a fledgling doctor’s technique (which he is!). You’re a little stiff but not nearly as done with him as you were earlier.
So, you’ve gotten used to him hovering. That’s good.
“John got everyone lunch,” Jack says, coming to lean against the central hub beside you, voice dipped low and a tad rough.
If you ask, he’ll just say he’s tired. It won’t be a lie.
You don’t ask, however, just glance over at him, eyes landing on his mouth for a nanosecond before flicking back up.
“What, did he lose a bet?” you eventually respond.
Jack laughs quietly, “yeah, actually.”
“Typical,” you snort, “is gambling a hallmark of every EC or is it just ours?”
He shrugs then straightens up, “no clue. Gotta find ways to entertain ourselves, right?”
So far, you’ve seemed relatively unfazed, which is why Jack tosses you a quick wink as he backs away from the station.
That gets a reaction, like a lightning strike that makes your spine go straight, makes you hide your face and whine, “oh my god, I hate you.”
You can’t see him, what with your head buried in your hands, so you don’t catch Jack’s smug grin as he turns around.
“Me? What’d I ever do to you?”
He’s pretty sure he can feel your glare burning holes in the back of his skull.
•
Robby’s birthday finds several faces of the pitt in the bar closest to the hospital. The man behind the counter knows many of you by name and therefore has a line of drinks prepared for you all without even having to be asked.
You sip on your vodka Sprite—easy, decent taste, shouldn’t get you fucked up unless you really want to get irresponsible.
And, irresponsible is the last thing you want to be when you can feel a heavy, hazel gaze on you wherever you go. You talk to Trinity, to Victoria, to Donny, and no matter where you move, those eyes follow you.
It seems a little different tonight, though. Abbot usually watches you with the purpose of teasing. Now, it just feels like he’s watching to watch.
With two drinks and little food in your system, a nice buzz settles in your head, stomach warm with alcohol and courage—not enough to talk to Abbot, but enough to make your way to the table he’s sharing with Robby so that you can wish the latter a happy birthday.
“Unbelievable I made it through another year,” Robby says with a tired smile. He didn’t even work today, and the man looks exhausted.
You grin sideways and tell him too honestly, “I’m glad you did,” then laugh around your straw when he blushes.
Your eyes flit to Abbot who’s looking over at the other man, but as if sensing your attention, he redirects his to your face.
“You can’t say stuff like that to Robby,” Abbot jokes, “one day he’s gonna get so red, his head will explode.”
“Shut the fuck up,” comes a groan from behind Robby’s hands, “aren’t you supposed to be nice to people on their birthday?”
“Sorry, were you expecting birthday kisses?” Abbot puckers his lips and acts like he’s really gonna plant them on Robby’s cheek, but he leans back when he’s swatted away, typical half-smile lifting his mouth when he winks at you as if the two of you are in cahoots.
Robby isn’t the only one blushing now, your face hot as it always seems to be when you’re around Abbot.
Thankfully, Cassie chooses that exact moment to slide up next to you to do exactly what you had come over here for, grabs the attention of both attendings, allowing you to slip away.
An hour and two more drinks later finds you at the same booth. You ate the fries off Mel’s plate with the hopes of sopping up some of the alcohol, and while it probably helped, you’re still nice and fucking tipsy where you sit next to Robby, across from Abbot. With little room, you’re actually on Trinity’s lap, her cheek resting against your back as she chats with Robby, who has had enough beer to divulge a few fun stories about one Yolanda Garcia. Naturally, Trinity is eating it up.
You listen and laugh, happy to be here, happy to see Robby actually relax, and, if you’re being honest, happy to be stared at.
Eyes a little cloudy, you meet Abbot’s, and your stomach flips in a way that’s less to do with nerves and more to do with attraction.
He tries and fails to hide a smirk, and you twist your own mouth to the side to keep your smile at bay, look down and laugh as you shake your head.
You should probably put some distance between the two of you before you say or do something stupid. No way are you gonna let yourself flirt with Jack Abbot in public, especially not with Trinity and Robby so close by.
You slide from your friend's lap with the excuse of getting some water, which isn’t actually a lie. You could definitely use some, and that’s emphasized by how fucking good it tastes and feels when you gulp it down at the bartop.
“Now, that’s impressive,” you hear from beside you, look to your right to see a man a few years younger than you who is blatantly checking you out.
With a little frown, you tell him, “it’s not vodka or anything—just water,” immediately getting a bad vibe from this guy who’s probably named Chad or Brad or whatever frat boys go by these days.
“Shame,” he hums, “sober girls are so much harder to pick up, especially the cute ones like you.”
It’s possibly the grossest thing you’ve ever heard, shamelessly fucking predatory, but when you narrow your eyes at Chad, he just chuckles.
“What’s your name?” he asks, either not recognizing your expression of distaste or ignoring it altogether.
Hackles rising, you respond, “none of your business,” and turn to walk away.
When Brad’s fingers wrap around your wrist, you round on him again, your free hand hot with the impulse to clock him right in the jaw.
“You’re not even gonna talk to me?” he grins, “you should at least give me a chance.”
About to reply with a lecture full of expletives, Brandon lifts an eyebrow, suddenly focused on something or someone behind you.
The way your neck prickles tells you exactly who’s just walked up, but that sixth sense does not prepare you for the strong arm that curls around your waist.
“You need to let go before I fucking make you,” Abbot says, tone casual, his body anything but. You can feel the tension radiating from him, a loaded gun with his own finger on the trigger.
Chadwick drops your wrist, and you flex your hand as if it’ll get rid of the residual sensation of his grip.
“We were just talkin’, man.”
“Yeah?” Abbot’s fingers curl into the material of your shirt, and your heart starts beating faster for reasons unrelated to the cocky fucker in front of you. “You grab every woman you talk to like some kind of fuckin’ caveman?”
“Bro, chill, I didn’t mean anyth—”
Abbot cuts him off with a glare, “I’m not your fucking bro.”
His volume doesn’t grow, voice still even, but there’s a certain strain to it, the same strain you see in the muscles of his neck, feel in the flex of his bicep.
This shouldn’t be nearly as hot as it is, and you are no fucking damsel, but having Abbot stand up for you—get mad for you…
“Old man lookin’ for a fight?” Brayden challenges, pushing his chest out in an over the top, alpha male way that would make you roll your eyes if it weren’t for the way Abbot’s hand twitches against your hip.
You glance up at him, that sly smile nowhere to be found as he works his jaw, tongue sliding behind closed lips like he’s counting his teeth in some grounding exercise.
You’re about to murmur to him that it’s okay. You’re okay. He can take a breath and calm down, but then you’re joined by yet another patron, this one much more level headed than the men staring each other down.
“Walk away, man,” Robby says, “this guy may be old, but I guaran-fuckin’-tee you, he’ll drop you. You really want that?” Brown eyes are narrowed from the way he scrunches his face up, almost cringing on the other man’s behalf. “You really wanna get your shit kicked in, in front of her?”
Chandler’s eyes flit between Abbot and Robby before he raises his hands in surrender, grumbles something about, “no bitch is worth this bullshit.”
You hear something between a grunt and a growl resonate from Abbot’s throat, his arm around you growing tighter, and at the same time, Robby takes a single step forward, hands still in his pockets, his shoulders pulling back as he bows up on the guy.
Abbot may be able to control his volume, but Robby sure can’t, basically barks at Broderick, “what the fuck did you just say?” and you look between all three men in complete disbelief.
What is happening? You’ve got one of your attendings doing everything he can to keep you plastered to his side while another looks like he’s about to knock this guy’s teeth into the back of his throat.
The sense of security is, admittedly, very nice and oddly endearing, but neither of these men can afford to, a) spend a night in jail, and b) fuck up their hands.
“Okay, boys,” you call out, slipping out of Abbot’s grip only to grasp him by the forearm (his thick, thick forearm), your other hand reaching out and curling into the back of Robby’s hoodie, “that’s enough, time to go.”
Looking at Chad/Brad/whatever the fuck his name is, you advise, “if I were you, I’d make myself really fucking scarce right about now.”
He looks between all three of you, eyebrows pinching together as he shakes his head. Thankfully, he walks away, likely swearing the whole time.
You drag both of your bosses out of the bar, claiming, “you two need some fresh air,” then nudging both of them to lean against the wall of the building.
“While I appreciate the whole white knight thing, you guys did not have to do that. Like at all,” said wide eyed and serious. “I know I’m probably just some baby resident to both of you, but I promise I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”
Robby laughs through his teeth, turning his head to look over at Abbot then back at you.
“I wasn’t saving you, sweetheart. I was saving him from stepping into some deep shit.”
“That fucker deserved to get his shit handed to him, and you know it,” Abbot spits back. It’s the first time you’ve heard him like this, genuinely upset, and with that anger comes a different vocal inflection—his words are rough and colored with what you think might be a California drawl.
Strange. You’ll have to ask him about that some time.
“Not arguing that,” Robby sucks his teeth, “be really fucking inconvenient if you got hauled into the police station, though.”
Abbot releases a humorless laugh, “ever the pragmatist.”
“Someone’s gotta be.”
You watch their back and forth, caught off guard by how weird it is. You’ve only seen them interact during shift changes, and whenever they do you’re certainly not around—what, with your whole avoiding Abbot mission.
That seems sort of impossible now. In fact, after that whole display, you don’t think you even want to avoid him anymore, and that poses an entirely new problem.
•
Jack’s little game has backfired horribly.
He really should’ve had the foresight to anticipate it happening, but he didn’t. Caught up in his own amusement as well as your flourishing in the EC.
It’s all been harmless, and if you ever told him to back the fuck off, he would have. He still will.
It’s just… it’s a lot harder to leave you alone now.
And, he doesn’t have some savior complex, no unjustified possessiveness. The problem lies with the fact that Jack can’t fucking get your body out of his head, or really, the way it felt against his. What it felt like to hold you. What it felt like to have you let him.
Sure, he’s had fun riling you up here and there. Watching you get all cute and flustered has brought him a little too much satisfaction, but the dynamic has changed. The rug has been pulled out from beneath him.
The events that transpired at Robby’s birthday get-together (Jack almost strangling another human) caused a shift in you. You’re more comfortable around him, willing to engage and even banter with him, which is great except Jack experienced a shift within himself as well.
The game has changed. The goalpost has been moved. He doesn’t care about working you up as much as he cares about making you laugh, seeing your smile, made even better if he’s the cause of it.
He still stares, and you still catch him, but when you do his characteristic smirk is missing, replaced with a clenched jaw and the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows thickly.
He still stands too close to you, and you still roll your eyes, but you also bite your lip. You don’t move away. Not even when Jack’s fingers brush your arm in a way that could be accidental if he didn’t do it so often.
He does not come up behind you in the exam rooms, though. Despite having never been bothered by it before, the forced proximity that comes with most traumas lights his every nerve ending on fire—painful zaps that travel from his fingertips and spread through the rest of his body.
He’d made the mistake only once, and it was during the shift that immediately followed that night at the bar. Jack moved close enough to look over your shoulder, ready to give feedback and praise for really any reason he could find, but an ultrasound machine getting rolled into the room and into his space had him leaning forward even more until his chest was flush with your back.
Up until this point, you would’ve gone still, maybe curse him under your breath. Not anymore, though. No, this time, with Jack more or less on top of you, all you’d done was glance back at him, lip caught between your canines, then focus your attention back on the patient.
He had to stay in that position for a solid five minutes, if not longer, and by the time he was able to move away from you, he’d gone through almost all of the breathing techniques his therapist had taught him.
So, it goes without saying that this newfound desire is pretty inconvenient.
Also, he’s fucking delusional to call it that—newfound. It’s not new at all, it just wasn’t so obvious, even to him.
Jack has been kinda sorta really fixated on you for a while now. He’d been bothered enough to confront you about what he had thought was an issue of intimidation, then interested enough to play with you, for lack of a better term.
Plus, he’s always found you attractive, cute when stuttering around him, beautiful when you intubate, crouched and squinting as you visualize vocal cords. Downright mouth watering when you scoff at Jack after he says or does something ridiculous (to get your attention), arms crossed with a hip cocked out.
Enamored doe eyes can narrow into a glare in the flash of a second. Shaking hands can cut through flesh with both strength and precision. A frown can brighten into something that glows so brightly, Jack could swear he feels it in his chest.
Long story short, he’s fucked, even more so when you ask him about it.
“You’ve been weird the last couple weeks,” as you sidle up next to him at the central hub.
Jack looks from the forms in his hands. “How so?”
“You haven’t been nearly as annoying lately,” you tell him with a snort.
Feeling his mouth twitch into a smile, Jack looks back down at the papers.
“Don’t tell me you miss it,” he teases, and there’s something oddly comforting about the way you shift on your feet beside him, a habit of yours from back when he could still give you butterflies (or so he assumes).
“I am definitely not saying that,” you click your tongue, and Jack chuckles.
“What are you saying then?”
He signs the last of the paperwork, lines every sheet up then taps them on the counter, straightening them out to near perfection before turning to face you fully.
“Does someone miss having my undivided attention?”
Your jaw falls open in offense, but a short laugh still bubbles out of you, so Jack isn’t too worried.
“You, sir,” you jab a finger into his chest, and he burns at the tiny point of contact, “are just a little too bold, you know that?”
His mouth twists from one side to the other, and Jack can literally feel his eyes light up with mischief.
He tries to keep it inside. Tries to stamp it down, but oh, he needs to see the look on your face when he tells you—
“You really think callin’ me sir is the best idea?”
And, it’s so fucking worth it when that stare grows into something wide, and your shoulders drop to open up your posture and your little hands fidget where they hang by your sides.
You take a deep breath, then, without even meaning to, flip the script on him when you mumble his name—his first name— “Jack…” so, so quiet he almost misses it.
But, he’s watching your mouth so he sees the way your lips form that single familiar syllable, and something is trying to escape his throat, a groan or a shout, he doesn’t know what.
He can barely believe his fucking ears when you deliver the next line, just as quiet, timid as you used to be, “you have to stop teasing me if you’re not gonna follow through.”
You may sound like your former, mousy self, but you still manage to hold his gaze, meaning you see the way his mouth opens in surprise for just a moment before he quickly clamps it shut again.
“At this point you’re just being kinda mean,” you continue.
Jack has to exercise every ounce of his self control to keep from surging forward and catching your pouty lips with his. His hand flexes at his thigh, all five fingers stretched out then curled into a tight fist.
“I didn’t know you were ready for me to start being nice,” he breathes.
You’re speaking in innuendo, right? He isn’t reading this wrong?
You make a self-deprecating sound and shake your head. “I’ve been ready for so long it’s humiliating.”
Jack doesn’t know what to do. He knows what he wants to do, but it is not an option right now, and because of that, because he can’t move to touch you, all the potential energy stored in his hands gets released through his mouth instead.
“Sleep with me after work,” he blurts, and what the fuck—what is wrong with him? “I mean, shit,” Jack laughs at himself ‘cause if he doesn’t, he’s gonna take the stairs two at a time to get up to the roof. “Come to my house and sleep in my bed,” he tries again.
It’s still not graceful, and definitely worthy of a good, long cringe, but it’s out there, and damn, when’s the last time he felt genuinely nervous? He’s survived fucking war zones, but right now, those pale in comparison to the threat of you laughing in his face.
“I…”
“You can tell me to fuck off,” he quickly adds. “I probably deserve it after being such a pain in your ass.”
Your eyebrows are still high, but a smile smug enough to rival his own spreads across your face, “oh my god, wait… That’s what it is.”
“What?” He’s breathing too hard.
“All that, everything you’ve been—” you fucking giggle, and the sound of it makes Jack dumb. “Was that just you, like, pullin’ on my pigtails?”
Jesus, that… yeah, that’s exactly what it was. A schoolboy with a crush, craving the attention of the prettiest girl in the class.
He has to shut his eyes, clenches his teeth so hard, his molars might splinter under the pressure.
“That’s one way to put it,” words coming out clipped, as if his jaw is wired shut.
“And, how would you put it, Jack?”
“Me being a stupid son-of-bitch, something along those lines.”
You hum, hand by your face with your index finger curled against your bottom lip. “Yeah, I’m inclined to agree.”
A few beats of silence pass, and Jack spends every one of them trying not to shake.
Then, his whole body relaxes when you add, “I guess I could go for a nap after work.”
Oh, Jesus Christ, thank God, praise him or her or whatever might be up there. This is truly a blessing.
“Yeah?” he asks, just to make sure.
Your smile remains mirthful, but there’s also a softness to it as you nod, “yeah.”
•
Jack’s house is a small, one story not too far from the hospital. It’s about what you’d imagine for a single man in his forties. His military background can be seen in the tightly ordered bookshelves, the sponge and scrub brush by the sink being perfectly aligned, the containers of flour, sugar, and whatever else pressed against the wall from tallest to shortest.
You thought you would be terrified if ever given the chance to see this very personal part of him. Hell, you’d been terrified of him in general not long ago.
Now, though… Now you scan your surroundings with a tilt of your head, taking it all in and learning new things about the man you’ve been pining over for too long.
“You’re making me nervous just staring like that,” he says with a quiet snort.
When you look back to him, you raise an eyebrow, “nervous, you say? Welcome to my life for the last couple months.”
Jack curls his lip over the bottom row of his teeth, looks sheepish, which is not something you’re used to. On one hand, you feel oddly validated that he’s getting a taste of his own medicine, but you’re not entirely sure you like seeing him… ‘insecure’ isn’t the right word. At a loss, maybe.
You sigh and step toward him, extend a timid hand to take his, and he lets you, watching as you play with his fingers.
You’re ready to explode and ready to melt. Want to scream and want to cry in relief. Confused at how you got here but so relieved that you did.
All mixed up over him, like you’ve always been.
“I’m just trying to get to know you better,” you admit, eyes flicking to his face before returning to calloused, freckled hands. “All I’ve seen is the Jack at the hospital. Dr. Abbot.”
He hums. “That guy’s alright, I guess.”
You grin, and he can probably hear it in your voice when you reply, “yeah, but he’s kind of a badass in the trauma room, which is super fucking annoying.”
“What a dick.”
Giggling in a way you’ve never actually allowed him to see, you find him looking a little dazed. Hazel clouding over, the side of his mouth keeps twitching, smile not quite forming almost like Jack can’t feel the muscles activating, like he’s no longer tethered to himself.
“Can I shower before we lay down?”
He doesn’t answer at first but eventually blinks a few times. “Huh? Oh, right. Shower. Yes.”
His fingers curl around yours and as he leads you further into his home, you’re wrapped in a certain comfort. This is good. You are safe. He is right.
Those are inside thoughts, though. No reason to let him know how far gone you are. He has enough of an idea as it is.
“Let me grab you something to wear. Is—are you alright with one of my T-shirts? And, I have… basketball shorts that should—”
“If you just have a pair of boxers, those’ll work. I don’t like that athletic material.”
Jack stares at you with an intensity you haven’t seen in a couple weeks now. You watch his throat work over a gulp, and he takes a deep breath before croaking, “yeah. Boxers. Got it.”
It’s hard not to shoot him a mocking grin, able to recognize the struggle he’s going through, but you are much more merciful than he is, choose to simply squeeze the hand you’re still holding.
You enjoy the shower alone, inhaling the familiar scent of Jack’s body wash, his shampoo, the conditioner that keeps those curls looking so soft, and you’re hit with the idea, the excitement, that you might actually be able to feel them, run your hands through his hair, feel his stubble against your palm.
You didn’t necessarily come here to have sex. If that’s what ends up happening, then you definitely won’t be disappointed, but you mostly followed him home to spend time with him. To learn more. And, maybe you’d get to cuddle with him. Maybe.
Friends, lovers—whatever this may turn into will be fine with you. Jack has always been attractive to you, even with his incessant teasing, but more than that, he’s always been admirable.
The most capable person you’ve ever met, cool in a crisis, sturdy and sure. He is a pillar, a titan, a leader, but he’s also witty and goofy and mischievous.
There’s a reason you fell for him and a reason you keep falling for him.
The white t-shirt he left smells like him, soft and baggy, and the boxers fit okay once you roll the waistband a couple times. Your hair is wet, and your eyes are dark from fatigue. You don’t feel particularly pretty, but the open domesticity of this whole encounter encourages you to step out into the hallway.
You’re not here to be pretty. You’re here to sleep. And stare a lot.
Jack’s room is right across from the bathroom, and you walk into it you find him sitting on his bed wearing only a t-shirt and boxers. He’s in the process of doffing his prosthesis, and you watch what seems like a ritual. His fingers move and massage scar tissue, and there is a voice at the back of your head, a want—to one day be the one to do this for him. To get the blood flowing again, to soothe any aches or chafed skin.
Probably not quite there yet. You aren’t even sure he wants you to witness this, don’t know if he’s self-conscious about his leg or not.
With this in mind, you step a little louder to announce your presence, and Jack looks up quickly, doesn’t say anything for a moment as his hands falter in their movements.
“Uh… probably should have told you…”
You frown at him. “Did you—did you think I didn’t know?”
Mouth pulled downward in consideration, Jack shrugs, “it’s never come up in conversation, and it’s not like I’m using my crutches at the hospital.” He briefly changes the subject, nodding to the clothes in your hands, “you can toss those in the basket if you want.”
You do just that before approaching him, careful not to knock into what is likely very expensive hardware.
“It didn’t have to come up in conversation. And, you didn’t have to use crutches for me to notice.” He regards you curiously, so you continue slowly, trying to choose all the right words. “You don’t have a limp. You don’t move awkwardly. But, there’s a certain… rhythm… to the way you walk. A kick, I guess, that one leg has that the other doesn’t. It’s really, um… it’s really subtle.”
Jack blushes, but he also smirks. You roll your eyes before he can open his mouth to poke fun. “Yes, I’ve stared a lot. Yes, I’ve watched you like a freak. Fucking sue me.”
“Do I need to file an HR complaint?”
With narrowed eyes and extreme caution, you slowly slide into his lap, draping your arms over his shoulders, making sure not to put all your weight on him.
He’s obviously taken aback, stifles a little cough, but his hands still settle on your waist without hesitation.
“Do you want to file an HR complaint?”
He’s comically quick to answer, “fuck no,” the words rough as they fall from lips you’re zeroed in on. When his tongue darts out to wet the corner of them, you shiver.
Jack moves first, but you’re right behind him, meeting him halfway in a kiss that starts with a deep inhale. Your fingers rake through the hair at the back of his head, travel to finally, finally feel those curls, and when they’re just as soft as you imagined, you hum happily—a sound that turns desperate when Jack cups the back of your neck and somehow pulls you even closer than you already are.
His stubble, though scratchy against your skin, is just long enough to keep from hurting, pleasurably stimulating rather than rubbing like sandpaper.
You tilt your head, open your mouth, and Jack swiftly slides his tongue against yours, a deep grunt sounding from his chest and reverberating in yours. You don’t know what to do with your hands. Want to touch him everywhere, want to feel everything. He, however, knows exactly what he wants, keeps holding your nape while his other hand curls around your hip and guides you to fully sit in his lap, traps you there as he grinds against your core, and fuck, oh fuck—he’s hard. He’s hard and he’s big and he wants you.
Jack swallows your little mewl, groans when you roll your hips, but breaks away from you before either of you can get carried away.
“This isn’t,” he’s already so out of breath, and the fact that you’re the cause of it makes your body flush hot, makes your pussy ache. “It’s not why I asked you to come home with me… contrary to popular belief.”
You refuse to stop playing with his hair even as you speak, “well, I wasn’t—I mean, I wasn’t not expecting it, but it wasn’t my plan either.”
His thumb is stroking over your hip bone, very distracting as you try to keep yourself from shoving him back on his own bed. The hand that was previously on your neck is caressing your cheek, smoothing over the bone, moving to your jaw, the space right below the curve of your lip.
“You are,” Jack swallows, huffs through his nose, “you’re incredible, you know that?”
It takes you by surprise. Praise like that from someone like Jack Abbot is something people crave, whether they’re attracted to him or not. He’s never been one to hold back from encouraging younger doctors, one of the reasons everyone enjoys working under him, but… incredible?
“And, beautiful, obviously. Brilliant. Patient—”
“You don’t have to butter me up, you already have me in your bed,” you play, rolling your eyes as if you’re not eating this up.
“I’m not buttering you up—I’m telling you everything I should’ve when I was too busy pullin’ on those pigtails.”
And, then, for whatever reason, he beams at you, a grin so wide and crooked that it spreads to every one of his features, changes the very shape of him. You see dazzling white teeth all the way back to his molars, and you sort of want to cry into his shoulder.
He’s—he’s so fucking handsome, it hurts, and you can’t look at him any longer, holding his face in both hands as you kiss him again.
And, again.
And, again.
And, Jack refuses to drop that damn smile, still wearing it even as he twists and turns to maneuver you onto your back.
It’s finally happening, oh god, you’re finally getting—you finally have your hands on him, sliding under his shirt, lifting and pushing it off entirely.
His arms, what the fuck, his arms, and his chest, his stomach, his freckles… freckles everywhere, dusting his body like one huge constellation.
You’re so ready to worship him, only you can’t because Jack is too busy with you, mouthing down your neck to nip at your clavicle, fingers dancing at the hem of his shirt.
Looking at you through unfairly pretty eyelashes, he questions, “may I?”
“Y-yeah,” you nod, “knock yourself out.”Jack laughs, helping you sit up so that he can tug the t-shirt from your body, and once it’s off he bites his lip hard enough for the flesh to redden. “Talk about a knockout.”
Part of you wants to ‘boo’ the cheesy line, but it’s hard to criticize when he’s staring at you the way he is, even harder when he leans down to pepper kisses over your chest, sucking on one of your nipples until it hardens on his tongue, then caring for the other in the same way.
Your tits rise and fall with every breath you take, shiny with his spit by the time he begins his descent again.
Jack leaves marks on your rib cage, a bruise sucked into the soft skin right below your belly-button, one on each hip as he hooks fingers into your waistband and pulls the material down little by little.
The hickeys don’t stop, numerous dark spots littering your inner thighs, each one making your cunt pulse with arousal, and once the boxers are discarded and Jack is between your legs, he examines his handiwork—bruises first, then your dripping pussy.
Warm breath cascades over you, a few short puffs followed by a languid lick from your entrance to your clit.
“Haah—ah—Jack, oh…”
His resounding groan vibrates through you, and you immediately find purchase in those silver curls again.
His facial hair scrapes your thighs so deliciously, stubble on his chin and around his lips making you gasp and writhe, and you would love to hold him still and ride his face, but you want something else even more.
“Feels, fuck, feels so good, but—” your back arches when he nibbles on your clit, soothing it with his tongue afterward, “—I want, God, please, want you in-inside.”
And, with those words, Jack fucking whines for you, eyebrows pinched together as he works his jaw, stuck between a rock and a hard place (with a rock hard cock pressing into the mattress).
He wants to fuck you, good God, he wants to bury himself in you, but your cunt is so sweet and so wet, drenching his face and fluttering just for him. He could do this for fucking ever, quit his job and eat your pussy for the rest of his life.
But, your hands are urging him back up your body, and Jack really has no business or desire to deny you anything you want from him.
As soon as he gets to a certain position, one that gives you enough force and leverage, you shove him onto his back and straddle his hips, crushing your lips against his and no doubt tasting yourself on his tongue.
“Do we need… do we need a condom?” you question, follow with, “I’m clean, I had a—a physical a couple weeks ago—”
You’re asking if he can fuck you raw. Shit, Jack is not well enough equipped to deal with this, to deal with the increase in his heartrate and blood pressure as you start working his boxers off of him.
You slide down him quickly, but stop at his legs, and when he feels you press what can only be described as a loving kiss to the scar tissue of his residual limb, Jack sucks in a breath so sharp it might lance him right open.
It’s fleeting, not something you draw too much attention to, but the sensation and the care will stick with him until the day he dies.
“Healthy as a horse,” his voice cracks when he finally responds to you, and he clears his throat in the vain hope that it’ll heal his grated tone.
Both of you stripped of every garment and inhibition you slink back up his frame, another question glimmering in your eyes. Jack raises a hand to push hair out of your face and nods. Yes. Please. I’m entirely yours.
Your hand wraps around his cock, pumping him and making Jack press his head back into his pillows when you run your thumb over his tip to smear the precum drooling from it.
“Gonna kill me,” he whispers, gazing up at you in awe, his jaw dropping even further when you line him up with your entrance and begin sinking down.
Your pussy is hot and tight around him, taking Jack deeper and deeper, and the feeling of you squeezing his cock paired with the way you’re moaning for him has his eyes rolling in his head.
“Fuck, you’re too goddamn good for me,” he groans, and he means it. “Too fuckin’ good.”
But, you disagree with a laugh and a shake of your head right as you settle onto his pelvis.
He is fully inside of you. Sheathed. Surrounded. Buried just like he wanted to be.
The thought nearly does him in, and Jack bucks up into you, the action making you bounce, keen, then start your own rhythm.
Lifting up over and over, you ride him like you were fucking born to, raising yourself and dropping on his cock, then falling to your forearms to work him at a different angle. Your ass bobs up and down, and if he cranes his neck just the right way Jack can see the jiggle of round cheeks. His fingers dig into your plush skin, groping and pulling and using his grip to move you up and down on his cock.
He’s lost to you, lost in you, and he’s fucking ecstatic about it. Uncontrolled grunts and growls leave him without his knowledge, creating a cacophony of lewdness when mixed with your melodic moans and squelching pussy.
You brace yourself on his chest and piston your hips, the pace growing into something frantic as his cock rubs against your g-spot.
Head thrown back, tits pushed out, nails digging into his skin, you’re the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen.
“That’s it, take what you need, baby, I’ve got you,” he tells you, though it’s really Jack who needs the reassurance. Needs to know you won’t disappear from his grasp, here one second then gone the next. He has you, he’s holding you, and just the idea of letting you go drives him insane.
No. No.
He coats his thumb in spit before pressing it to your clit, holds it there to apply a steady pressure for you to control more than him.
Mouth wide open, eyes squeezed shut, you cry while shifting on top of him, an endless dance that eventually has your muscles locking up, your pussy starting to spasm, and Jack can’t tear his eyes away as your orgasm builds, build, builds, his own right alongside it.
You teeter on that edge for so fucking long, face stuck in the same expression of utter desperation as your body moves almost robotically, your lower half snapping to keep his cockhead against your g-spot, his thumb against your clit, and then, with a beautifully broken moan, your orgasm plows into you, taking Jack along with it.
In hindsight, he should’ve asked if it was okay to finish inside of you, but he has no control as you milk it out of him, squeezing thick ropes of cum from his cock, his seed flooding your pussy until it starts leaking out around him, leaving a mess between your bodies.
You take several deep breaths, fuck-drunk eyes heavy and locked on one another until you fall forward onto Jack’s chest.
He wraps both of his arms around your back, fingers of one hand clasped around his opposite wrist. Your head hangs over his shoulder, face turned into his neck, and Jack angles to kiss your forehead before resting his cheek against it.
“Mmm, that was… yes,” you say, still mindless.
Jack chuckles, “yeah, it was.”
“Can we… is that something we can… hm,” you struggle to finish the thought, drowsiness sinking its claws into you. A 14 hour shift and earth-shattering orgasm will do that.
Lucky for you, Jack knows what you’re trying to ask and answers, “we can do that however and whenever you want.”
He feels you smile into his neck. “Not a one-time-thing, then?”
“Do I seem like a one-time type of man?”
You make that wordless ‘I don’t know’ sound, “how’m I supposed to know? You could just be teasing me again.”
His arms tighten enough to push some of the air from your lungs.
“I may be a tease, but I am also” his lips brush the corner of your eye, “a selfish prick—one of my many charming personality traits.”
Instead of being put off by his half-joking, mostly serious confession, you nuzzle into him and gently suckle at a place on the side of his neck long enough to leave a bruise and make Jack’s very tired dick try to twitch back to life.
“I really enjoy… hm, what am I trying to say? I like that—I like that you want me, I guess. And, I want you to be selfish. And, I wanna be selfish too.”
His chest rises with a short laugh. You could have anyone you set your sights on. Stunning, smart, funny, talented, Jack could go on and on. The fact that you have feelings for him, have had these feelings for longer than two seconds, is nothing short of a fucking miracle.
“I’m yours for the taking, babe—your loyal dog. I’ll even sit at your feet if you ask me.”
He unlocks his hands from your back to rub his aching eyes, the toll of last night and this morning weighing heavy on his limbs.
“Will you wear a collar too?” you tease, finger tracing over his Adam’s apple.
“I’ll do whatever you want. Just let me shower and sleep for a couple hours.”
You do, joining Jack under the spray where he leans against you, your arm looped around his torso to keep him stable, and if he weren’t so damn exhausted, he’d probably insist on independence, but he feels like maybe it’s safe to let his guard down. Maybe he doesn’t have to surround himself with trauma or distract himself with little games. Maybe he can just be.
With you.
As the morning sun shines through his curtains, Jack falls asleep with your head on his chest and a content smile on his face.
Tags: nurse!reader, injured baran, mentions of blood scalpels and cutting, stitches, medical inaccuracies, ogilvie mentions (unfortunately), protective!reader, bit of flirting, reader is whipped, no use of yn
Summary: Ogilvie has a field day with a scalpel. Baran reaps the consequences, and you—you find your hands damp with her blood.
Word count: 1.8k
You're used to strange sights in the ED. Foreign bodies of all kinds, sticking out from all sorts of places; oozing fluids; questionable objects sticking in; experiments and extreme stupidity and fits of rage and everything in between. After years of working in emergency medicine, hardly any of it phases you. You're, put simply, quite desensitized to all of it.
Still, the last thing you would've ever expected to see is the chief of PTMC—neat, controlled, perpetually unruffled Baran Al-Hashimi—hunched in front of the sink, lips pursed, holding a paper towel to her heavily bleeding forearm.
"Woah!" Your voice echoes against the bathroom tiles, as sharp as your surprise.
Baran startles. She blinks as you make your way over to her, willingly giving you her arm before you even realize you're taking it. You're no stranger to blood or gore, but you still wince at the soaked paper towel she's holding down, nearly translucent with red. "Jesus. What the hell?"
You realize in hindsight you were not the most articulate.
Baran's exhale is just the slightest bit shaky. She swallows, letting go of the tissue when you nudge her hand away. "Ogilvie was…a little bit too enthusiastic with the scalpel."
You still. "What?"
"It's nothing." She hurries to say. "An accident, he wasn't looking."
"Well, he fucking should be. Does he think that shit is made of plastic?" You say tightly, your voice slipping louder than it should. Too harsh, all at her, and she's hardly the source of your frustration.
Get it together.
You swallow against the flare of anger, fingers careful as you peel away the blood-soaked tissue from her arm. Your stomach drops at the depth of the cut.
"Jesus Christ."
"It's really fine." Baran says weakly. She goes silent at the look you give her, more of a glare than you can help.
"This needs stitches, Baran."
It's still weeping. The blood runs down her forearm, soaks the bunched sleeve of her jacket. Her pristine, spotless jacket, as clean as it would be if she plucked it straight from its 130 dollar rack. Her eyes flitter down to it. She doesn't push back; her lips thin, throat bobbing with a swallow you feel in your gut.
Fucking med students.
The cut is a few centimeters long, maybe an inch. Its edges are smooth, her skin flayed open like butter. "Was it contaminated?" You ask.
"No." She lets out a breath. "He hadn't started cutting yet."
Your jaw sets. You toss the bloodied tissue, rip out a fresh one, and hold it to the cut. The red bleeds through instantly, a violent, blossoming flower. You don't miss Baran's wince from the corner of your eye.
You force in a slow breath to calm the churning in your gut. When you speak, your voice is softer. "Come on. South 21 is empty."
Baran hesitates. She smooths down the short hairs at her temple—a tick, you've realized. "A patient could need it more than I do." She says sensibly.
A huffed breath escapes you, a humorless laugh collapsing halfway through. "Sorry, Doc, but you are a patient now." She frowns at you for that, nudges your hand away and takes over holding the paper towel. You gently grip her elbow. "Hey, c'mon. You know me. How long's it gonna take for me to fix you up?"
Her eyes weigh heavy on your face. They're flat under the fluorescent lights but nowhere near less alluring, a warm vortex of deep brown. "What about your patients?" She murmurs.
"All stable. 21 just got discharged." You say. Your eyes drop to her forearm, the blood now slow going beneath the tissue. Your fingers tighten around her elbow, skipping on the silky nylon of her jacket. You're about to say please when Baran inhales and nods, finally, muttering an okay that loosens the knot in your chest.
You know you shouldn't, but you still keep your hold on her elbow as you walk out of the bathroom. She's lost a fair bit of blood, you tell yourself. Just until you get to the gurney, which isn't far, just a few steps before you reach the curtain and pull it back, letting her in. She settles at the very edge of the bed and looks up at you with a small, faintly amused smile.
"I'm fine," she says softly.
You gnaw on the inside of your cheek, silently cursing. You've always been told you have a terrible poker face. Every annoyance, every worry—it all shows, whether you want it to or not.
You don't even want to imagine what your face looks like right now.
"I know you are." Your voice is falsely nonchalant. You shove your hands into your pockets. "I'll be right back. Stay put," you tell her. "I mean it."
Baran's lips twitch. "I'm not going anywhere."
Your throat is dry when you swallow. You nod once and turn on your heel, the heat of her gaze following you out.
Dana finds you as you're gathering your supplies. Sometimes you think she's got a tracker on you. On everyone, really.
"Hey," she says, fingers tapping against her tablet. "What's the news on your pneumonia patient?"
"Discharged with antibiotics." You reply. "But the room's occupied."
Dana frowns. "By who?"
"Al-Hashimi." You say. The rush of anger swells up again, a tight ball clogging your throat. "That Ogil-fucker took a stab at her with a scalpel."
"He what?"
"I don't know the details, but she needs stitches. It's small, maybe 4 or 5. Fucker's lucky he didn't nick an artery."
"Jesus." She mutters.
"Yeah." You double check your supplies, then look back at her. "If you find him, kill him for me."
Dana's mouth twitches. She leans back against the wall, a smugness overtaking her features. "Your girl wouldn't like that, now would she?" She chides, patting your shoulder. "Go."
"My wha—?" You splutter, nearly dropping the kits in your hands. "Dana. She's—she's not my—" Your girl.
Your mouth dries.
Dana grins at you. "Yeah, right. Go be a knight in shining armor."
"You're not drunk, are you?" You finally fumble out.
"Oh, you wish, honey. I see everything in this ED." She winks, and sends you reeling. "C'mon now, she's waitin'."
-
She's stripped off her jacket. It's folded somewhat haphazardly at the foot of the bed, one sleeve hanging off the edge. The effort sparks a ridiculous warmth in your chest.
The effort, you remind yourself. Not the long lengths of her skin suddenly on display.
You clear your throat, dispelling the roughness from your voice. "Has the bleeding stopped?" You ask as you arrange your supplies.
"Mhm." Baran hums. Her composure is both admiral and baffling. Not out of character for her, certainly, you just…Jesus, you can never imagine being like that. She's a saint.
You settle on the stool next to her. She shuffles closer to the edge of the gurney and sets her arm down for you, a perfectly model patient. She stays that way as you clean out the cut and sanitize the skin around it, not a hair moving out of place, not even when you flush the cut with saline. Admittedly, it looks a lot less dramatic without all the blood.
You still curse out Ogilvie in your head.
"So," you twist a little on your stool as you look up at her, waiting for the anesthetic to set in. "Ever been on the receiving end of this before?"
"Never."
"Well, shit."
Baran smiles reassuringly. "I trust I'm in good hands."
Heat flames under your skin. You try your best not to fiddle with your gloved hands, gnawing instead on the inside of your cheek to tamp down on a smile. "Appreciate that, Doc. Pray I don't scar you."
"I'm aware of your skills." She says, as ever damningly earnest. "Why do you downplay them?"
You flash her a smile. "It's a coping mechanism."
"Are you nervous?" She frowns.
"That's not the word for it." You murmur, dropping your eyes and gently feeling along the cut. "Feel that?"
"No."
You grab your needle holder and forceps, force in a deep breath, and pinch the edge of the cut. Baran doesn't flinch.
"For the record," her voice is quiet, "I trust you completely."
You trust yourself, too. It's just. It's her.
So maybe you don't, really.
"Thanks, Dr. Al." You say, just as soft. You get one stitch down in no time. It's ugly against her warm skin, a dark intrusion amongst sweet brown and the dots of freckles. God, she has so many of them. In the dip of her elbow, on the base of her thumb, the middle of her wrist, everywhere in between. You'd gotten a good look at the ones dusted on her chest, just above the V slit of her scrub top—too good a look, far too many good looks—but it just. It makes your heart irrationally soft to see all the rest. You finish up another stitch, still deep in thought when her voice pierces through.
"You know, I didn't realize I had to be a bleeding mess for you to call me by my name."
What? Is your first thought. Your second is, this needs stitches, Baran.
Of fucking course she caught that.
You pause as you look up at her, forcing ignorance. "I do call you by your name."
She gives you a little smile. You don't miss the tightness in it; it echoes in your chest, a squeezing fist around your heart.
Jesus, just stop being such a coward.
"So," you look back down—Baran, call her Baran again—"how the hell'd this happen?"
Baran.
"The patient had an abscess, it was a simple enough procedure for him to try. I just startled him. He hadn't even started cutting yet."
Yeah, you doubt it was this simple.
Your lips purse. "He needs to be more aware of his surroundings. He forgets he's not the only one in the room."
"Come on," Baran's endlessly gentle. "Don't you remember what it was like to be this eager?"
"No," you say flatly.
"I do." Her voice is soft. You still again, looking up to catch her eyes. Beautiful, you think, far from the first time. "I don't approve of his attitude, but I can understand his hunger. Too well, actually."
She looks back down, suddenly shrinking back like she's said too much. You hit this wall with her sometimes. You've never tried pushing past it.
You drop your eyes, too.
"I'd hardly think you were ever as callous as he is."
Baran inhales. "He could work on his bedside manner, yes."
"Not just bedside." You mutter. You have to force your hands still when you hear her laugh, a low, genuine thing.
You can still hear it in her voice when she says, a little teasing, "You're a strict judge, Y/N."
Well, when they hurt my girl.
You shove that thought down and clear your throat, tying off another stitch.
Damn you, Dana.
"I think you might be a far too lenient one, Dr. Al-Hashimi."
Ps. My taglist has been updated to include Baran <3
When they throw Abbot the beer and he doesn’t catch it, that was scripted. And I’m a stellar athlete. And I just want everybody to know that there was a line that said, when he drops it, “Now you know why I didn’t become a surgeon”. And they cut that line, so it just makes Abbot look clumsy and not athletic. And I want to state for the record that I am an amazing athlete. — SHAWN HATOSY for Collider (x).
they did not capitalize on this as much as they should have but the little moments - the help when she sees that samira needs it, the listening to what samira is thinking (without knowing the convoluted history of samira's terrible day and robby) and suggesting solutions, the hug, the standing up for her to robby...........
baran al-hashimi x fem!reader. 600 words. like 600 even which is pretty crazy.
you move in with baran and her home becomes yours.
“What are we going to do about the closet?” You ask from where you sit on top of one of the many moving boxes you’ve brought with you from your old house. “I don’t want to take up all of your space, and it’s already pretty full.”
“We’ll make it work,” Baran says. She smiles gently, coming over and reaching a hand out for you to take. Once you do, she pulls you to your feet. “We always do.”
Her home is so luxurious that making it work feels like an exaggeration. You will be more than happy here, sharing her king-sized bed and cooking in a kitchen the size of your old living room. Sometimes you forget the prestige of her job, the pay — and then you step inside her house.
“Are you comfortable here?” Baran asks. Her hands rest on your waist, thumbs brushing up and down your sides mindlessly.
“Of course I am,” you say. “Your home is beautiful.”
“And you don’t mind living with my son?”
“We do puzzles together when your shifts run long and he tells me stories about how bad you are at card games,” you tell her. “I think I’ll be okay.”
She laughs at that, a soft and airy sound that makes you step a little closer to her just to be nearer to her light, her warmth. You lean in and kiss her, slow because now that you have moved in together you have all the time in the world.
Baran backs you up towards the bed, pushing you to sit down at the edge. The mattress is soft beneath you, the comforter smells like lavender.
“This place is ours now,” she says. “Our bed, our home, our family.”
You nod. The way she says it makes you press your thighs together — her voice is low, sure, as if she has been waiting to say this for months. Maybe she has, because you felt the question coming long before she actually asked if you would move in with her.
“What’s your ring size, by the way?” Baran asks, her lips close to your ear as she dips down to your neck, pressing soft kisses near your pulse point.
“Why are you asking?”
She pushes you to lay flat on the bed and then gets onto it herself, leaning down to kiss you again before answering. “I’ve just been curious.”
“Are you going to propose?”
She sounds a little nervous, her voice is strained. “Would you say yes?”
“You’ll have to ask and see,” you say. Then you take pity on her. “Of course I would say yes.”
She sits up a little, her face close to yours. Her expression is tender, showing a deeper sort of love than the domesticity you’ve been sharing just now. You find it in the way her lips curve into a soft smile, the pulling together of her brows as she studies you. “Would you really say yes?”
You would, a million times over. “Are you proposing right now?”
She seems to consider it. For a second you think she might admit to it, but then she shakes her head. “Not yet. I still have to get a ring.”
You kiss her again, pulling her close to you like you need her in order to keep living, breathing, and maybe you do. Even this house feels like an extension of Baran, her decor surrounding you and the soft sheets of her bed cradling you like she does. You’re at home now, just as you’re meant to be, because in every way your home is her.
If my emotional support fictional robber barons end up breaking up in season 3 I will cry (problems are allowed but no divorce.) I beg of thee, JF, be merciful.
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tangentwithtanner
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