Reader with a competence kink. Which could be a problem, when you work with highly trained professionals.
Kyle switching languages like hats, efficiently gathering information? So hot.
Johnny building bombs that he uses like a precision tool, almost surgical explosions? You are weak in the knees.
Simon disassembling, cleaning and reassembling his weapons, taking the shot at perfect timing? You wish his focus was on you.
Price keeping everyone coordinated, making decisions, using his team according to their abilities like a smooth running machine? You would do anything he told you, gladly.
Mama Yuna made sure that Shane's aware of his retirement funds and manages his money responsibly and at one point he must've seen Ilya as someone he will have to take care of as well, because ilya spends his money on fast cars ( and probably other stupid shit) until he discovers that Ilya is just like most 1st gen immigrants: sure, he sends money to his family as show od filial piety and buys fast cars, designer clothes and jewellery, but he also lives with a scarcity mindset, looks where to cut cost and maximise savings: he will and can make small repairs instead of paying someone else. Just because Ilya likes the finer things in life doesn't mean his retirement fund is lacking or his other funds created for specific reasons, like their future children, or major house repairs, or for emergencies or sudden illnesses... ilya thought of it all and saved up and after Shane finds that out, he gets extremely horny
Summary: You love to prank your husband; you prank him by telling him that you won't be able to pay for the mortgage this month.
Featuring: Dr. Whitaker, Dr. Abbot, Dr. Shen, Dr. Robby, and Dr. Langdon.
Dennis Whitaker -
You should know better, because you know that Dennis tends to feel things a little bit more than other people. You are smart enough to not drop this prank bomb on him during the middle of his shift.
The bedroom is dimly lit up from the bedside table lamp. Sheets lay over your body, as you rest your head against Dennis' chest. His heartbeat is steady and grounding in your ear. Your husband is currently reading up on the most recent medical advancements that don’t include AI. “Dennis.” He hums, “I don’t think I’m going to be able to pay the mortgage this month.”
The paper drops, and Dennis freezes right away. The other hand that is wrapped around your waist tightens. His jaw clenches, and for a long second he just stares down at you. Bright blues becomes a messy raging storm. Dennis is trying to process, and his mind races all over the place. He truly looks as if he’s panicking. “Hold on…Wait… What?” He asks, his voice is high and tight like someone has their hands wrapped around his neck.
“Just hypothetically.” You try to help, and clarify. You figure your face gives you away, covered in mischief and a twinkle in your eyes. Dennis lets go of your waist, and is sitting up further on the bed. His eyes are wide and his hands start fidgeting with the top of the sheet. “Just a… hypothetical?” He repeats. His voice is still a little shake, and high “You… are you joking right now?” You shrug your shoulders, “Yeah.” You say softly “Mostly.”
He’s up and out of the bed before you have a minute to get comfortable. Standing in your bedroom in only his boxers, and his hands pulling open drawers that the bills sit in. Dennis shakes his head and mutters under his breath mostly to himself then to you. He starts pulling out whatever bills are stacked on top of the most recent pile. “No… No I… that can’t… this… that can’t be right.”
Dennis' brows are furrowed and then he glances from you to the drawer, back to you. He keeps his eyes wide, and searches as if other bills will appear in front of him if he thinks about them hard enough. “I… I pay the mortgage? Right?… I do that right?” His voice is making your heart break. The tiny crack in his voice has your heart stuttering to a complete stop as you stare at your husband panicking on the other side of the room.
Your husband who is normally OCD about the paperwork, and even meticulous is suddenly hit with the thought that he might have failed, not paid the most important bill in his book. In the moment he forgets that he has been handling the mortgage and all the other bills since the moment the two of you got together.
“Dennis yes, you do.” You say gently, letting the sheets fall into your lap as you reach out across the bed to drag and grab at his hand. “Dennis baby, you always pay it, paying it days before the bill is even due half the time. You don’t have to worry about it baby.” You hear his breathing pause mid-breath and then Dennis is exhaling shakily. “I just… I just really… I thought that for a second.” Dennis mutters, his voice cracking. “I thought that maybe I wasn’t…what if I wasn't doing enough for you?”
You pull him into the bed, and kneel beside him on the bed. Your hands resting on his shoulder and dragging him into your side. “Dennis…” He doesn’t look up right away, “Denny please look at me.” You whisper. When Dennis blue eyes finally meet yours, they shimmer against the soft light of the bedside table. In the corners of his eyes, you can see the raging storm of panic, and guilt still lingering there.
“Dennis you do not, and are not failing me.” You say firmly, trying to get your point across. “You have always taken care of everything, and you have always taken care of me.” You whisper. “Plus the fact that you are worried this much? Is even more proof of how much you take care of me. That’s more than enough, Denny.” Dennis reaches his hands up and clenches his hands in yours that are sitting on his shoulders. He holds onto for dear life, as if you’re the only thing supporting him right now.
“I just… I don’t think… I can’t bear the thought of you worrying.” He mutters softly, “Or the thought of me failing… you.” Dennis swallows hard, his adams bobbing in his throat. There is still a tremor in his voice that betrays him, “Even if you’re just joking with me.” He adds.
“I know.” You say softly into his shoulder. “It was just a prank. Dennis you’ve got this handled, you always have this handled.” There is a long, and silent pause that stretches over the both of you. Dennis finally seems to exhale a not shaky breath and you can feel the tension leave his body. He turned in your hold and pressed his face into your shoulder, and neck. Shifting his arms so he can wrap them around you. “You really fucking scared me, sweetie.” He admits into your warm skin. His voice is still filled with emotions, muffled, and raw.
“That’s why I’m here Denny.” You murmur jokingly. You keep him close to your chest. “Dennis you care, and you will always care, and because of that I know that you will always have everything under control.” Dennis lets out a trembling laugh that is one part filled with relief and another part lingering with left over panic. Dennis is gripping your frame. “I just forgot… Just forgot that I actually paid the mortgage.” He whispers like he’s telling you a secret. “And I still… I can’t believe that I still freaked out like that.” He looks over to the bills scattered all over the top of the dresser.
“You’ll always take care of it. That’s why I love you, Denny." You tell him, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “You know you’re gonna have to clean all that up?” You ask him to stare at the scattered bills. He rolls his eyes, and exhales shakily. “You know that you are literally impossible sometimes.” He teases. “And yet…” You whisper back, “You still love me.” Dennis doesn’t argue with you, instead he opts to holing onto your tighter, and letting the fear, the panic, the fucking prank faded into the darkness of the night.
Jack Abbot -
Jack just looks at you with his arms crossed over his chest. “No.” He says quickly. You blink over at him, “What do you mean no?” You are confused at the way your husband is reacting. “No.” He repeats once more before uncrossing his arms and leaning against the counter-top. “You don’t ever pay it.”
“But I could.” You counter. Jack laughs sharply as you see his body shake from the sheet force. “Why would you think you could?” Jack asks. You take your chance and move in closer. “What if I wanted to be able to contribute.” You don’t phrase it as a question, insteading leaving it open ended.
Watching the way Jack opens and then closes his mouth like a fish out of water is enough to make your cheeks hurt from trying not to laugh. Jack's eyes twinkle like he knows that you’re playing with him now. “So how would you want to contribute then, darling?” Jack asks his tone sultry.
You don’t answer, not that you really have to when it comes to your husband. He knows all your tells, knows when things are getting bad for you at work, knows when you’re fighting your body more than normal. Jack just knows you and it causes a large grin to grow and tug at his lips.
“Oh, honey, that is not paying at all.” He mutters, pushing off the edge of the counter and right into the leftover space. “That’s tactical negotiation.” Jack whispers into your ear. Jack lets his hands fall on either side of you, bracketing you into the counter top without touching you at all. “Oh, and for the record.” He adds, his voice low and crisp sending shocks all the way down your spine.
“I’ve got it covered already, darling.” He whispers. You smile and look up at him. The curls that normally sit so perfectly are all over the place from his sleep. His breath smells of a mid evening coffee to get him ready for the next night shift at the PTMC. You let your head fall to the side, “So, what are we talking about then Jack?” You tease.
Jack leans the rest of the way in his lips grazing over your pulse point right under your ear. “That you don’t need any kinda leverage if you want my attention, darling.” You breathe out heavily, when Jack takes both hands off the counter and rests them gentle on your hips pulling you into him. “But I will say I do admire your creativity.” You roll your eyes and shake your head trying to will the blush away from your cheeks and the rest of your body.
“Go get ready for work.” You say playfully slapping his chest and pushing him away.
John Shen -
You love your husband, it's really not hard especially when the banter has kept up and only gotten better now that the two of you are married. John has insisted that the two of you go out for dinner, and then walk back to your place. It was his first night off since he had gotten the attending position for the night shift.
As you walk down the street it’s quiet and the tall street lamps cast shadows all over the pavement and sidewalks. You let yourself fall behind John as you continue to walk. A smirk pulls at your lips. “John, I don’t think I’ll be able to pay the mortgage this month.” You say it lightly, and let it hang in the air between the two of you as you continue to walk back to your shared home.
John doesn't even blink he knows you like to do shit like this, tease him, pull his leg to see what kind of reaction you’ll get out of him. John just keeps walking, his hands deep in his pockets as the Pittsburgh air starts to get nippy after the sun sets over the city. “So you wouldn’t be paying for it?” John asks, his voice is low and controlled but there is no anger behind his words.
You nod, “Yeah, hypothetically.” You add, titling your head as you look at your husband. John stops mid-step, and turns his head just enough to look at you with sharp eyes. “Hypothetically?” He repeats slowly, tasting the words on his tastebuds. “What kind of hypothetically are we talking about honey? Is it disaster, apocalypse, or just really fucking bad budgeting?” He asks. Your eyes light up, and you roll your lips between your teeth.
“Maybe it’s all three.” You tease, grabbing John's arms and pressing yourself into his side. John's brows raise, “All three? That’s pretty ambitious for your type of catastrophes.” He smirks ever so slightly. John glances ahead as if you’re the last person around that will have caught his attention. “Do you enjoy testing me? Watching me worry, or is this just a way of testing my skills?” He asks, you smile and shrug your shoulders. “It could be a little bit of both.”
John stops walking on the sidewalk and turns around fully, facing you now. The street around you is quiet, it’s so quiet that your voices bounce around and echo softly. “Oh I see, love.” John says with a slight tilt of his head. “What you’re saying’ is here a problem see if you can figure it out. Is that right?” You nod, and grin devilishly up at your husband. “You could sprinkle in a bit of panic if you felt like it.”
John lets out another calm, slow, breath. But when you catch his eyes there is something behind them. Something that feels like dancing in fire. “You know panic isn’t my style, love.” He says. “I prefer to have calculated responses.” John ends up stepping closer, closing that final distance between the two of you. “What I can do is entertain some mild irritation, just for your love.” Your brows raise, and you feel the heat hit your neck and cheeks. “Mild Irritation? Is that all?” You tease John. “Mild.” He repeats for you, with a smirk on his lips. “Just for now, love.”
Your laugh softly echoes in the night air, as you close the rest of the space between you and John. “Don’t go getting cocky now.” You watch John's lips twitch, “Cocky? I’m not cocky, love. I’m… I am just precise, and strategic. I just know when someone is trying to throw me off my game.” You smile wide, “That would most definitely be me.” You throw him a wink. “You’re a very effective someone.” John says quietly, his voice dropping low and sexy.
Your stomach does a few flips, “You’re not mad?” You feel the need to ask him. His brows knit together, “Mad?” He shakes his head, and brushes one hand up through his gelled hair. “I’m considering a few things. You might end up facing a few consequences.” Your cheeks burn again. “Like what, John?” You tease, his name falling from your lips like venom.
“I might without all these future plans of hypothetical disasters." You pout, “I might make you pay interest on your creativity.” The pout on your face gets wiped away and is instead replaced with a playful smirk. “Interest? That sounds a little risky, John.” John leans down, his forehead resting against your own. Voice laced, smooth and teasing. “The only thing risky here is you, love.”
You try to take a step back, but John follows you. Keeping the pressure like he does with wounds that come in through the ER. “So this is a hypothetical emergency.” He mutters, “The mortgage is handled, you’re still safe. That means you can stop pretending that you’ve worried me into some sort of action.” You smirk at John's words. “Safe.”
“Safe” John echos, his dark brown eyes locking into your own. There’s a level of amusement and intensity that you almost always find in his eyes. “Just be careful next time love. I might not let your hypotheticals go so easily.” You raise your hands up, mocking a surrender that will come and go. “Noted, John.”
“Good” John mutters out, as he grabs your hands, locking your fingers together and continuing your walk home. “Just so the record is straight, you are highly fucking entertaining when you think you can try and scare me.” He tells you with a squeeze of your hands in his. “Oh, I’m glad to be of service.” You laugh softly, leaning your head into his shoulder.
Micheal 'Robby' Robinavitch -
You probably shouldn't do this here, but who are you kidding if you didn’t do something drastically funny for the simplicity of seeing how Robby will react. You can see Robby across the nurses station, Dana is talking with her hands and Robby is standing there in all his perfect glory.
No Gloria to come raining down on his parade this morning. The both of you had managed to wake up a little earlier than your normal alarm, which allowed you both the chance to actually wake up and enjoy the food you were shoveling down your throat. Robby's green long-sleeved undershirt is rolled up around his elbows. The ipad of his choice sitting in his hands as he listens to Dana talk about something.
Robby may look tired, but he stays focused. You had both managed to have a cup of coffee before you walked into work together, and you’re pretty sure that he’s on his third or fourth cup of coffee in the morning and according to your watch it’s not even noon yet. Even though your husband might be extremely tired, and a little curt around the edges with the new interns and med students he’s in work mode. Steady, calm, and reliable.
HR had a field day with Robby and you disclosed your relationship to them. Lots of questions, nothing that truly mattered because you and Robby had been safe, nothing happened at work and it never would. You were already a resident in your third year when your relationship with Robby had started.
Robby must feel your eyes on him, because he turns ever so slightly and catches you staring, or more like day-dreaming towards him, he smiles back at you and notches his head in the direction of one of the many empty halls of the ER. When you meet him in the hallway you’re both smiling at each other, you watch as the tension in his shoulders that you weren’t able to see from so far away seems to melt away at just the sight of you. “Are you doing okay?” He asks, worried, always lacing his words when it comes to you.
You really do try and keep your voice light, and almost playful. “I don’t… Michael I don’t think that I’ll be able to make the mortgage payment this month.” Your husband blinks, and then tucks the forgotten ipad in his hand under his arm. He laughs at first, a small surprised one. “Okay.” That’s all he says, and it’s so gentle that you nearly miss it. “I didnt… that’s new information to me.” Robby says cataloging it away for later use.
You let your head fall to the side, “You’re not… you’re not freaking out?” You ask, Robby gives you a quick shake of his head, Robby lowers his voice when nurses pass you both. “Hoenstly I’m just really confused.” He admits with a smile that is soft, and warm. “I don’t understand why you thought that you needed to pay the mortgage?”
You aren’t really sure what to do at this point, you thought of this going many ways but this way wasn’t at all what you had envisioned. You give Robby a shrug, “I just wanted to do what you were going to say.” You lie. Robby looks around the hallways and then back at you his eyes filled with a fond look. One you see often when the two of you are home, or during the middle of a date where you’ve caught him staring at you like a teenager. “I would tell you that… you don’t pay the mortgage.” He reminds you. “I pay the mortgage, have been and will always be me who pays.” He mutters gently.
“Oh.” You mutter quietly mostly to yourself as you pretend to think “Right.” Robby laughs under his breath his chest rising and falling, “It was a good try though, Bubbeleh.” You can hear the tone shift in Robby's voice, he keeps it light, but there is something else, something sincere. “I just want you to know if you’re worried about something, or anything that you can just come to me and tell me. There is no need to prank me, especially at work.” You smile, and soften against the cold ER wall behind you. “I know, Michael.”
Robby reaches out, uncaring of the ER buzzing alive around the both of you. He grabs ahold of your hand, gives it a quick squeeze, his thumb grazing over your pulse point. Just because the man is at work and technically your boss doesn’t mean that he can’t go without touching you a few times everyday. “You’re good, bubbeleh.” He mutters quietly. “Everyting is good, we are safe.” Michael reminds you, you feel your chest warm and tighten with raw emotion.
“So no more dramatics at work?” You tease Michael. He grins the one that makes his crows feet around his eyes come to life, and the one that has his nose scrunching up. “I’m sorry to report, but I only save the dramatics for you know actual emergencies. Like when you steal the last of the coffee at home.” He teases right back.
You laugh loudly and let your head fall forward into his shoulder. “You know that coffee is most definitely an emergency.” You feel him nod, “Yeah it is.” Dr. Mohan ends up calling his name, and Michael lets out a low heavy sigh into your shared space. He gives your hand a final squeeze before letting it go between the both of you. “I'll see you later.” He says softly, “Just try not to prank me with anything else until we are back home.” He teased before walking off and towards Dr. Mohan. “I give you no promises, Michael.”
You see him shake his head, and walk backwards until he hits an empty bed. “You are trouble bubbeleh.” He says before wiping around and walking a little faster towards Dr. Mohan. You walk back towards the nurses station, and stand in front of the board, “How’d your prank go on Robby?” Dana asks over the tops of her glasses, you smile. “He didn’t even freak out just reassured me that everything was handled. I kinda just melted after that.” Dana smiles and shakes her head, “Go ahead pick something before something picks itself for you.”
Frank Langdon -
Frank is standing in front of the sink, hand drying your pottery mugs. The words come out of your laziness like you don’t really believe them yourself. “Frank, I’m not going to be able to pay for the mortgage this month.” You hope for something, anything other than Frank not even looking up at you and instead just humming.
Frank only hums once, like it’s thoughtful. You wait… sitting on the other side of the kitchen. You’re waiting for the pause in the air, the sharp inhale when your words finally land. Except nothing happens at all, instead Frank continues to hand dry your mugs and set them in the cabinet with care, and love. Only when Frank lays the towel down, does it mean that the conversation deserves his full attention.
“Okay.” He says with a light shrug of his shoulders. You feel your brows pinch, and your shoulders fall down. You were hoping for more, something dramatic like you had seen on tiktok from other wives telling their husbands that they weren’t able to pay for their mortgage. “Okay?” You echo.
Frank leans his back into the counter, his arms folding over his chest. “Yeah… You wanna tell me why, or are you just talking out loud again?” You pout automatically. “Frank, why are you more worried about this?” You ask, your husband stares at you for a long moment, his eyes narrowing over your face and then the man is smiling at you. “I’m not worrying about this if you're gonna worry about it.” He answers.
Your mouth falls open. Frank continues, “You forget I know you honey, if you were really truly stressed about this you’d be pacing all over this place, or you’d be over-explaining yourself while apologizing to me” He doesn’t stop there, “Instead you’re sitting there waiting for me to react.” He says with a wiggle of his brows.
“You're impossible, Frank.” You say with a huff, Frank smiles at you softly, but also knowing. “Honey, it’s an occupational hazard.” You throw your hands up “Fuckin’ hell, It was prank.” Frank just nods, “How… you knew?” You question quickly. “Like thirty seconds in.” Frank pushes off the counter, and rounds the corner.
Frank's hands wrap around your wrist, gently tugging you from the stool and down to the floor. “I wanted to know where you gonna go with it.” You look up at Frank, “And?” You question. “I was actually curious if you thought it was your responsibility in the first place, baby.” His words sober you a little. “I didn’t mean it like that, Frank.” You try, Frank nods, “I just wanted to say it anyways.”
Frank rubs his thumb over your pulse point. As to steady the both of you at the moment. “I’m just saying that you don’t ever pay the mortgage.” He pauses and then continues, “You never have. It’s not because you can’t, but because it’s not your job baby. We agreed that we would divide things a certain way and that meant that I paid for the mortgage.” You shrug and Frank continues to look down at you, trying to read your tells. “I just… it still feels like I should be helping more, or better.”
“Honey, you do.” He says quickly, “It's just not with money, and that’s okay.” You take a chance to look up at him again, “Oh?” Frank smirks and his eyes light up. Blue grows brighter by the second. “You keep me sane. You keep this place feeling like a home, instead of just a place where I sleep for twelve hours and then leave to return back to the day shift. That is not nothing.” You feel the warmth cover your chest and seep into your bones.
“So, is that a no to alternative payments plans?” You’re able to recover from the warmth in your chest enough to tease your husband. Frank snorts, laughing and throwing his head back. “That’s a nice try, baby.” He says leaning in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Lingering there for a moment like he always does.
“I’ll tell you what.” he murmurs against your forehead, “If you ever wanna renegotiate the current terms, we can talk about it… privately." Frank says, pulling back. Your cheeks grow hot, and your stomach curls and jumps at the thought. “See?” Franks says amused. “That’s the reaction you really wanted.”
You laugh, but agree with him. “You’re so fucking calm about this.” “It’s just experience.” He says, “Plus it helps that I’m so confident.” Frank slips an arm around your waist, leading you towards the couch in the living room where the conversation seems to settle down. “Just next time.” He adds playfully, “Maybe pick a prank that doesn’t cause my blood pressure to go through the sky.” You smile over at him “I make no promises, Frankie.” He just shakes his head, and presses a kiss to your temple. “That figures, baby.”
Can't believe tonight is already the finale of season 2... I'm gonna miss that man for real.
If you'd like, I've got a one shot Dr. Abbot x Reader fic on AO3 to help us cope!
⁀➷ Read it on AO3
description: A protest gone wrong lands you in the ER. Your doctor is calm, capable... and completely off-limits. But somewhere in between late-night shifts, political differences, and a rooftop you're not supposed to be on—lines start to blur.
word count: 8.7k (one shot)
tags: Smut, Age Difference, Politics, Competence Kink, Praise Kink, He talks you through it Kink, Vaginal Fingering, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex, Reader-Insert, reader is a patient, Ethical Dilemmas, Opposite political beliefs, Protective Jack Abbot (The Pitt), Top Jack Abbot (The Pitt), Hurt/Comfort, Doctor/Patient, Jack Abbot Needs a Hug (The Pitt)
Summary: A cockroach, Abbot Bingo, and one very inconvenient wink. As you settle into the Night Crawlers, working with Jack starts to feel less like learning his rhythm and more like falling into it. It means nothing. Probably.
Warnings: Medical setting, insect in ear, assault involving a minor, head injury/subdural hematoma, age gap, attending/resident dynamic, slow-burn attraction.
Author's Note: Jack and Reader are getting a little too good at this whole working-together thing. Also: welcome to the inner circle. Abbot Bingo is now canon
Xoxo, Del
| Chpt. 1 |
Central was already loud when you came through the double doors.
Not bad loud.
Normal loud.
Monitors chirped from somewhere down South. A transport tech maneuvered an empty stretcher around the corner. Someone called for respiratory from one of the rooms near North. At the central workstation, Shen was staring into an enormous Dunkin cup with the betrayed expression of a man who had discovered corruption at the highest level. Crus stood beside him, peeling open the wrapper of a protein bar.
You adjusted the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder as you approached. “Should I ask?”
Shen lifted the cup and shook it once. Ice rattled loudly inside. “This is a scam.”
Crus took a bite of his protein bar. “You say that every night.”
“Because every night I am victimized,” Shen replied. He pointed accusingly at the cup. “More ice means less room for coffee. They are charging me for coffee and giving me frozen water.”
You dropped your bag beneath the workstation. “Have you considered asking for less ice?”
Shen ignored the question and lifted the cup toward you. “Look at this. Half the volume is ice.”
You leaned slightly closer to inspect it. “Maybe sixty percent.”
Shen’s expression sharpened with vindication. “Thank you.”
Crus looked at you. “Don’t encourage him.”
“I believe in consumer advocacy,” you told Crus as you pulled your badge forward.
A dry voice came from the workstation beside you. “You believe in making this conversation longer.”
You turned. Jack stood at the computer in dark scrubs, one hand resting beside the keyboard, his attention split between the tracking board and the argument happening around him. You had looked for him when you walked in.
You were choosing not to examine that too closely. Instead, you glanced toward the clock mounted above Central.
Jack followed your gaze before looking back at you. “You’re late.”
You stared at him. “I’m two minutes early.”
Jack shrugged with a smirk. “Could’ve been earlier.”
You logged into the workstation beside him. “Good evening to you too, Abbot.”
Shen lifted his coffee again. “Do you see what I deal with?”
Jack’s attention shifted toward him. “You’ve spent ten minutes complaining about ice.”
Shen cradled the cup protectively against his chest. “Because less coffee is not a trivial issue.”
Jack looked back at the computer. “It is at the moment.”
Crus nodded toward Jack. “He’s got you there.”
Shen pointed at Crus. “You stay out of this.”
Crus took another bite of his protein bar. “Gladly.”
Jack reached toward the tracking board and tapped one finger against a patient listed in Central.
“Central nine,” he said.
You followed the gesture. Forty-three-year-old male. Ear pain. Possible foreign body.
You looked back at Jack. “You say the sweetest things.”
The corner of his mouth moved. “You’re welcome.”
You picked up the tablet from beside the keyboard and opened the chart. “Any idea what kind of foreign body?”
Jack leaned one hip against the workstation. “Patient says something flew at him while he was taking the trash out.”
Your thumb stopped against the screen. “Something flew at him?”
“That’s what he told triage,” Jack said.
You skimmed the note. Right ear discomfort. Sensation of movement. Unable to visualize object at triage. You looked up. Jack was watching you. Not obviously. But enough.
Your eyes narrowed. “You have a theory.”
Jack’s expression stayed neutral. “I have several.”
“That is not comforting,” you told him.
He shrugged. “It wasn’t meant to be.”
You studied his face for another second. “What do you think it is?”
Jack tipped his chin toward the hallway. “Go look.”
You stared at him. “Abbot.”
“Doctor,” Jack corrected, entirely too calmly.
Shen turned away from his coffee long enough to glance between the two of you.
You pointed the tablet at Jack. “You know something.”
Jack folded his arms loosely across his chest. “I suspect something.”
You waited. Jack waited longer.
You exhaled through your nose. “You’re enjoying this already.”
His mouth twitched again. “A little.”
You narrowed your eyes. That only made the amusement in his expression worse.
“If whatever is in his ear bites me, I’m putting your name in the incident report,” you warned him.
Jack pushed away from the workstation. “If it bites you, I’ll read the incident report.”
You turned toward Central Nine. “I hate working with you.”
Shen lifted his cup toward you in sympathy. “Godspeed.”
You looked back at him. “Thank you, Shen.”
Crus glanced toward the patient room. “Now I kind of want to know what it is.”
You kept walking and lifted the tablet slightly. “I’ll find you if I need backup.”
Jack’s voice followed you down the hall. “Central nine.”
You lifted one hand over your shoulder without turning around. You could hear Shen laugh behind you. The patient was sitting rigidly upright on the stretcher when you entered, one hand hovering near his right ear without quite touching it.
His wife stood beside him. Both of them looked miserable. That did not inspire confidence.
You gave them a small smile as you stepped inside. “Hi. I’m one of the residents working tonight.”
The patient nodded carefully. “Hi.”
You sanitized your hands as you moved toward the stool. “I hear something happened while you were taking out the trash.”
His wife made a face.
The patient closed his eyes for a second. “Something flew at me.”
You rolled the stool closer. “Did you see what it was?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head carefully. “I felt it hit the side of my head, and then I felt something go into my ear.”
You kept your expression steady. Something in his ear. Great.
“And since then?” you asked.
The patient’s mouth tightened. “It moves.”
Your entire nervous system objected. You did not. You reached for the otoscope.
His wife rubbed both palms against her arms. “He keeps saying he can hear it.”
You paused for only a fraction of a second before nodding. “Okay.”
The patient looked at you anxiously. “Is that bad?”
You pulled on a pair of gloves. “It means I should probably take a look before I answer that.”
He turned his head for you. You adjusted the light and leaned closer. For the first second, all you saw was irritated skin.
Then something shifted deeper in the canal. You stopped breathing. Tiny legs scraped against the edge of your view.
No. Absolutely not. You drew the otoscope back with what you considered an impressive amount of professional dignity.
The patient immediately searched your face. “What is it?”
You smiled. Calmly. Competently. As if you had not just seen your own personal nightmare living inside another human being.
“There is definitely an insect in there,” you told him.
His wife covered her mouth. “Oh my God.”
The patient went pale. “What kind?”
You glanced once more through the otoscope. The insect moved. You pulled back again. Your soul attempted to leave your body.
“It looks like a cockroach,” you said.
The patient made a strangled sound. His wife whispered something under her breath. You set the otoscope down and lifted both hands slightly before either of them could panic further.
“The important part is that we can get it out,” you assured them.
The patient stared at you. “That’s the important part?”
“Yes,” you said, nodding firmly. “That is absolutely the important part right now.”
His wife looked at the equipment beside you. “Does this happen a lot?”
You considered lying.
Instead, you reached for what you needed. “More often than anybody would like.”
The patient looked horrified. You decided that was enough information. You talked him through the plan before you started, keeping your voice even despite the fact that every cell in your body still objected to what you had just seen.
“I’m going to put some lidocaine into your ear first,” you explained as you gathered what you needed. “It’ll help with the discomfort, and it should stop the insect from moving before I remove it.”
The patient’s face tightened. “Please make it stop moving.”
You gave him a reassuring nod. “That is absolutely the goal.”
You instilled the lidocaine carefully and gave it time to work. When you checked again, the cockroach was still. Significantly better.
Still a cockroach. Still in an ear. But still. You worked carefully under direct visualization until you were able to grasp it and draw it free. The cockroach dropped into the basin. Dead. Entirely motionless.
You stared at it for one second. That was enough. You covered the basin with a towel.
The patient let out a breath so hard his shoulders dropped. “Is it out?”
You peeled off your gloves. “Completely.”
His wife sagged against the edge of the stretcher. “Thank God.”
You checked his ear again, making sure the canal and tympanic membrane appeared intact before reviewing what irritation to expect and providing return precautions. By the time you stepped back into the hallway, your face was perfectly composed. The door shut behind you.
You made it approximately three steps. Then you shuddered so hard your shoulders came up around your ears. Jack looked up from the workstation.
You immediately looked down at yourself. Your hands swept over the front of your scrub top. Jack’s brows lifted.
You twisted, trying to see the back of your own shoulder. “Is there one on me?”
Jack stared at you. “What?”
“A cockroach.” You brushed rapidly at one sleeve. “I feel like there’s one on me.”
Jack’s mouth twitched.
You pointed at him. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything,” he replied.
Your brow furrowed. “You were about to.”
Jack shook his head. “I wasn’t.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You absolutely were.”
Jack walked closer, his expression settling into something suspiciously composed. “There is not a cockroach on you.”
You looked down at your scrub pants. “You don’t know that.”
Jack’s left eyebrow rose. “I’m looking at you.”
“That means nothing,” you told him.
His mouth tightened.
You caught it immediately. “Stop smiling.”
“I’m not smiling,” Jack said.
You frowned. “You are trying very hard not to.”
Jack gave you a long look. “You’re being dramatic.”
You stared at him.
“There was a live cockroach inside someone’s ear, Abbot,” you said.
“And now there isn’t,” Jack replied.
You shook your head. “That does not undo what I saw.”
The corner of Jack’s mouth pulled upward.
You glared at him. “This isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny,” he said.
You looked genuinely wounded. “You suspected.”
Jack nodded once. “I suspected an insect.”
“And you didn’t warn me?” You asked, horrified.
He tipped his head slightly. “Would it have changed anything?”
“Emotionally?” You pressed one hand against your chest. “Yes.”
Jack’s smile grew.
“You’re horrible,” you told him.
Jack tipped his chin toward you. “You handled it.”
You gave him a flat look. “That is not the point.”
He gestured back toward the room. “You removed it.”
You folded your arms. “Also not the point.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on you, amusement warm now instead of hidden. “Patient’s fine.”
“I’m not,” you said.
You shifted your weight. A stray piece of hair brushed the back of your neck. You yelped.
Actually yelped. Your whole body jerked sideways as you slapped a hand over the spot. Jack stopped.
You froze with your palm pressed to your neck. For one terrible second, neither of you moved. Jack pressed his lips together.
Your eyes narrowed. “Do not.”
His shoulders moved once.
“Abbot,” you warned.
Jack looked away. That was worse.
Your mouth fell open. “Are you laughing at me?”
“No,” he said, his voice suspiciously tight.
You pointed at him. “You are.”
Jack shook his head, still fighting the smile. “I’m not.”
You stared at him in disbelief. “You can barely speak.”
Jack looked back at you. His face was mostly composed. His eyes were not. Neither was the corner of his mouth.
You stared at him. “I hate you.”
That did it. A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. Low and warm and completely unguarded.
Jack dropped his gaze for a second, one hand settling against his hip as another quiet laugh slipped free. You stared at him. Your annoyance remained. Mostly.
But underneath it was the unexpected realization that you had never heard him laugh like that before. You had made him laugh like that. That thought felt strangely good.
Jack finally looked back at you, still smiling. “You done?”
You straightened. “No.”
His smile deepened. “You sure?”
You straightened. “I’m considering filing a formal complaint.”
Jack’s brows lifted. “For laughing?”
You gave him a pointed look. “For emotional damages.”
Jack nodded thoughtfully. “Good luck with that.”
You started back toward Central beside him. “I still hate you.”
Jack glanced at you. His smile softened at the edges.
“No, you don’t,” he said.
Your step faltered. Just slightly. Jack kept walking like he had not said anything at all.
You followed him toward the workstation. And irritatingly, impossibly, you were smiling too. The emergency department did what it always did after allowing you approximately thirty seconds to enjoy anything.
It moved on. Central six needed discharge instructions. A patient in North wanted to know for the fourth time when radiology was coming. Someone in South had vomited on the floor despite having an emesis bag directly in his hand, and Shen spent several minutes insisting that this represented a personal betrayal. By the time you made it back to the central workstation, the phantom sensation of tiny legs crawling across your skin had mostly faded.
Mostly. You were finishing a note when a piece of hair shifted against your cheek. Your hand came up automatically.
Across the workstation, Jack looked up. You caught him. His mouth twitched.
You pointed at him without taking your other hand away from your hair. “Not a word.”
Jack lowered his gaze to his computer. “Wasn’t going to say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
He clicked into another chart. “Can’t prove that.”
You dropped your hand. “Your face gives you away.”
Jack glanced toward you. “Does it?”
“Constantly,” you told him.
His expression suggested he disagreed. You smiled to yourself and went back to your note. A few minutes later, your name appeared beside a new patient in North.
Thirty-eight-year-old woman. Nausea. Epigastric pain. Dizziness. You opened the chart. Her vitals were reassuring. No fever. No significant medical history beyond hypertension. Triage described intermittent upper abdominal discomfort since that afternoon, nausea, and one episode of vomiting.
Nothing immediately alarming. Nothing particularly specific either. You pushed away from the workstation and headed toward North.
The patient was sitting upright when you entered, one hand pressed below her sternum.
You introduced yourself before moving to the computer mounted beside the bed. “Tell me what’s been going on.”
The woman shifted against the pillow. “I started feeling sick after lunch. I thought maybe I ate something bad.”
You glanced toward her. “What did you have?”
She made a face. “A cheeseburger.”
You nodded once. “A respectable suspect.”
The woman laughed weakly. “That’s what I thought.”
You moved closer to the stretcher. “And the pain started around then?”
She shook her head. “Maybe an hour later. It’s not terrible. Just uncomfortable.”
You asked her to show you where. Her hand settled over the upper middle portion of her abdomen, drifting slightly toward the right. You worked through the rest of the history.
No diarrhea. No fever. No urinary symptoms. No prior gallbladder problems. No significant shortness of breath. But when you asked about the dizziness, she hesitated.
“It’s more like I get kind of lightheaded,” she explained.
You nodded. “When you stand?”
“Sometimes,” she said. “But I felt it sitting down earlier too.”
That made you pause. You kept going. The discomfort had come and gone. She described it as pressure more than sharp pain. She had noticed some sweating earlier, but she had blamed that on feeling nauseated.
You finished the exam and stepped back. Gallbladder was possible. Gastritis was possible.
Reflux was possible. So were several other things. And there was one possibility sitting farther down your differential that you disliked enough not to ignore.
You thanked the patient and stepped back into the hallway. Jack was coming out of another room farther down North. His eyes found you almost immediately.
“There you are,” he said as he approached.
The words caught your attention more than they should have.
You tucked the tablet against your side. “Were you looking for me?”
Jack stopped beside you. “Yes.”
You had expected a denial. Something dry. Instead, he simply said it.
You blinked once. Jack seemed entirely unaware that there had been anything unusual about his answer.
He nodded toward the room behind you. “What do you have?”
You fell into step beside him as you headed toward Central. “Thirty-eight. Epigastric discomfort, nausea, one episode of vomiting, intermittent lightheadedness. Started this afternoon.”
Jack glanced toward you. “Tender?”
“Mild epigastric and right upper quadrant,” you said. “No guarding. No rebound. Murphy’s isn’t convincing.”
He nodded once. “Gallbladder?”
You tipped your hand from side to side. “Maybe.”
Jack looked at you. You knew that look. You had started to know several of them, apparently.
You narrowed your eyes. “You don’t think it’s gallbladder.”
Jack leaned one hip against the workstation. “I didn’t say that.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Your face did.”
His brows lifted. “My face?”
“Very opinionated,” you said.
Jack studied you for a beat. “You’re reading a lot into my face.”
“I’m reading exactly enough,” you replied.
His mouth twitched. “That sounds scientific.”
“It is,” you said.
Jack gestured toward the tablet in your hand. “What else?”
You glanced down at the chart. “Gastritis. Reflux. Pancreatitis, although I don’t love it. Gallbladder disease is still on the list.”
Jack waited. You looked up at him. He kept waiting.
You sighed. “And cardiac.”
“There it is,” Jack said.
You gave him a look. “I was getting there.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t,” he replied.
Your eyes narrowed. “You were thinking it.”
Jack folded his arms. “You’re doing the face thing again.”
“Because I’m right,” you said.
From the opposite side of the workstation, Shen slowly looked up from his computer. His gaze moved from you to Jack and back again.
“Are you two arguing?” Shen asked.
You shook your head. “No.”
“Yes,” Jack said at the same time.
You turned toward him. “We are not arguing.”
“You’re disagreeing with me,” Jack pointed out.
“Disagreement is not automatically an argument,” you said.
Crus glanced over from the other side of the workstation. “It kind of sounds like an argument.”
You pointed the tablet toward him. “You stay out of this.”
Crus lifted both hands. “See? Now it feels like an argument.”
Shen leaned back in his chair. “I’m still unclear on what the argument is.”
Jack tipped his chin toward you. “She thinks gallbladder.”
“I said gallbladder was one possibility,” you corrected.
“You led with it,” Jack said.
You tapped the tablet with one finger. “Because she has right upper quadrant tenderness.”
Shen looked toward Jack. “And you think?”
Jack gestured toward you. “Ask her.”
You stared at him. He was enjoying this. Again.
You looked back at Shen. “I think we get the EKG before we decide her stomach is the problem.”
Shen nodded. “So you agree.”
“Thank you,” you said, pointing toward him.
Jack shook his head. “That wasn’t the argument.”
Crus leaned one forearm against the counter. “I’m starting to think there was never an argument.”
“There was,” Jack said.
You looked at him. “There was not.”
Shen’s gaze moved between the two of you again before he turned back to his computer. “Whatever this is, I don’t want to be involved anymore.”
Crus returned to his own work. “That makes two of us.”
You looked back at Jack. “EKG.”
“EKG,” Jack agreed.
You smiled. “So we agree.”
“For now,” Jack said.
The EKG tech was already in the room when you returned. Your patient now looked more annoyed than frightened, which you took as a good sign. She lay back against the stretcher while the last leads were adjusted across her chest, one hand resting loosely over her upper abdomen.
You stepped beside the bed. “We’re just checking your heart while we sort out everything else.”
The woman glanced down at the leads. “Because of the dizziness?”
You nodded. “The dizziness, the nausea, the pressure you described. Sometimes cardiac symptoms don’t show up the way people expect.”
Her expression tightened. “You think I’m having a heart attack?”
“I think there are enough possibilities that I don’t want to assume,” you said. “This is one of the quick things we can check.”
She seemed to accept that. A minute later, the machine finished printing. The tech handed you the tracing, and you stepped into the hall.
You were halfway back to Central when you slowed. The EKG was not dramatic. It was not catastrophic. It was also not something you wanted to dismiss. Jack looked up when you stopped beside the workstation.
His gaze dropped to the tracing in your hand. “What?”
You held it out toward him. “Well.”
Jack took the EKG.
You folded your arms. “I officially like gallbladder less.”
His eyes moved over the tracing.
Jack tapped one section with his finger. “Yeah.”
You leaned slightly closer. “Subtle.”
“But there,” he said.
You nodded. “I want troponins.”
Jack handed the tracing back. “Good.”
There it was. One word. Simple. Quiet. Still enough to feel good. You turned toward the computer and started placing the orders.
Jack stayed beside you.
You glanced at him. “You can say it.”
His brows pulled together. “Say what?”
You clicked through the lab orders. “That your extremely opinionated face was right.”
Jack looked at you. “My face doesn’t say anything.”
“You are very committed to that position,” you said.
His mouth twitched. “And yet?”
You submitted the orders. “And yet, apparently, it has excellent diagnostic instincts.”
Jack folded his arms. “Good to know.”
You gave him a warning look. “Don’t get smug.”
“I’m not smug,” he said.
You pointed toward him. “That. Right there.”
Jack’s brows lifted. “What?”
“The face,” you said.
His mouth pulled faintly at one corner. Almost. You caught it.
Something pleased curled quietly in your chest. There. Almost. You immediately decided not to examine why you had apparently started keeping score.
Instead, you tucked the EKG beneath the tablet. “Enjoy being right while it lasts.”
Jack’s brows lifted. “I usually do.”
You stared at him. “That confidence is upsetting.”
His mouth twitched. “You’ll adjust.”
You started toward North. “I hope not.”
The first troponin result came less than an hour later. Elevated. Not dramatically. Enough to matter. You pulled up the result and turned the screen slightly toward Jack.
He stepped closer.
You tapped the result. “There.”
Jack read it. “Call cardiology.”
You nodded. “Already paged.”
His gaze shifted toward you.
You lifted one shoulder. “Your face told me you were going to say that too.”
Jack stared at you. You waited. His mouth twitched. You smiled.
Jack shook his head and turned back toward his computer. “You’re becoming a problem.”
“I thought I already was one,” you said.
“You’re becoming a different problem,” Jack replied.
Your fingers paused against the edge of the workstation. You looked at him. Jack was already back in the chart.
Naturally.
You leaned one hip against the counter. “Should I be concerned?”
Jack glanced sideways at you. “Probably.”
You smiled. “Good.”
For half a second, his eyes stayed on yours. Then Lena appeared at the end of the workstation. The expression on her face wiped the smile from yours.
Lena nodded toward North. “Seventeen-year-old in twelve. Assault at a party.”
You straightened. “Stable?”
“For now,” Lena said. “Awake, talking, vitals are okay.”
You tucked the tablet beneath your arm. “What happened?”
Lena fell into step beside you as you started toward North. “Sounds like she got shoved or hit. Went down and struck her head. Dad brought her in.”
You glanced toward room twelve. “Loss of consciousness?”
“Unclear,” Lena replied. “That’s part of why I’m sending you in.”
You looked at her. “What else?”
Lena’s mouth tightened. “I don’t know.”
That made you slow.
She looked toward the room. “I just don’t like how she looks.”
You nodded once. That was enough. You changed direction toward North Seven. North Seven was quieter than the rest of the department.
The girl on the stretcher looked younger than seventeen. Maybe it was the oversized sweatshirt swallowing her hands. Maybe it was the way she sat slightly folded into herself, one knee drawn up beneath the blanket. A red mark had started to darken along one side of her forehead. Her father stood near the foot of the bed with his arms crossed.
He looked tired. And angry. Not at her, necessarily. At the night. At the hospital. At whoever had put his daughter here.
You sanitized your hands as you stepped inside. “Hi. I’m one of the residents working tonight.”
The girl looked toward you. “Hi.”
Her father straightened. “How long is this going to take?”
You glanced toward him. “I’m going to examine her first, then I can give you a better idea.”
He nodded, though not happily.
You pulled the stool closer to the stretcher and looked back at the girl. “Can you tell me what happened tonight?”
She picked at the cuff of her sweatshirt. “I was at a party.”
You waited.
The girl swallowed. “There was this girl there. We got into it.”
Her father let out a breath through his nose. “She got into a fight.”
The girl’s jaw tightened.
You kept your attention on her. “What happened during the fight?”
“She shoved me,” the girl said. “I think.”
You caught the hesitation. “You think?”
The girl looked toward her father.
He answered for her. “One of her friends said she got shoved and fell backward.”
You looked back at the girl. “Do you remember falling?”
Her eyebrows drew together.
“I remember arguing,” she said slowly. “And then I remember being on the ground.”
You leaned forward slightly. “Do you remember hitting your head?”
She shook her head. “No.”
Her father shifted at the end of the stretcher. “She’d been drinking.”
The girl looked irritated. “I had two drinks.”
“You’re seventeen,” her father said.
You held up one hand before the argument could build. “We can come back to that part.”
The girl looked at you.
You gave her a small nod. “Right now I just need to know what you remember.”
She relaxed a fraction. You continued through the history. Headache. Nausea. One episode of vomiting in the car. No seizure. No known medical problems. No blood thinners. The headache had gotten worse since the party.
That mattered.
You stood and moved closer. “I’m going to check your eyes and do a quick neurologic exam.”
The girl nodded. “Okay.”
You checked her pupils. Equal. Reactive. You had her follow your finger. No obvious gaze abnormality. You tested strength. Sensation. Coordination. Nothing dramatic. Nothing that screamed emergency.
And still— Something bothered you. You stepped back. The girl rubbed one hand against her forehead. You watched her.
“Has the headache changed since you got here?” you asked.
She took a second too long to answer.
“I don’t know,” she said.
Her father sighed. “She’s exhausted.”
You looked at the girl. “Do you feel exhausted?”
She blinked at you. Then nodded. “Yeah.”
You waited another second. “How about dizzy?” you asked.
“A little,” she said.
“When you stand?”
She frowned. “Sometimes.”
You glanced at the monitor. Vitals still reassuring. You looked back at her.
“Can you tell me what month it is?” you asked.
The girl gave you a confused look. “August.”
You nodded. “And where are we?”
“PTMC,” she answered.
You smiled slightly. “Good. And who’s president?”
Her father looked annoyed now. “She knows where she is.”
You kept your voice even. “I’m checking a few things.”
The girl answered correctly. You moved on. But when you asked her to repeat three words back to you a few minutes later, she missed one.
Not dramatic. Not definitive. Just enough to add to the growing discomfort in your gut.
Her father shifted again. “She’s been up all day. She drank. She got into a fight. Of course she’s tired.”
You looked at him. “That may be all this is.”
He seemed to latch onto that. “Exactly.”
You held his gaze. “But I don’t want to assume that.”
His mouth tightened.
You turned back toward the girl. “Did anybody tell you if you passed out?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Her father answered instead. “Her friends said she got up.”
You looked at him. “Right away?”
He hesitated. “I think so,” he said.
You looked back at the girl. “Do you remember getting up?”
She stared at you. Then her expression changed. Not fear exactly. Recognition.
“No,” she said quietly.
You nodded once. There it was. You finished the exam without rushing. Then you stepped toward the door.
“I’m going to talk with my attending,” you told them. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
The girl nodded.
Her father looked toward you. “Are we talking about a concussion?”
“It’s possible,” you said. “I just want to make sure we aren’t missing anything else.”
He exhaled, but he let you go. You stepped into the hallway and pulled the door mostly closed behind you. Jack was coming down North.
His eyes found you. You didn’t have to call him over. He changed direction immediately.
“What do you have?” Jack asked when he reached you.
You glanced through the narrow window in the door before looking back at him. “Seventeen. Assault at a party. Shoved or hit, fell backward, struck her head.”
Jack nodded once. “Loss of consciousness?”
“Unknown,” you said. “She doesn’t remember the fall or getting up afterward.”
His attention sharpened. “Vomiting?”
“One episode,” you replied. “Worsening headache. Mild dizziness. Neuro exam is mostly reassuring.”
Jack caught the word. “Mostly?”
You folded your arms loosely. “She’s slow.”
He waited. You looked toward the room again.
“Not dramatically,” you continued. “She’s oriented. Strength is equal. Pupils are fine. Coordination is okay. But her responses are delayed, and she missed one on delayed recall.”
Jack watched you for a moment. “Walk me through it.”
You nodded.
“The mechanism is enough to make me cautious,” you said. “Add the memory gap, vomiting, worsening headache, and the fact that I don’t think her mental status is completely baseline.”
Jack looked through the window toward the girl.
You continued, quieter now. “I know the exam isn’t dramatic. I just don’t like it.”
He looked back at you. “Neither do I,” Jack said.
Relief came quickly. Not because you needed him to tell you what to think. Because he had listened.
Jack tipped his chin toward the room. “CT.”
You nodded. “That’s what I want.”
He gestured for you to go back in. “Then order it.”
You pushed the door open again. Her father looked up immediately.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
You moved back toward the stretcher. “I want to get a CT of her head.”
His expression hardened. “Why?”
You kept your voice calm. “Because she has a gap in her memory around the fall, she’s vomited, her headache is getting worse, and she’s a little slower to respond than I’d expect.”
“She’s tired,” her father said.
“She may be,” you replied. “But those symptoms overlap with things I don’t want to miss.”
He glanced toward Jack, who had stepped into the room behind you. You noticed it. So did Jack.
The father looked directly at him. “Do you really think she needs a scan?”
Jack didn’t step forward. He didn’t repeat your explanation. He didn’t take the case away from you. He simply looked at the man.
“She’s right,” Jack said.
The room went quiet. You looked at him. Just for a second. Jack’s attention was already back on the patient.
Her father exhaled and rubbed one hand over his face. “Okay.”
You nodded. “We’ll get it moving.”
The girl looked at you. “Am I going to be okay?”
You stepped closer to the bed. “Right now, you’re awake, you’re talking to me, and your exam is reassuring in a lot of ways.”
Her eyes stayed on yours.
You softened your voice. “The scan is how we make sure we’re not missing something that needs more attention.”
She nodded slowly. “Okay.”
You gave her a small smile. “Okay.”
Then you stepped back toward the computer to place the order. Jack moved toward the door. As he passed you, his hand paused briefly against the edge of the workstation beside your hip. Not touching you. Just close.
“Good,” he said quietly.
You looked up. Jack held your gaze for a moment. Then he stepped back into the hall.
You watched him go for half a second before returning to the order. The patient still needed you. The CT results came twenty-three minutes later.
You were at Central when the notification appeared. You opened the report. Then stopped. Small acute subdural hematoma. No significant midline shift. You read it twice anyway.
Jack came up beside you. “What?”
You turned the screen toward him. His eyes moved across the report.
You exhaled slowly. “There it is.”
Jack nodded once. “Call neurosurgery.”
You reached for the pager clipped at your waist. “Already doing it.”
His gaze shifted toward you.
You looked at him. “What?”
Jack’s mouth moved faintly at one corner. “Nothing.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Your face disagrees.”
“That again?” he asked.
“You started it,” you said.
Jack glanced back at the CT report. “Good catch.”
The teasing left you. You looked at the screen.
“It wasn’t much,” you said.
Jack’s attention returned to you. “It was enough.”
You were quiet for a second. He didn’t fill it.
You looked back toward North Seven. “I should update them.”
Jack nodded. “Go.”
You pushed away from the workstation and headed down the hall. The girl’s father stood when you entered. His expression changed the second he saw your face.
“What did it show?” he asked.
You moved closer to the bed. “The scan shows a small subdural hematoma, which means there’s a small amount of bleeding between the brain and one of the protective layers around it.”
The girl went still.
Her father stared at you. “Bleeding?”
You nodded. “It’s small, and there’s no significant pressure or shift on the scan right now. That’s reassuring.”
The girl swallowed. “Do I need surgery?”
“Not based on what we’re seeing right now,” you said. “I’ve paged neurosurgery so they can review the imaging and examine you too.”
Her father rubbed one hand over his mouth. “Jesus.”
You gave him a moment.
Then you looked back at the girl. “We’re going to keep a close eye on you, repeat neurologic checks, and make sure nothing changes.”
She nodded slowly. Her father looked at you again. Some of the defensiveness from earlier was gone now.
“I thought she was just tired,” he said.
You kept your voice gentle. “There was a lot going on tonight. The important thing is that you brought her in.”
His shoulders dropped slightly. You turned your attention back to the girl and answered the rest of her questions before stepping out. The door clicked shut behind you.
You stood there for a second. Not long. Just long enough to breathe. Then you started back toward Central. Jack was there when you returned. Of course he was. He looked up as you approached.
“You good?” he asked.
You nodded too quickly. “Yeah.”
Jack watched you. You waited for him to challenge it. He didn’t.
“Okay,” he said.
That was all. No interrogation. No lecture about taking care of yourself. Just okay.
You sat down at the workstation and opened the chart again. A bottle of water appeared beside your keyboard. You looked at it.
Then at Jack. His attention was already on another screen.
“Did you put this here?” you asked.
Jack kept typing. “Maybe.”
You picked up the bottle. “Are you monitoring my hydration now?”
“Someone has to,” he said.
You stared at him. “That is deeply invasive.”
Jack glanced toward the unopened bottle. “You haven’t had anything since you got here.”
“You don’t know that,” you said.
“I do,” he replied.
You narrowed your eyes. “That’s creepy.”
“That’s observable,” Jack said.
You held the bottle up. “Do you do this to everyone?”
Jack finally looked at you. “Only the ones who get useless when they’re dehydrated.”
Your mouth fell open. “Useless?”
His eyes dropped deliberately to the bottle. Then back to you.
“Prove me wrong,” he said.
You unscrewed the cap while glaring at him. “I liked you better when you were laughing at me.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “No, you didn’t.”
You took a drink. He turned back toward the computer. And somehow, annoyingly, that made you feel a little better.
By the time you made it back to Central, the department had settled into one of those strange stretches of relative quiet that never lasted long enough to trust. Shen, Crus, and Ellis were gathered around the far end of the workstation. That alone was suspicious.
The fact that all three of them stopped talking when you approached made it worse.
You slowed beside your computer. “Why do I feel like I just interrupted something illegal?”
Ellis glanced at you, then made the decision for all of them. “I think she’s ready.”
You stared at her. “That sounds ominous.”
Shen pushed his chair back and reached beneath a stack of printed downtime forms beside the workstation. “You’ve been on nights long enough.”
Crus nodded solemnly. “You’ve survived us.”
Ellis folded her arms. “More importantly, you’ve survived him.”
You followed her gaze across Central. Jack was halfway down the hall, speaking with Mateo outside one of the rooms.
You looked back at them. “I’m afraid to ask.”
Shen placed a sheet of paper facedown on the counter in front of you. “Welcome to the inner circle.”
You looked at the paper. Then at Shen.
“You have an inner circle?” you asked.
Crus shrugged. “Apparently.”
Shen pointed at him. “Don’t cheapen this.”
You reached for the paper. “What exactly am I being initiated into?”
Shen grinned. “Abbot Bingo.”
You turned the page over. A five-by-five grid stared back at you. For several seconds, you said nothing.
Then you looked up. “You made bingo cards about Abbot?”
Ellis corrected you from across the workstation. “We all made our own.”
Crus pulled his from his scrub pocket. “Same basic premise. Different squares.”
You looked back down at Shen’s card.
Says “Absolutely not.”
Asks “What did you do?”
Tells someone to go home.
Says ‘Shen’ like a threat.
The center square read:
FREE SPACE: Visibly regrets choosing medicine.
A laugh escaped you.
Shen tapped the paper. “First person to get five in a row wins.”
You looked at him. “What do they win?”
“The other three each owe the winner one coffee or snack,” Ellis explained.
Your interest sharpened immediately. “Each?”
Crus nodded. “Three total.”
You looked between them. “Redeemable whenever?”
Shen pointed toward you. “See? This is why we knew she was ready.”
Ellis smiled. “Any shift. No expiration.”
You pulled an empty sheet of paper toward yourself. “Give me a pen.”
Crus handed one over. “Welcome aboard.”
Something warm caught quietly beneath your ribs. It was stupid. Completely stupid. A homemade bingo game devoted to tormenting an attending physician should not have meant anything. But Shen had said inner circle.
And apparently you were in it.
You uncapped the pen. “What are the rules?”
Shen leaned closer. “Has to happen naturally. You cannot directly provoke the square.”
Crus pointed toward him. “That rule exists because of Shen.”
You looked at Shen. “What did you do?”
Shen’s expression turned defensive. “I needed him to say ‘absolutely not.’”
Ellis shook her head. “So he asked Abbot if he could intubate someone from across the room.”
Your mouth fell open. “You did not.”
Shen lifted one shoulder. “It worked.”
Crus gave him a flat look. “And then we instituted the rule.”
You laughed and started filling in your card. A minute later, Shen leaned over your shoulder. His brow furrowed. Then he leaned closer.
“Why are yours so specific?” Shen asked.
You glanced at him. “They’re not.”
Shen pointed to the upper-left square. “Abbot raises his left eyebrow judgmentally.”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
Ellis leaned over from the other side. “Left eyebrow specifically?”
“The left one is judgment,” you explained. “Both eyebrows are disbelief.”
Silence settled around you. You looked up. All three of them were staring at you.
“What?” you asked.
Crus glanced toward Shen. “She might be better at this than we are.”
Shen looked personally threatened. “She’s been here five minutes.”
“I pay attention,” you said.
Ellis pointed farther down the card. “Abbot crosses his arms menacingly.”
You nodded. “That happens constantly.”
Crus pointed farther down your card. “Abbot winks.”
Shen looked at you. “Abbot winks?”
You nodded. “I’ve seen him do it.”
Shen’s expression turned skeptical. “When?”
You glanced toward Jack’s side of the department. “That pregnant patient who came in with the headache and blurred vision. The one who seized.”
Ellis looked up. “The HELLP case?”
You nodded. “Robby asked if Abbot had it.”
Crus frowned. “And?”
You smiled at the memory. “Abbot said, ‘Yeah, I’m good. I got it with my eyes closed.’”
Shen waited.
You lifted one finger. “Then he went, ‘But I won’t. Maybe one eye.’”
You winked. Ellis started laughing.
Crus nodded slowly. “Okay. Documented wink.”
Shen pointed at your card. “Fine. That one stays.”
A dry voice came from behind the four of you. “What are you doing?”
Everyone froze. You turned first. Jack stood a few feet away.
His gaze moved across the group crowded around the workstation. Then down to the papers. Then back up. His left eyebrow rose.
Your eyes widened. “Oh, yes.”
You immediately marked the square.
Jack’s attention snapped to you. “What?”
You held up the card. “Left eyebrow. Judgmentally.”
Crus burst out laughing.
Shen pointed accusingly at your paper. “She already got one.”
Jack looked at him. “Got one what?”
Ellis lifted her card. “Abbot Bingo.”
Jack stared at her. His expression went completely blank. You bit the inside of your cheek.
Jack looked toward Shen. “Abbot Bingo.”
Shen nodded once. “Correct.”
Jack crossed his arms over his chest. You gasped again. His eyes went directly to you.
You marked another square. “Crosses arms menacingly.”
Jack looked down at his arms. Then back at you.
“This is menacing?” he asked.
You considered him carefully. “A little.”
Crus leaned toward your card. “Does ‘a little’ qualify?”
You pulled the card away from him. “It absolutely qualifies.”
Jack looked around at the four of you. “Explain.”
Shen straightened in his chair. “We each have a card containing things you regularly say or do during a shift.”
Ellis held hers up. “First person to five in a row wins.”
Crus gestured toward the cards. “The losers each owe the winner a coffee or snack.”
Jack looked from Ellis to Crus. “You’ve been doing this during work?”
Shen shook his head. “Only during periods of appropriate clinical downtime.”
Jack stared at him.
Shen shifted slightly. “Mostly.”
Jack extended one hand toward you. “Let me see that.”
You hesitated.
His fingers curled once. “Card.”
You handed it over. “Don’t judge my methodology.”
Jack looked down at the grid. His eyes moved slowly across your squares.
Raises left eyebrow judgmentally.
Winks.
Crosses arms menacingly.
Says “Doctor” in that tone.
Points toward a room instead of telling someone to go.
One-word praise: “Good.”
Looks over his shoulder instead of turning around.
Tiny almost-smile he immediately gets rid of.
Jack stopped. Then he looked at you. You waited. His gaze dropped to the card again.
“This is disturbingly specific,” he said.
You held out your hand. “It’s accurate.”
Jack gave the card back. “That doesn’t help.”
You smiled as you took it. “I disagree.”
His mouth twitched. Your gaze dropped immediately to the corresponding square. Jack saw you look. His mouth flattened. Too late.
You marked it.
“That counts,” you said.
Jack pointed toward your card. “No.”
Shen made a strangled noise. Crus immediately checked his own card. Ellis grabbed her pen.
Jack realized his mistake.
Shen slapped the counter. “Anybody have ‘No’?”
Crus marked a square. “Got it.”
Jack closed his eyes for one long second.
Ellis laughed. “Does that count as visibly regretting choosing medicine?”
“It should,” Shen said.
Jack opened his eyes. “Nothing I do while discussing this game counts toward the game.”
You shook your head. “You can’t add rules after the game has started.”
Jack looked at you. “Apparently I can.”
“You’re not playing,” you pointed out.
His stare sharpened. You smiled sweetly.
Jack looked around the workstation at all four of you. “I hate all of you.”
Your smile widened.
You held his gaze. “No, you don’t.”
For half a second, Jack said nothing. Then his left eyebrow rose. You looked down at your card.
Shen immediately grabbed your wrist. “Absolutely not. You already used that one.”
You started laughing. “He did it again.”
Crus sided with Shen. “One occurrence per square.”
Ellis nodded. “I agree.”
You pulled your hand free. “This game is corrupt.”
Jack shook his head and started away from the workstation. Shen looked at the retreating figure, then down at his own card. His expression turned calculating.
Jack made it four steps before stopping. He turned just enough to look over his shoulder at the group. Your eyes dropped instantly to your card.
You marked another square. Jack saw you do it. His eyes narrowed.
You lifted the paper toward him. “That one was on here too.”
Jack stared at you for a long second. Then he walked away.
Shen leaned over to inspect your card. “You’re going to be a problem.”
You looked down at the growing collection of marks and smiled. Apparently, you already were. By four-thirty, Abbot Bingo had disappeared beneath actual work.
Your card was still tucked under the edge of the keyboard, one square short of a win. You had stopped thinking about it somewhere around the second trauma. Mostly because you no longer had enough functioning brain cells to think about anything that was not directly in front of you.
You were standing at Central with a cup of coffee that had gone cold an hour ago when Jack came out of Trauma Two. He looked about as tired as you felt. His gaze found yours across the workstation.
You lifted your cup slightly. “How bad?”
Jack glanced toward the tracking board. “You really want an answer?”
You looked at the wall of yellow and red. “No.”
“Smart,” he said.
You took a miserable sip of cold coffee.
Jack watched you swallow. “That’s disgusting.”
You looked down at the cup. “It’s caffeine.”
“It was caffeine,” he corrected.
You gave him a tired look. “Don’t ruin this for me.”
His mouth pulled into a small smile.
Jack lifted his own cup and tapped it lightly against yours. “Hang in there.”
You smiled. “You too.”
Someone called for him from Trauma One.
Jack started backing away. “Duty calls.”
You lifted your cup toward him. “Try not to have too much fun.”
His eyes met yours. Then he winked. Quick. Easy. That same cocky little one-eyed wink you had seen him throw at the patient during the HELLP case.
Except this one was for you. You stared after him for half a second. Beside you, Shen sucked in a sharp breath.
Your head snapped toward him.
Shen pointed at you. “The wink.”
Oh. You dropped your coffee onto the counter and grabbed for the card beneath the keyboard.
Crus looked up. “Did he just do it?”
Ellis was already laughing. “He did.”
You found the last empty square and slashed an X through it.
Then you held up the card. “Bingo.”
Shen groaned. “Unbelievable.”
Crus pointed toward Trauma One. “He handed you the win.”
You folded the card. “I didn’t ask him to.”
Ellis gave you a knowing look. “Nobody said you did.”
You tucked the card into your scrub pocket. “Three free snacks.”
Shen stared at you. “You are remarkably focused on the wrong thing.”
You picked your coffee back up. “I won. That is the thing.”
Crus shook his head. “She’s going to be unbearable.”
You smiled over the rim of your cup. “You invited me.”
By the time the board finally started thinning, the sky outside the narrow windows near the ambulance entrance had begun to lighten. Not sunrise yet. Just the first gray hint that morning was coming.
You finished your last note, signed it, and leaned back in your chair. For the first time in hours, nothing immediately needed you. The realization lasted approximately five seconds before your stomach growled.
Loudly. You looked down. Across the workstation, Shen looked up.
His eyebrows rose. “Was that you?”
You pressed one hand against your stomach. “Mind your business.”
Crus glanced over from his computer. “That sounded medically significant.”
You gave him a tired look. “I haven’t eaten an actual meal since yesterday.”
Ellis zipped her bag closed. “That explains a lot.”
You pointed at her. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
Ellis slung the bag over her shoulder. “I am. Eat something.”
Shen stood and stretched. “I would offer to buy you something, but you already have a legally binding snack voucher from me.”
You smiled. “I’m saving that.”
His expression immediately turned wary. “For what?”
You pushed back from the workstation. “I haven’t decided yet.”
Crus shook his head. “Creating the no-expiration rule was a mistake.”
“You invited me,” you reminded him.
Ellis laughed as she started toward the hall. “And now we live with the consequences.”
The three of them began filtering out one by one, still arguing about whether your Abbot Bingo win had been assisted. You let them go ahead. Your bag had somehow migrated beneath a chair during the shift, and you crouched to retrieve it.
When you straightened, Jack was still at Central. Of course he was. He was finishing something at the computer, shoulders slightly rounded with exhaustion now that the adrenaline of the shift had worn off.
You hooked the strap of your bag over your shoulder. Your stomach growled again. Loud enough that Jack glanced over from the computer.
You closed your eyes for a second. “Don’t.”
His brows lifted. “Don’t what?”
You sighed. “You heard that.”
“I think the entire department heard that,” Jack said.
You pressed a hand over your stomach. “Traitor.”
Jack looked back at the computer. “Go eat.”
You leaned one hip against the workstation. “Any suggestions?”
He paused.
Then Jack glanced toward you. “There’s a diner two blocks east.”
You waited. Jack went back to typing.
You stared at him. “That’s all I get?”
His fingers stopped. “What else do you want?”
“A name would be helpful,” you said.
Jack glanced toward you. “The Beacon. Two blocks east.”
You nodded slowly. “Is it good?”
His expression turned thoughtful. “It’s open.”
You laughed. “Glowing review.”
Jack’s mouth twitched.
You adjusted your bag. “What do you get?”
He looked at you. You waited.
Jack seemed mildly suspicious of the question. “Why?”
“Because you’re recommending it,” you said. “I need to know whether your judgment can be trusted outside this building.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “You trusted it all night.”
“Medically,” you corrected. “Breakfast is different.”
Jack considered that. Then he nodded once. “Pancakes.”
You stared at him.
His brows drew together. “What?”
“You eat pancakes?” you asked.
Jack gave you a look. “I do. Why is that surprising?”
You smiled. “I don’t know. They just don’t feel very Abbot.”
His mouth twitched. “You have strong opinions about me.”
You adjusted the strap of your bag. “I have strong opinions about most things.”
Jack nodded. “I noticed.”
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
Jack shook his head. “Their pancakes are decent.”
“Decent,” you repeated.
Jack looked at you. “That’s what I said.”
You started backing toward the hallway. “High praise from you.”
Jack pointed toward the exit. “Go.”
You smiled. “There it is.”
His expression flattened. “What?”
You reached into your pocket and pulled out the folded bingo card. Jack stared at it.
You grinned. “Tells someone to go home.”
“That game is over,” he said.
You tucked the card away again. “Still counts in my heart.”
Jack shook his head. “Goodnight.”
You turned toward the doors. “Goodnight, Abbot.”
You made it several steps before his voice stopped you. “Try the pancakes.”
You looked back. Jack had already turned toward the computer again. You smiled.
“I will,” you said.
Then you headed for the elevators. Working with Abbot had gotten easy. That was all.
You liked his judgment. You liked arguing with his face. You liked making him laugh.
And apparently, somewhere along the way, you had learned that he ate pancakes after bad shifts. None of that meant anything. Probably.
💜 yay! So my idea is fem!reader is a musician too and she and dom collab on a song and film a video for it. While filming, things get a little heated and the tension is palpable and the video isn't even supposed to be like that. After filming they end up in a dressing room on the couch unable to keep hands off each other. Spicy spicy spicy 🥵 if you please 🙏
Static & Skin
dom x female reader 🪽 smut 🪽 dirty talk 🪽 competence kink 🪽 rough sex 🪽 intimate
The song ends. Silence. The kind that hums.
Dom steps back first, jaw tight, eyes dark. “If we keep goin’,” he says carefully, “this stops bein’ about music.”
You nod, though your body protests the space he’s put between you.
“It already did, Dom. It's no longer about the damn music.”
You don’t expect the studio to feel this intimate. It’s a converted warehouse with white walls that echo if you speak loudly. Someone’s tried to make it sterile for filming; softbox lights, reflectors, cables taped to the floor, but it hasn’t worked. The place hums. With sound. With intent. With him.
Dom stands across the room, jacket shrugged off, his black shirt clinging in that careless way men never mean to make dangerous. His curls are a little wild, pushed back from his face, his jaw shadowed like he didn’t bother shaving because today didn’t feel like a day that required neatness. You’re not meant to be this aware of him. This is supposed to be work. A collaboration.
The song had come together too easily, late night voice notes, unfinished verses passed back and forth, harmonies that locked the first time you tried them. You’d told yourself that kind of chemistry happens when two people speak the same musical language. You hadn’t factored in him.
“Alright,” the director says, clapping once. “Let’s do a dry run.”
The concept is simple. Too simple. Minimalist. Two musicians in a room, writing, creating, feeding off each other’s energy. No storyline. No touching. Intimacy through proximity and sound. It was never meant to feel like this. You take your place at the mic, fingers brushing the stand as you adjust it. Dom steps in beside you, close enough that you feel the heat of him before you hear him breathe.
“You good?” he murmurs, his British accent thick, low, and pitched just for you.
You nod. “Yeah.”
Your voice betrays nothing. Your body does. The beat starts slow, restrained, all tension and space. You come in first, voice steady, eyes focused somewhere over his shoulder. You know better than to look at him right now. He watches you anyway. You feel it. That prickle between your shoulder blades. The weight of his attention, deliberate and unashamed.
When he joins in, his voice slips under yours like it belongs there. It always has. The harmony curls around you, intimate in a way that feels private, like you’re singing something you shouldn’t be letting anyone hear.
The director gestures for you to move closer. “Just… inhabit the space,” she says. “Feed off each other.”
You step in. So does Dom. There’s less than a foot between you now. Too close for comfort. Too close to pretend this is neutral. You can see the way his throat works when he swallows, the faint crease between his brows like he’s concentrating too hard on not doing something reckless. His eyes flick to your mouth. Then back up.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, barely audible. “Sorry.”
“What for?” you whisper.
“For this.”
The cameras roll. You sing again, softer this time, and Dom mirrors you instinctively. The space between you shrinks without either of you consciously deciding it should. When you breathe in, your chest nearly brushes his. This wasn’t planned. You can feel the tension ripple outward, the crew shifting behind the lenses, aware something has changed. The song deepens, stretches. It becomes something else entirely.
Dom lifts a hand, not touching you, not quite, but close enough that the air between his fingers and your arm feels charged.
“Don’t,” you murmur, not sure who you’re saying it to.
He huffs a breathy laugh. “I’m not.” But his voice is rough now.
You finish the take like that. Hovering. Unresolved. The last note hangs in the air longer than it should. “Cut,” the director says, voice a little breathless herself. “That was… really good. The chemistry you guys have is mind blowing.”
Too good. The next takes don’t get any safer. Dom starts circling you as you sing, slow and deliberate, like he’s mapping you. At one point his hand brushes your lower back—an accident, technically. Your spine lights up like you’ve been struck. You look at him then. Big mistake. His eyes are dark, intent, fixed on you with something dangerously close to hunger. He leans in on the next line, voice dropping into your ear like a confession meant only for you.
Your lyric falters. He notices.
“Eyes on me, baby. Eyes here.” he says quietly, the words almost swallowed by the music.
You obey before you can stop yourself. The take ends. Silence crashes down hard. The director lowers her headset slowly. “Okay,” she says. “That’s… not what we planned.”
No one laughs. Dom steps back, dragging a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Sorry. Might’ve gone a bit off there.”
You’re still breathing too fast to speak. She considers you both. “I don’t hate it. Let’s break for ten. Reset.”
The crew disperses with the kind of polite speed that suggests everyone knows something just happened and no one wants to be standing too close when it finishes happening. Dom doesn’t look at you again until you’re alone in the hallway.
“You alright?” he asks.
You nod, then shake your head. “I don’t know.”
He leans against the wall, arms folded, studying the floor like it might give him answers. “This wasn’t meant to… feel like that.”
“No,” you agree. “It wasn’t.”
Silence stretches. Heavy. Magnetic. He lifts his gaze to you, eyes searching. “We should probably get some air.”
“Yeah.”
Neither of you moves.
“Dressing room’s free,” he adds, softer. “Just… sit. Breathe.”
You follow him without thinking. The dressing room is dim, couch pushed against one wall, mirror lights casting everything in a golden haze. Dom shuts the door behind you, not locking it but it still feels like a line has been crossed. You sit on the couch. He does too. Too close.
Neither of you speaks for a long moment. Then Dom exhales sharply. “This is a bad idea.”
You swallow. “Yeah.”
His knee brushes yours. You don’t pull away.
“Say the word,” he murmurs. “And I’ll behave.”
You look at him. Really look. He looks wrecked. Hair messy. Jaw tight. Like restraint is costing him something. You don’t say the word. You don’t fucking know which word it is.
His hand finds your thigh; tentative at first, like he’s still asking. When you don’t stop him, his thumb presses in gently, grounding, possessive without being forceful. Your breath stutters.
“Fuck,” he whispers, forehead dropping briefly to your shoulder. “You’re killin’ me.”
Your fingers curl into his shirt. Just fabric. Nothing more. Not yet.
The building empties slowly. You hear it happen in stages: the echo of footsteps fading down the hall, the clatter of equipment cases being rolled away, voices thinning until there’s nothing left but the low electrical hum that never quite shuts off in places like this.
You’re packing your bag when Dom appears in the doorway again. He looks different now. Looser. Jacket back on, sleeves pushed up, watch glinting when he moves his wrist. Less performer, more predator. Like he’s decided the night isn’t over yet.
“Got a minute?” he asks.
You glance at the clock. Late. Stupidly late. You nod anyway.
“I was thinkin’,” he says, stepping inside, lowering his voice though there’s no one left to hear. “You mentioned you had some stuff you wrote on your own.”
Your pulse stutters. “Yeah.”
“I’d like to hear it.”
There’s something in his tone, casual on the surface, but underneath it, intent. Ownership-adjacent. Like the idea of your songs already belongs to him a little.
“They’re rough,” you say. “Not produced.”
“Good,” he replies immediately. “I hate polished.” He gestures with his head toward the hallway. “Studio’s free.”
You hesitate. Just for a second. Then you follow him. The smaller studio is darker, more intimate than the main room. One mic. One stool. No glass, no control booth—just you, him, and the quiet expectation that something is about to be exposed. Dom shuts the door behind you. Not locked.
“Alright,” he says, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it over a chair. “Play me somethin’.”
You pull your laptop from your bag, hands slightly unsteady, and cue up the instrumental. It feels suddenly too quiet, too personal.
“I don’t usually…” you start.
“I know,” he cuts in gently. “That’s why I wanna hear it.”
You step up to the mic. Dom doesn’t sit. He’s standing, a few feet away, arms folded, head tilted like he’s already listening before you make a sound.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he says.
He moves like he owns the space now. Jacket off. Sleeves pushed up. Familiar with the equipment in a way that borders on intimate.
“Play ’em,” he says at last, nodding toward your laptop.
Your stomach tightens. “All of them?”
“Whatever you’re comfortable with,” he replies, already lowering himself into the producer’s chair. Then, glancing back at you with a half-smile: “Which I’m guessin’ isn’t much.”
You hesitate, then hand him your device. He plugs it in without ceremony, scrolling with practiced ease. The first track starts rough, unfinished, unmistakably yours. Bare drums. A synth line you never quite resolved. Your voice raw, unprocessed. Dom leans back as he listens. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t comment. Just watches the screen, one hand idly resting near the faders like he’s resisting the urge to touch them.
By the second track, his jaw tightens. By the third, he’s leaning forward.
“Christ,” he mutters quietly. “You write like you’re expectin’ someone to overhear.”
You cross your arms. “That’s not wh-”
“I mean that as a compliment.”
He pauses the track and looks at you then, really looks at you. There’s something different in his eyes now. Focused. Appraising. Like he’s stopped seeing you as a collaborator and started seeing you as the woman underneath.
“Come here,” he says.
You step closer to the desk. He pulls the session into his software, fingers moving fast, confident. He isolates your vocal stem, strips it bare. The room fills with just your voice, every breath, every tiny hesitation laid open.
Your pulse spikes. “That’s… intimate,” you say quietly.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “That’s why I like it.”
He starts building around it. Minimal at first. A low bass. Space. Silence where silence hurts.
“You leave too much room,” he says, adjusting a knob. “But it’s not a flaw. It’s an invitation.” He glances at you. “You ever sing it live?”
You shake your head. “No. I didn’t think it was…”
“Finished?” he supplies. Then smiles, slow and knowing. “Neither do I.”
He pushes back from the desk and stands. “Mic’s hot,” he says. “Get in there.”
You blink. “Now?”
“Yeah. Now.” His accent thickens when he gets serious. “I wanna hear what happens when you sing into this.”
You step up to the mic, heart pounding. The track plays back, different now. Darker. Slower. Built around you like it knows where you’re weakest. You glance through the glass at him. Dom meets your gaze and doesn’t look away.
“Don’t perform,” he says into the talkback, voice low. “Just react.”
The track starts again. You sing. It’s different immediately. Your voice catches in places it never did before, pulled forward by the way he’s shaped the sound. You feel exposed. Like the mix is undressing you in real time. Dom’s fingers move on the board as you sing, riding your levels, pushing you closer, pulling you back. You feel it in your body, the way your breath changes when he boosts certain frequencies.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. “There it is. There it fucking is, baby.”
You finish the verse, breath shallow.
“Again,” he says. “But stay on the note longer this time.”
You do.
“Good,” he says. “Fuckin’ beautiful. Now don’t soften it. Beautiful, fuck.”
You swallow and keep going. Halfway through the chorus, he stands and comes into the room with you. Doesn’t stop the track. Just positions himself beside the mic, close enough that you feel him without seeing him.
“Keep singin’,” he says quietly. “I won’t touch you.”
The promise feels fragile. You sing anyway. Your voice shakes at the end of the line. He notices.
“There,” he murmurs near your ear. “That. That little break. That’s where people feel it.”
Your hands tighten on the mic stand. He leans in, just enough that his breath brushes your skin. “You don’t hide anymore, do you?”
You shake your head, barely.
“Good,” he says. “Neither do I.”
The song ends. Silence. The kind that hums. Dom steps back first, jaw tight, eyes dark.
“If we keep goin’,” he says carefully, “this stops bein’ about music.”You nod, though your body protests the space he’s put between you.
“It already did, Dom. It's no longer about the damn music.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, dragging a hand through his hair. “It did.”
He walks back into the booth. You stay put. “You want me to stop?” he asks, honest.
You look at him through the glass. “No,” you reply.
He nods once, like that was always the answer he expected. “Right then,” he says. “Let’s make somethin’ dangerous.”
The next hour dissolves into something you don’t have a name for. He pulls up another one of your demos, something grittier, more aggressive. He reworks it live while you watch, muttering under his breath about compression, about how to make a kick hit like a pulse in your throat.
“You’re too clean with your production,” he says without looking at you. “You smooth out the rough edges. The rough’s where the fuckin’ truth lives.”
He gets up again. Stands in front of you. “Sing it like you’re angry,” he says. “Like you’ve got something to prove.”
You do. Your voice comes out rawer than before. “There you go,” he murmurs. “That’s it.” He’s watching your mouth again. You falter. “Don’t stop,” he commands gently.
Then he finds the file in your laptop without asking. Just scrolls, cursor hovering, then clicks. The track title is just a string of numbers, anonymous. The opening notes are sparse, a synth pad that breathes like something alive. Your vocal comes in, a whisper, a confession recorded at three in the morning on your phone.
Dom freezes. He listens to the whole thing once without moving. Then he replays it, head tilted, like a scientist examining a specimen. “Fuck,” he breathes, almost reverent. "This is gold, baby. Fuckin' gold."
He doesn’t say anything else. Just stands, walks to the small fridge in the corner of the booth, and takes out a single, elegant ice cube in a small metal dish. He returns, sets it on the console, and comes back into the room with you.
“You sing this like you’re already somewhere else,” he says quietly. “I want to find out where.” He picks up the ice. The condensation is already melting, a single drop sliding down his wrist. “Close your eyes,” he says. “Now sing.”
The track starts again. Your own voice surrounds you, intimate and exposed. You join in, hesitant at first. Then the cold touches the back of your neck. You gasp, but the sound melts into the note.
The song ends. The only sound is the last drop of water sliding from the melted ice down your spine, making you shiver. Dom doesn’t move away. He stays close, breathing your air. You can feel the faint chill from where he touched you and the overwhelming heat radiating from the rest of him.
“Are we alone?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper. It’s not about the crew anymore. You know they’re gone. It’s about everything else.
He knows what you mean. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Everyone’s gone.”
You turn your head, your cheek brushing against the rough cotton of his shirt. You look up at him. His face is in shadow, but you see the glint in his green eyes, the way his jaw is tight with restraint. The question hangs between you, impossible to ignore. You lift a hand, place it flat against the hard plane of his chest. You can feel the rapid, unsteady beat of his heart. You lean in, your lips a breath from his.
“Dom,” you whisper, and it’s both a plea and a silent permission. “I want you to fuck me.”
For a beat, the world goes completely still. His breath hitches, you feel the sharp intake of air against your lips. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t close the final inch. His hands, which were hovering near your waist, curl into fists at his sides.
“Yeah?” he asks, the word a low, rough vibration against your skin. “You sure that’s what you want?”
You nod, a small, desperate movement.
He still doesn’t touch you. He pulls back, just enough to see your face properly, to watch your reaction. A slow, dangerous smile touches the corner of his mouth. “Not so fast,” he murmurs. His gaze drops, tracing your throat, the line of your collarbone, the way your chest rises and falls with each shaky breath. “First, I want you to tell me.”
“Tell you what?” you breathe.
“Everything.” He takes a half-step back, putting a sliver of space between you that feels more charged than the full body contact from moments ago. “How do you want it? Here? Against the wall? On the floor? On that fucking couch?”
His words are deliberate, precise. Each one is a spark landing on dry tinder. “I want you to be specific,” he continues, his voice dropping lower, becoming a thing of pure texture and intent.
The shamelessness spills out of you, hot and unpracticed. It’s been coiled in your gut all day, tightened by every look, every accidental touch.
“Right here,” you say, your voice steady despite the tremor in your hands. “Against the console. I want you to lift me onto it. I want the cold metal on my back while you’re burning me up from the inside out.”
His smile falters. The control he’s so carefully projected flickers.
You don’t stop. “I want it hard. I want you to hold my wrists down. I want you to bite my neck so I have to wear a scarf to hide the marks tomorrow. I want to walk out of here still feeling you.”
You step into the space he created, closing it again, and press your body against his. You roll your hips, a grind that drags a choked sound from his throat. The hard length of him through his jeans is a promise.
“God, Dom,” you moan, tilting your head back, exposing your throat. “You’ve been teasing me for hours. With your eyes, with your voice, with that fucking song. I’m so wet for you I can feel it soaking my jeans. I’ve been thinking about this since I walked in. I want you to ruin me a bit... ruin me a bit more?”
His hands fly to your hips, not to push you away, but to hold you still. His grip is punishing. He’s breathing hard, his chest heaving. He tries to speak, to regain the upper hand, but the words catch.
“Stop,” he finally manages to grind out. “Stop talkin' like that.”
You grind against him again, harder this time. “Make me.”
That’s the last straw. His composure shatters. It’s not a slow crumble; it’s an explosive fracture. He grabs your jaw, not gently, forcing you to look at him.
“You don’t get it,” he snarls, the accent thickening until the words are almost guttural. “I was trying to be a fucking gentleman. I was trying to let you lead. But you keep talking…” He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear, his words a hot, harsh whisper. “You keep talking like that, and I’m not going to fuck you. Not at first. I’m going to bend you over this goddamn desk and fuck your mouth until the only thing you remember how to say is my name.”
You don’t need a second invitation. You crash your mouth against his, a frantic, desperate clash of lips and tongue with no finesse, no slow build. It’s a kiss born of hours of tension, of a day spent on the knife’s edge of want. You pour every ounce of your frustration, every illicit thought, every suppressed moan into it.
Dom meets your desperation with his own. His hands clamp down on your ass, hauling you tight against him. He grinds you against the rigid length of his cock, a powerful, rhythmic motion that sends shockwaves through you. You answer, rolling your hips, meeting each thrust, grinding yourself against him like you’re trying to fuse your bodies together through the layers of denim. A raw, broken moan escapes your throat, swallowed whole by his hungry, demanding mouth.
He tastes of coffee and a delicious something, something that is so him. You break the kiss, gasping for air, your foreheads pressed together. His breath is hot against your lips. The muscles in his jaw are clenched so tightly you can feel the vibration through your own skull.
“I can’t fucking take this anymore,” he grits out, the words torn from him. “I can’t. I'd love seeing my cock disappear into your mouth, so fuckin' much that I'd just have to lift you up and fuck you against this wall. I'd slide into you so hard, baby, see you take all of me at once."
“This is what I want,” you pant, your hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, holding on for dear life. “This, Dom. All of it. I want you to lose control.”
"But then you'd feel how messed up I am when I fuck you so hard"
"I wouldn't fucking regret it. Dom, no." You swallow his protest with another kiss without giving him another chance to talk.
His hands fall away from you as you slide down his body. The fabric of his shirt is a rough friction against your cheek, your chin, your chest. You sink to your knees on the cool floor of the studio, the worn denim of your jeans pressing against your skin. You look up at him from this new angle, at the way the dim light catches the dark stubble on his jaw, the sheer, stunned disbelief warring with undisguised, predatory arousal in his eyes.
"I want your fucking mess, Dom”, you whisper.
He watches you, chest heaving, like he’s witnessing something both profane and sacred. He doesn’t speak. He can’t. His throat works, a silent swallow, as your hands move to the waistband of his jeans. Your fingers brush against the hard, hot line of him straining against the denim. He twitches, a full-body shudder, and a soft curse escapes him, barely audible. “Fuck…”
You drag your thumb over the metal button of his fly, pressing down just enough to make him inhale sharply. You don’t pop it open. Not yet. You lean in, pressing your lips to the hard bulge beneath the denim, a soft, damp kiss through the fabric. He groans, a deep, broken sound from high in his chest. His hand comes to rest on the back of your head, not forcing, just resting, a heavy, possessive weight.
You look up, meeting his wild gaze. “Is this what you wanted?” you whisper, your voice a teasing scrape against the charged silence.
A dark, dangerous smile touches his lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. They’re burning too bright for that.
“It’s what I offered,” he corrects you, his voice a low growl. “But I think you want something different, don’t you? You want me to stop asking.” He tightens his grip in your hair, a sharp, grounding pull that makes your scalp tingle. “So, no,” he says, the words dropping like stones. “I won’t be gentle. I’m going to fuck your mouth. And then I’m going to fuck you against that wall so hard. We clear?”
You press your cheek against the rough denim, your breath a hot puff of air against him, and you look up through your lashes, offering yourself completely. “Yes,” you breathe. “Do it.”
The permission is a live wire. You feel it course through him, a visible tremor that runs from his shoulders to his thighs. He gets even harder beneath your lips, a solid, undeniable pressure that answers your question more clearly than words ever could. His fingers in your hair tighten to the point of pain, and the sound he makes is half-curse, half-surrender.
“You have no idea what you’ve just asked for,” he rasps, but he’s already pulling you closer, angling your head just how he wants it.
With a sharp tug, he undoes the button, the sound loud in the quiet room. He drags the zipper down, the teeth parting with a metallic rasp. He doesn’t bother pushing the jeans down; he just hooks his thumb in the waistband of his boxers and pulls, freeing himself. The sight hits you like a physical blow. He’s thick. Heavier than you’d imagined, flushed and straining, already wet. You can’t help it—your jaw goes slack, your lips parting on a silent gasp as you stare.
He chuckles, a dark, rough sound that vibrates through you. “Told you,” he murmurs, the words thick with satisfaction. He guides the head of his cock to your parted lips, not pushing in, just resting there, a heavy, velvety weight. “Open wider,” he commands softly. “You’re gonna need to.”
Your jaw obliges, aching as you stretch wider for him. The sight makes him curse again, a string of breathy expletives. “Yeah,” he breathes, the sound reverberating through the floorboards. “Just like that.”
He pushes in, slowly, giving you the chance to adjust. But the sheer width of him is a shock. He fills you completely, the velvety skin against your tongue, the taste of his arousal filling your senses. You hollow your cheeks, your tongue flattening against the sensitive underside, and the groan you pull from him is long and broken. “God, that’s… yeah,” he grits out, his hips rocking forward in a shallow, experimental thrust. “Christ, baby."
You pull back just enough to speak, your lips swollen, your voice a wrecked whisper. “God, Dom… you taste so fucking good”
His whole body goes rigid. The hand in your hair tightens. “You’ve been a fucking naughty girl today,” he growls, the accusation raw and hot. “Strutting around in front of the cameras. Biting your lip when you thought no one was looking. Making me so fucking hard during the take I almost ruined it.”
A thrill shoots through you. You meet his gaze, a challenge sparking in your eyes. “Maybe that’s what I wanted,” you retort, your voice husky. “Maybe I wanted you to ruin it.”
“Yeah?” he snarls, and thrusts forward, a little harder this time. “Well, you’re getting your wish.”
You moan, the sound muffled by him. “Is this what you thought about?” you manage, the words slurred. “When you were looking at me? Me on my knees for you? Sucking your cock until you can’t think straight?”
“Every fucking second of the day” he bites out, punctuating each word with a snap of his hips.
Now he fucks you, he really fucks you hard and fast. So intense you have to hold back tears when he looks into your eyes, but you wanted this so badly.
You show him everything. You take him deep, your throat working around the head as you relax your gag reflex, your hands braced on his powerful thighs. You let him see your tongue, the wet, gleaming slide of it, the way your lips stretch to accommodate him. “You love it, don’t you?” you gasp during a brief moment of reprieve. “You love watching me suck you. Seeing how much I want it.”
“Show me,” he commands, grabbing your hair with both hands now, holding your head steady. “Show me how much you can take. Show me your fuckin' tongue.”
There’s no more teasing. His rhythm is brutal, so deep, so claiming that it punches the air from your lungs. You take it, tears streaming down your face, mascara smudging, but the look in your eyes is pure defiance, and you love it.
Then he wrenches you to your feet so fast your head spins. His mouth crashes down on yours, a filthy, possessive kiss that tastes of you and him and desperation. He can’t wait. The pretense of control is gone, obliterated. His hands are frantic, tearing at your clothes. The sound of ripping denim is obscene, shocking.
“Can’t fucking take it,” he pants against your lips, the words ragged. “Can’t wait another second.”
In one fluid, powerful motion, he lifts you. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively. He pins you against the cool, rough surface of the studio wall, the impact knocking a breathless cry from you. He holds you there with one arm, the other fumbling between you, guiding himself to your entrance. There’s no gentle preparation, but you don't even need it.
Then he pulls your head back, lifts you up a bit more, and does what he said you'd regret. He positions himself and then he slams into you, a single, devastating thrust that buries him to the hilt.
You cry out, a sharp, uninhibited sound of pleasure and pain. He fills you completely, stretching you to your limit. “Fuck,” he snarls, his face buried in your neck. “You’re so fucking tight. So fucking wet for me.”
He starts to move, a punishing, relentless rhythm. “Is this what you wanted?” he growls in your ear. “You wanted me to lose control? Well, you’ve fucking got it.”
And it’s the truth. Even as you struggle to accommodate him, your body stretched to a searing limit, it’s exactly what you craved. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, your legs tightening around his waist. His hips still for a fraction of a second. He pulls back just enough to look at you. “You okay?” he asks, his voice raspy, laced with a concern that utterly disarms you.
You freeze. You expected an animal. You didn’t expect this check-in. It melts something inside you. You nod, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. “Yeah, Dom. It's okay, I'm fine” you manage, the word softer than you intended.
He sees the struggle in your eyes. The raw dominance in his expression softens, replaced by a different kind of intensity. He shifts, carefully, easing out of you. The sudden emptiness is a shock. “Too much,” he murmurs, more a statement than a question. “Come here.”
He lifts you again as if you weigh nothing and carries you the few feet to the leather sofa. He lays you down, a surprising gentleness in the way he settles you. Then he’s over you, braced on his forearms, caging you in. He looks down at you, and the frantic energy is gone, replaced by a deep, focused possessiveness. “Better?” he asks.
You nod, your hands coming up to rest on his biceps. A slow, knowing smile spreads across his face. He adjusts his hips, nudging against your entrance again. “Jesus,” he chuckles, the sound a deep vibration. “You’re so fucking tight. So small. Tell me if it’s too much, yeah?”
He pushes forward, inch by devastating inch, giving your body time to adjust. “Has anyone,” he grits out, “ever fucked you like this?”
“No,” you gasp, the word a raw, broken moan. Your hands fly to his hair, tangling in the thick strands. You pull, gently. “God, no.”
As you say the words, you feel yourself give way. Your body opens for him, and he slides even deeper, a final, breathtaking inch. He stills, buried to the hilt, his whole body trembling. “Fuck,” he breathes. He pulls back to check in one more time. “You okay? I’m all the way in.”
You can only nod. “Yeah,” you breathe. “Want all...all of you.”
A devastating smile spreads across his face. “Good. Because you’re squeezin’ the fuck out of me, and I don’t think I could stop now even if I wanted to.”
The room is filled with the rhythmic sounds of your wet cunt. The slick, wet slap of your body accepting his. He hears it too. He smiles, a dark, knowing curve of his lips, and drops his mouth to your ear.
“Why the fuck do you squeeze me like that, huh? You trying to milk me dry? Trying to make me lose my fuckin’ mind?”
His hands are everywhere, roaming lower, gripping the back of your thigh, lifting your leg higher. He’s a dirty fucker, and his words are meant to shock, but the way he fucks you is a contradiction. He’s a great lover, attuned to every tremor. You arch your back, pushing your breasts against his chest.
“Because I want you to feel it,” you pant. “I want you to remember how I feel around your cock when you’re alone tomorrow.”
He groans, his eyes black with fire. “Fuck. You say shit like that and I’m gonna come right now.”
“I want you to,” you whisper. “I want you to fill me up. I want to feel you dripping out of me all the way home.”
His rhythm falters for a beat, a visible shudder running through him. “You are a filthy, filthy girl,” he growls. “You been walking around with a wet cunt all day, thinking about this?”
“God, yes,” you cry out, the pleasure coiling tight. “I almost came just listening to your voice on that track.”
“Next time,” he snarls, picking up the pace, “I’m gonna spread you out on that console and eat your pussy until you’re screaming my name. Then I’m gonna fuck you so hard they’ll hear us in the street.”
“Promise?”
“Fuck, yes, I promise,” he grits out.
Your shamelessness is a weapon. “Look at me,” you command, your hands forcing him to meet your gaze. “I want to see your face when you lose it. You’re gonna look so hot when you come for me, Dom. All fucked out. Because of me.”
“Christ,” he breathes. “You talk a big game for someone whose cunt is gripping me like a fuckin’ vise.”
“It’s ‘cause you fuck me so good,” you pant. “You hit that spot. The one no one else ever finds.”
“Yeah? This spot right here?” He angles his hips, a subtle shift that sends a bolt of pure electricity through you.
“There! Fuck, there!” you sob, your nails digging into his back.
“This is mine now,” he declares, his voice thick with possessive triumph. “This pussy is mine. You hear me?”
“Yours,” you gasp. “All yours.”
He leans down, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss. He breaks the kiss, gasping for air. “Deeper,” you whimper. “Dom… harder.”
He lets out a sharp laugh. “You’re an insatiable little thing, aren’t you?” But he gives you what you need. He slides an arm under your lower back, lifting your hips, driving into you with long, powerful strokes. “Like that? That deep enough for you, beautiful?”
“Yes! Don’t stop!”
“Never,” he promises. He finds your clit and spits on his hand then starts to rub it like a master. You feel like you can't take it. The sensation is too much. “Too much,” you gasp. “Dom, wait…”
He stops instantly. He stills inside you and just breathes. The way he listens is so fucking intimate. “Slower,” you whisper. “Just… circles. Real soft.”
He nods, his jaw tight. He brings his hand back and makes slow, lazy circles. “Yeah? Like that?”
“Yeah. Just like that.”
“That’s it,” he whispers. “Feel it build. Don’t fight it. Just let it happen, baby. Let me feel you cum on my cock. I wanna feel you squeeze the life out of me when you let go.”
The pressure coiling in your belly snaps, and you cum with a silent, open-mouthed scream. Your body convulses. “Fuck! FUCK!” he roars. “I can feel you squeezing me baby, fuck!
You feel him rubbing you harder and harder. You love it so much you can't take it anymore. You kiss him as you cum on his fingers and he tries hard as fuck to hold himself.
“Let go, Dom,” you whisper. “Cum inside me.”
He shudders. “Can’t. Not safe…”
“I don’t care. I want it. I need to feel it. Let go. It’s yours. All of it. It’s all for you.”
With a groan ripped from his soul, he rolls, taking you with him. Suddenly you’re on top, straddling him. His hands are on your ass, pulling him into you, and you start riding him hard as fuck. You set a punishing rhythm, lifting yourself before slamming back down.
“Fuck,” he snarls. “Ride my fuckin’ cock, baby. So good, so fuckin’ hot.”
“Look at me, Dom. I want you to watch me make you cum.”
You are almost shocked when your second orgasm crests. You scream his name, and this time, he doesn’t hold back. He fills you up with a long, deep moan “Fuck—ngh—god—yes—”—and you feel him pulsing inside you.
You collapse on him, a sweaty, messy heap of limbs and satisfaction. He kisses your hair. He’s not a fuck boy; he’s a lover. And you can feel the difference.
He looks at you, and there is adoration in his eyes. Not just a conquest. “Fucking hell,” he breathes in that accent. The way he says it is a form of worship. “Are you… you okay?”
His accent is so thick right now it’s a turn-on. You can barely understand what he’s saying, but you say yes anyway and then you kiss him. Then you tell him the truth: that you’ve been wanting to do this for months.
He looks at you with a tender smile. “You’re a liar. A terrible liar. All that ‘just collaborators’ bullshit you were spouting. Looked at me like you wanted to eat me alive the second you walked in.”
You laugh. “And you didn’t?”
“Oh, I did. But I’m a better actor.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Fucking months? And i was sitting here thinking i was being a perv, you fucking minx.”
“I was,” you confirm.
The tenderness of it all is overwhelming. “Don’t go all soft on me, you,” you say, pulling him close. “We’re not done. Not even close.”
“Oh, I know,” he says. His smile on his face is a predator’s grin. “But first, we’re gonna get you cleaned up. Properly.”
He lifts you effortlessly. He carries you through the darkened studio, past the mic stands and the silent mixing board, and into the small bathroom. The light is clinical here. He sets you down gently on the closed toilet lid and kneels in front of you.
“Stay still,” he says, his voice soft but commanding.
He wets a cloth with warm water. The gesture is so unexpectedly gentle, so far removed from the brutal passion from moments ago, that it makes your chest ache. He carefully, meticulously, cleans the mess he made of you. His touch is reverent. He wipes away the sweat, the cum, the remnants of your shared frenzy. He takes care of you.
He’s not just a fuck boy. He’s a lover. And the realization is terrifying.
When he’s done, he looks up at you, and the adoration is back, plain and unfiltered. “There,” he says, his thumb brushing gently over your hipbone. “All clean.”
"Thank you."
He scoops you up again and carries you back to the couch. He lays you down and covers you with a jacket he finds on a chair. He doesn't lie down with you, not yet. He disappears for a moment, and you hear the rustle of a packet. He returns with a bottle of water and two aspirin.
“Here,” he says, sitting on the edge of the couch. He hands you the pills and the water. “You’re gonna need these tomorrow.”
You take them, your fingers brushing against his. You look at him, really look at him, in the harsh light of the single bulb still illuminating the room. He’s exhausted. Sated. And there’s something else in his eyes. Something you haven't seen before. Fear.
“Dom,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “What is this?”
He looks away, running a hand through his already messy hair. “I don’t know,” he admits, the words heavy with a vulnerability he hasn’t shown you yet. “But it’s not nothing.”
You sit up, the jacket falling away. You're naked, unashamed. You reach for him, your hand resting on his arm. “I’m not sorry,” you say.
He turns back to you, and the fear in his eyes is slowly being replaced by something else. Resolve. “Good,” he says, his voice low. "‘Cause I’m not either.”
He leans in and kisses you, a slow, deep kiss that’s a promise, not a question. When he pulls away, he’s smiling again, but this smile is different. It’s softer. More real. “Now,” he says, standing up. “Let’s get dressed. I’m taking you home.”
“And then?” you ask, your heart pounding.
“And then,” he says, his eyes glinting with that already familiar, dangerous spark, “I’m coming in with you. And we’re not leaving until the sun comes up.”
He helps you dress. His hands are gentle but sure. He finds your torn jeans and just shrugs, handing you his jacket instead. It’s too big, but it smells of him, and you pull it tight around you. The walk to the car is silent, but it’s a comfortable silence.
He drives you home, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh. The city lights blur past, streaks of gold and white in the dark. The silence in the car is different now, less about the shock of what happened, more about the quiet assimilation of it. He doesn’t turn on the radio. He just drives. You can feel the low thrum of the engine, the solid weight of his hand on your leg, a possessive, grounding pressure that says everything that doesn’t need to be said.
When he pulls up to your building, he kills the engine. The silence rushes in, absolute. He turns to you, the dashboard lights casting one half of his face in shadow. “This is your last chance,” he says, his voice low and serious. “If you want me to drop you and walk away, just say the word. No questions asked. We can chalk it up to a fucking amazing night in the studio and go back to being collaborators.”
You look at him, at the raw honesty in his eyes, the set of his jaw that tells you how much it cost him to offer you an out. You see the man who tormented you all day, the man who sang your secrets back to you, the man who held you like you were something precious and fucked you like you were something to be claimed.
You reach out and trace the line of his jaw with your thumb. “What if I don’t want to go back to being collaborators?” you ask softly.
A slow, relieved smile spreads across his face. “Then I’d say you should invite me up before I change me mind about being a fuckin gentleman.”
You lean in and kiss him, a soft, lingering press of lips. “Come upstairs, Dom.”
He meets you halfway. The kiss starts soft, a tender affirmation, but it deepens quickly. The shift is seismic. It’s not a frantic clash anymore; it’s a slow, deliberate immersion. You taste him slow, the lingering mint from the gum he’s chewing, the faint, clean taste of the water, his unique scent that’s now permanently imprinted on your senses. His tongue slides against yours, a slow, sensual dance that’s both a question and an answer. His hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair, holding you in place. He’s not forcing you, just anchoring you, making sure you don’t drift away in the sensation.
The world outside the car ceases to exist. The streetlights blur into meaningless smears of color. The sounds of the city are a distant, muffled hum. The only things that are real are the soft leather of the seat beneath you, the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your palm where it rests on his chest, and the overwhelming, all-consuming feel of his mouth on yours.
His thumb strokes the sensitive skin just below your ear, sending shivers down your spine. You sigh into his mouth, a soft, breathy sound that he swallows greedily.
He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his breath coming in short, sharp pants. The small space between you is charged, electric, humming with the unsaid. His jacket, which you’re still wearing, is a warm, heavy weight, a second skin that smells of him. He finally opens his eyes.
“I think,” he says, his voice a low, rough rasp that vibrates through your entire body, “this might be the best song we’ve ever written.”
Steddie renegotiating their mortgage and Eddie is just so very professional and well spoken in the meeting at the bank that Steve has no choice but to fuck him the second the door closes because. Competence kink, thy name is Steve Harrington.
