watching your videos brought a special spark into jack and samira's bedroom. the couple had wonderful sex prior to discovering your onlyfans account, but once they saw your content it made their sex life a thousand times better.
how exactly did they discover you? one day samira was scrolling on tiktok and came across a get ready with me video you posted. she thought you were one of the most beautiful women she'd ever seen, and followed you for more content like the video she saw. then she looked through your comment section and saw people saying to look up your twitter account. curiosity got the best of her, so she quickly switched over to twitter and typed in your handle, to find your account filled with pictures and videos of you in sexy lingerie sets, some of you without anything on, a few sneak peek clips of you fucking yourself with your fingers or a dildo, or videos of you massaging your bare tits.
samira was instantly captured by you and your content. in her eyes, you were a goddess. your body looked as though it were sculpted by the gods themselves, your face was so beautiful, and you had the prettiest pussy she'd ever seen. initially she would watch your videos by herself at night while jack was at work, so she could get herself off after a long workday. until one day jack came home from work to grab something he forgot.
samira was too focused on the video of you playing on her phone and her fingers plunging in and out of her soaking wet hole, she didn't even notice jack walking into the room. her moans mixed with your pornographic ones made jack's ears perk up. it's not like he didn't expect her to masturbate, he worked later hours than her, but he didn't expect his wife to be watching some pornstar to give herself an orgasm.
his mind changed once he saw you on the screen. you looked so pretty as you were destroying your poor hole with a dildo that looked like it shouldn't fit inside of you. similarly to his wife, he became captured by you.
it wasn't an awkward conversation when they made the decision to invite your content into their sex life. they were grown adults who loved each other, and you are your content is what they needed in their life. the couple had more sex than they ever did before.
they created a joint account to watch your content together. the couple instantly became one of your top viewers. the stronger their obsession grew the more money they spent on you. they paid extra for personalized videos, and made it known that they were a couple who enjoyed watching your content in the bedroom.
whenever you got their requests, you loved it. they were your favorite customers. they paid good money and they were far more kind than the strange, perverted men who would normally buy from you. jack and samira would send you the cutest lingerie sets, along with other gifts, which were mostly new pairs of heels or expensive jewelry.
samira still followed your normal social media accounts and stayed tuned in for every single post you made. watching your "get ready with me"s, shopping hauls, storytimes, and makeup videos made her feel like she knew you. as parasocial as it sounds, you were so much more than a pornstar to her.
the couple's obsession took a step further when you started offering video calls with customers. before their first call they were nervous, but as soon as they saw your gorgeous smile and beautiful body laced in a set sent by them, their nerves eased instantly.
"hi!" you beamed, and the couple waved back.
you couldn't see their faces, all you saw was jack's t-shirt covered chest and samira's in a tank top, but you knew they were definitely hot.
"this is my first time chatting with a couple," you informed them, "so i'm sorry if i seem a little nervous."
"no worries, sweetheart." jack's voice said softly. "we're a little nervous ourselves."
"i'm excited," you said as you tugged your bottom lip between your teeth. "but you're the bosses here, so i'll make your every wish come true."
"first, how was your day?" samira asked and it threw you off guard. most of your clients didn't care about you, just your body. "sorry if that's weird. i just wanna get comfortable with you."
"it's not weird, it's sweet actually." you giggled. "and my day was great, thanks for asking. how about yours?"
"it was long," she replied. "because of work, but it's better now because of you, and my husband."
after the three of you finished asking about each other's days and a little bit of small talk, the camera was turned towards you on the bed, your body was bare, legs wide open with your pussy on display for the couple. they watched as your middle and index fingers spread open your wet folds then dipped into your sopping hole. your conversation with them made your pussy so wet because their kindness turned you on. yes, it was bare minimum, but in your industry kindness from customers was hard to come by. you continued plunging your fingers into your pussy as it made those squelching sounds the couple loved so much.
their mouths watered at the sight of you. they wondered how you'd taste, how you'd feel wrapped around jack's cock or samira's fingers, and how many orgasms they'd be able to draw from your pretty pussy.
in jack's head, he imagined being there in your bedroom. his cock splitting you open as samira fucked herself against your pretty mouth. in samira's, you were sprawled out on the bed as she gripped onto your thighs, she was licking and sucking on your swollen clit while jack fucked her from behind.
"fuck, it feels so good." you moaned as you looked into the camera of your phone. you saw jack and samira's arms moving as they touched themselves, chasing their own orgasms.
"is that right, sweetheart?" jack chuckled softly.
"so good." you nodded. "so fucking good."
you heard samira's whimpers and jack's groans over the phone and it made you wetter. as your orgasm got closer, you fucked yourself harder, your moans grew louder, and your face twisted into those pretty expressions the couple loved. the three of you finished around the same time, and once they were done you smiled because you enjoyed being able to help them cum. it was so beautiful to you.
"i really enjoyed that." you walked closer to the camera to pick it up then sat on your bed. "i hope we get to do it again."
after their first call, they made it routine to set up a video call with you weekly. sometimes they'd fuck as you watched and touched yourself, or they'd masturbate separately, or touch each other, as you did the same. they could tell you enjoyed your calls with them, and it was true. the couple gave you some of the best orgasms you've had over the phone. and they were the sweetest people ever, always asking about your day and how your life was. the conversations between them flowed so easily, you even slipped up and told them they were the first and only couple you had as customers. you didn't think it was necessarily a bad thing, but you usually refrained from making customers feel too special because you didn't want them to get the wrong ideas of the arrangement. but jack and samira were different, they were good people and you liked them, maybe a little too much.
one day you made a tweet that said, "i'm so selfish, i want a boyfriend and a girlfriend." then another, "i need to be fucked by a hot married couple." when jack and samira saw your tweets they felt like they were directed towards them because you said it yourself that they were your only customers that were a couple. truthfully, you did want the couple to fuck you. from your sessions over the phone you knew they'd be able to fuck you right. but unfortunately, your contact with them was limited to over the phone. they didn't really know you and you didn't really know them. you were just a pornstar that helped them get theirselves off.
💌a/n: i wrote this mohabbot one shot as a gift to you all for my birthday. i hope you all love it!!!🤗
edit: this was originally a one shot but i decided to turn it into a series!
you like jack. jack likes samira. samira likes you. it should be simple. right?
cw: 18+ !!! mdni. threesome 😛, lowkey sub!jack / dom!samira / dom!reader, jack’s an eater, no actual sex but lotsssss of foreplay and other things, lowkey just kinky, alcohol/drinking, porn with little plot, come-swapping SORRY
wc: 3.7k
You like Jack. Jack likes Samira. Samira likes you.
It should be simple, really.
One attending, one doctor, and one resident.
Where Jack thrived during night shift and Samira tolerated the day, you found your perfect place in the middle slot. Twelve to twelve.
You got to spend the first half of your shift with Samira and the second half with Jack.
With the way the little triangle works, nothing should ever be disrupted.
If no one acted, it would be a perfect harmony.
And yet there were lingering looks, playful teasing, and quiet charged comments.
When you bring Samira her forgotten badge, you clip it on for her and smooth your hands over her scrub top. Your fingers linger as you breathe out “there. Now you’re perfect.”
Or especially when one of those weird overlaps where Samira and Jack are given a patient together. He’s showing her how to do an incision and drainage in a spot she’s never seen before. The embarrassment of admitting she doesn’t know how is quickly replaced by a flutter in her stomach where Jack stands close behind her. His big hand envelopes her as they begin to make the incision.
Or when a patient lunges at you during night shift. There’s no injury but your back hit the wall hard enough to knock the wind out of you. Once the patient is taken care of, Jack takes you to an empty call room and insists he does a full check-up.
Like stated, charged situations that were disrupting the harmony of it all.
And something was bound to snap.
A scheduled coworker outing mixed with copious amounts of alcohol was basically a recipe for a disaster.
You pregamed with Samira and Santos. It was fun and flirty and once Santos pulled out the tequila for shots, you knew you were fucked.
Samira was all dolled up, curly hair pooled around her shoulders, and dressed in a top that was flowy enough to expose the maroon lingerie underneath.
It didn’t help that Samira kept checking in the whole time. She would rest her hand on top of yours and push out her bottom lip to ask “You okay?”
Yeah. You were okay. Except you trying to hide the wetness pooling in your blue lacy panties that you picked specifically to wear out tonight.
The bar is crowded when you arrive. Santos disappears almost immediately leaving you and Samira to battle the sea of people. You reach to lace your hands together, effectively gluing you together. And then you squeeze, just slightly to make sure she’s still with you. She squeezes back.
Strike one.
The various members of PTMC were scattered across the bar. You already said hi to a couple unfamiliar faces before spotting your exact target.
Jack has positioned himself in one of the booths while he nurses a beer. He has one of his plain black shirts on that you swear he buys in a size too small.
Samira leans down close to your ear. “Mind if I split off? Wanna say hi to Clem from pedes.”
You nod. “Come back to us.”
“Always will.”
You cross the bar before sliding into the booth next to Jack, knees bumping against his but make no effort to move.
“Hi Jack!” you giggle.
“Woah sweetheart. You drink before this?”Jack places a hand on your knee to settle you.
You nod. “Sami and Trin and I did shots. Didn’t know the vibe. You know you gotta drink sometimes to make it through these things.”
Fuck, you’re drunk rambling.
“You want something else? I’m buying,” Jack offers. “For you and Samira.”
Oh.
“Drinks on Dr. Abbot tonight?”
Jack leans down to whisper in your ear. “Only for my favorite girls.”
Strike two.
Warmth climbed up your neck and reached your face in one rush. Favorite girls.
“What’re you gonna drink?”
“Maybe a tequila and soda?” you offer sheepishly.
Jack shakes his head with a smile, patting his hand on your knee twice before sliding away.
“With lime!” you call out.
Jack returns with your drink. His hand instinctively finds itself back on your leg.
It’s a blur after that of people who stop by to say hello or chat for a bit. Dana brings you another drink and Whitaker and Santos sit to talk about the insanity of the earlier day shift. HIPAA approved, of course.
A bit into the conversation, you made the move to interlock your fingers with Jack’s under the table.
Innocent enough.
You're giggly, flushed, and holding hands with Jack. What else could you want? Well, there is one thing.
Samira floats through the room, somehow making the dive bar glow with her presence. Your silent prayers are answered when she makes a turn towards your table.
“Was wondering when you’d show up Samira,” Jack huffs out.
Samira rolls her eyes. “I’m being social, Dr. Abbot. Wasn’t that what we talked about?”
“I can maybe recall that information.”
“Besides,” Samira starts. “Heard drinks were on you tonight.”
You press your lips together to hide your smile. “Said he was only buying for his favorite girls.”
Busted.
“Dr. Abbot,” Samira gasps. “I thought attendings weren’t supposed to have favorites?”
Jack leans forward. “Only on the clock.”
You feel Jack’s hand tighten in your grip, a tell-tale sign of the effect her words are having on him.
“Mind if I steal your girl?” Samira inquired.
There it is again. A possessive little word. Hers.
Jack puts both his hands up as you blush.
“You wanna dance?” Samira inquires.
You nod eagerly. “Why not?”
Samira grins and reaches down to tug your hand away from Jack’s. “Sorry Dr. Abbot.”
Once you get to the dance floor, Samira’s hands rest gently on your hips, fingers fully splayed against your ass.
“This okay?” Samira murmurs.
You press your body to hers. There’s a lot of places you want to touch her but unfortunately the resident got her first pick. You lace your hands around her neck.
Your eyes haven’t left hers. She’s impossible to read. You hope you aren’t making a fool of yourself with how needy, how desperate you’re feeling.
Thankfully the bar is crowded enough that the entirety of PTMC doesn’t have their eyes on you.
Samira glances down at your lips. Your gloss has faded as the night went on.
You twist your fingers around the curls at the nape of Samira’s neck. She was intoxicating.
“You look so beautiful tonight,” Samira finally speaks.
You blush, head falling to hide the flush in your cheeks. It doesn’t help that the alcohol already has casted a rosy hue over your skin.
“Stop,” you giggle. “Making me wanna kiss ya.”
The confession spills out easily from your lips.
Samira squeezes your hips almost instinctively. “Do it.”
Strike three.
Jack still sits in one of the booths, now half listening to Santos argue with Whitaker and Robby about something unimportant.
But his eyes remain locked in the center of the room where through the sea of people, he can spot Samira pressed up against you.
To his shock, Jack watches as you surge forward to kiss Samira hard.
Her heart is beating out of her chest. She’s finally kissing you, soft lips messily and hungrily slotting against hers.
It couldn’t have been more than five seconds the two of you were kissing but the damage was done. His face heated the second the two of you touched.
Samira leans down to whisper something in your ear before two heads promptly turn and meet the eyes of the already staring attending.
Uh oh. Busted.
Jack can’t remove his gaze. He feels like a pervert for getting half-hard from watching you two kiss. An otherwise private moment.
Samira brings a finger up to wipe the corner of her mouth, her look as intense as when she takes lead on a trauma.
And you? You wink at Jack.
For a second, the tension stretches tight across the space between you, heavy with the weight of being caught in the act. But instead of pulling away, the thrill of his undivided attention only feeds the fire.
You break the heavy silence with a soft laugh, untangling yourself from the intimate hold to close the physical distance between the three of you before the spell can break.
Samira slides in the booth, hand tugging yours to follow in after.
Jack greets you both right away. He clicks his tongue. “You ladies have fun?”
The resident beside you leans forward to fix something on Jack’s shirt, her fingers ghosting over the exposed skin of his chest.
“We were actually thinking about heading out,” Samira murmurs.
You loll your head off or hers to meet Jack with a look that is already driving him crazy.
“You coming?”
Jack’s jaw clenches. “You sure?”
You shoot him a coy smile. “Positive.”
An irish goodbye is silently decided. People have been slipping in and out of the bar all night. Besides, the three of you getting caught leaving together was bound to spark some questions.
The second the first breeze blows outside, you’re suddenly reminded of the fact that you forgot a jacket.
Your personal space is enveloped by the attending. His fingers run over the cold bumps on your arms. Jack drapes his big jacket over your shoulders.
“Coulda told you it’d be cold,” he states.
You purse your lips.
“Jack,” you whine. “Jackie.”
Samira’s off to the side, holding Jack’s phone as she handles booking the ride home.
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
You lean out to reach for his hand. “Will ya kiss me? Been thinking about it alllllllll night.”
“You seemed to have plenty of fun on the dance floor,” Jack chirps back.
Your face flushes. “Just wanna kiss you.”
The older man takes his face in your hands, thumb swiping across the top of your cheek where some of your mascara has started to run.
“Not here baby,” Jack starts. “Wanna kiss you properly at home.”
You deflate as you drunkenly pout. “Not even a little something to hold me over?”
“Don’t be a brat,” Samira interjects. “Uber will be here in five minutes.”
It had been a mutual agreement to go to Jack’s place. No roommates, big space, big bed. All you needed.
The uber might be Jack’s own personal hell.
In a desperate attempt to reduce awkwardness, Jack opens the back door for you and Samira. He himself takes the passenger seat.
As Jack makes small talk, you can’t help yourself. It’s dark, you're buzzed, and the mere thought about the situation you found yourself in was really getting you going.
Jack hears the shuffling in the backseat as you slide over to the middle seat. Naively, he thinks it might just be the fact that you classify yourself as a clingy drunk.
That thought goes right out the window as he watches your nails ghost over Samira’s leg.
“Sami,” you whisper.
The resident grabs your hand before you can move it any closer to her danger zone.
“You’re a problem, you know that?”
You grin. “You gonna punish me?”
“Careful,” she clicks her tongue.
As if sensing what you need, Samira’s lips attach to your neck. Your fingers interlock with hers as she works her away up your jawline until she finally finds the spot that makes your breath hitch. Bingo.
She stays there the remainder of the ride, kissing and sucking and grinning as she watches you writhe.
“Ladies,” Jack interjects. “We’re here.”
There’s a charged energy as you and Samira stumble into Jack’s place. He silently leads you both through the house until you finally reach the main bedroom.
It’s silent for a moment. You had done all the foreplay and flirting to get here, now someone has to act.
“Time for that kiss Jackie?”
“Told ya she’s greedy,” Samira hums.
Jack takes one big stride before grabbing your face between his big hands. He finally presses his lips to yours, setting a slow passionate rhythm. He was savoring this.
Samira slinks up behind you, stomach pressed to your back as her hands roam your body.
It’s a mutual agreement that you’re all wearing too many clothes.
Jack breaks the kiss to reach for the hem of your shirt. He pulls it off quickly, a groan leaving both his and Samira’s mouth at the sight of you. You want to flush with embarrassment at being undressed but then their hands are back on you grabbing and squeezing and kissing.
“So beautiful,” Jack muses, hand coming up to cup your breasts that are already spilling over your bra.
Jack’s thumb brushes over your nipple through the lace, his heat grounding you even as your mind starts to spin. Across from you, Samira catches your gaze, her breaths coming just as short, her eyes dark with a hunger that mirrors your own. The weight of both of them pressing into you is almost overwhelming, desperate desire takes over.
Leaning back from Jack’s touch with a breathless murmur, you slide off the edge of the cushions, dropping to the floor between them.
You're on your knees, slowly pulling Samira’s jeans down her hips to expose the most gorgeous set of panties you might have ever seen. It’s impossible to resist.
You kiss her everywhere: thighs, stomach, hips.
“God Sami,” you groan. “So fucking beautiful, isn’t she Jack?”
“Never been so angry I can’t kneel,” he murmurs.
You look up at him, offering a small, knowing smirk at the raw frustration in his voice. Samira lets out a soft, breathy laugh from above you, her hands resting gently on your shoulders as she looks between the two of you, clearly thrilled by the undivided attention.
“Go,” Jack commands. “I wanna watch.”
You don't need to be told twice. Slipping her panties down her long legs, you press your hands firmly against her inner thighs, pushing them wide to open her up completely for both you and Jack.
You lean in closer, the scent of her arousal hitting you instantly as you press a soft kiss to her sensitive inner thigh. She trembles under your touch, letting out a soft sigh that only makes you hungrier to taste her. You part her gently with your fingers, exposing her softest skin to the cool air of the room before finally leaning down to press your lips against her.
Your face is buried in Samira’s cunt soon after. Her thighs are a mess with the mix of your saliva and her arousal. She was sweet and you were absolutely taking your time swirling your tongue through her folds.
Samira hips stuttered, her fingers tangling tightly into your hair as she arched off the surface beneath her. A sharp, breathless cry broke from her lips as her muscles suddenly clamped down, shaking violently with the intense wave of her orgasm. You stayed right there, drinking in every shuddering tremor of her release until her breath finally slowed to a ragged hum.
It’s a silent agreement between you and Samira that it’s Jack’s turn.
You crawl up to him first, hand grabbing his chin to pull him in for a bruising kiss. He hums when he tastes Samira’s release on your lips.
Samira makes quick work of his belt. She tugs his jeans down, cock springing free against his stomach. The tip is already glistening with precum.
His breath hitches as the cool air hits his bare skin, his hips twitching slightly in anticipation. You slowly break the kiss, leaving his lips wet and flushed, your gaze dropping down to the length Samira has just freed. Jack lets out a ragged exhale, completely at your mercy. His eyes turn dark as he watches the two of you. Samira looks up, offering a quick, wicked smile that says everything you need to know
You slink back to kneel beside the resident.
And then both your mouths are on his cock.
Jack almost finishes right then and there when you grab the base and tap it on Samira’s waiting tongue.
Samira takes him first, eyes fluttering shut as she begins sucking. Her mouth is full of his cock, her head bobbing up and down in a desperate attempt to take all of him. You focus on what she can’t take, tongue sliding up and down the shaft.
“Fuck, god, fuck” Jack groans.
Jack grabs a fistfull of your hair, pulling you away from his cock to bring you to him.
“Come on baby. Please ride me.”
You tilt your head just slightly. “You sure?”
“Positive.”
You position yourself so that your knees are slotted on both sides of Jack’s head. You’re facing Samira, arousal growing as she takes Jack’s cock deeper.
A gasp escapes you as he wraps his arms around your thighs, pulling your dripping pussy right down to his waiting mouth. He was relentless. His tongue was somehow everywhere.
Your fingers tangle in his damp hair, riding the intense waves of heat his tongue is driving through you. Every lap and swirl makes your knees tremble, forcing you to lean heavily over him just to stay upright. You arch into his mouth, completely undone by the friction, but your eyes remain wide, hopelessly locked onto Samira.
She meets your blown-out gaze, a low hum vibrating in her throat as she picks up the pace. Watching her take him while he worships you sends a sharp spike of adrenaline straight to your core. The sheer sensory overload pushes the tension in the room past the breaking point, and Jack's hands tighten their grip on your thighs like a vice, his muscles coiling dangerously tight beneath you.
The relentless friction of Jack’s tongue paired with the intoxicating sight of Samira finally snaps the last thread of your control. Your vision blurs as a fierce, blinding orgasm crashes over you, pulling a loud, shattered cry from your throat as your hips arch helplessly against his mouth. You clench your fists in his hair, riding the explosive waves of your own release just as Jack’s hips jerk upward, his choked grunt indicating that your undoing has nearly pushed him right over the edge alongside you.
Jack clenches his jaw, head thrown out as Samira takes his full length. There’s something so beautiful about seeing her plump lips take all of him.
“M’ not ah!” Jack grunts. “Not gonna last much longer.”
Samira rests her lips on the tip with a smile. He’s absolutely wrapped around her finger right now.
“You wanna cum?” She bats her eyelashes up at the older attending. Sickening.
You’re still eating her out relentlessly. You lick up into her, collecting all of her wetness on your tongue. She feels you everywhere: her clit, her folds, her hole.
“Maybe you should make him say please,” you murmur. The vibration on her cunt sends sparks throughout Samira. God she’s close too.
Your tongue flattens against her as you circle her clit. Samira tightens around your head.
Being suffocated between Samira’s thighs might be your ideal place to die.
“I think-“ Samira starts. “Ah!”
You insert two fingers into her, curling up at the knuckle point.
“Come on Dr. Mohan. Tell Dr. Abbot what he needs to do.”
You slow down to forgive her swollen clit. You keep your fingers inside of her, instead flattening your tongue against her pussy to drink her in.
“I think,” Samira starts again. “Dr. Abbot needs to say please.”
You hum. “Good girl.”
Jack feels like he’s gonna explode. He’s been in war, lost his leg, and seen the horrors of the emergency room. But somehow, watching the dominance of you and Samira was absolutely killing him.
And all he needed to do was say please.
Jack reaches forward to pull Samira closer. She twists her body to allow you access while still making Jack finish.
“So? You wanna cum?”
The attending’s hips buck.
“God. Yes. Yes please.”
Samira pats his leg before taking the tip of his aching cock in her mouth, tongue swirling around the slit.
It doesn’t take long after that for either of them to finish. Samira is already immensely overstimulated and cums all while sucking down Jack.
Jack lets go with a bitten off moan. His eyes squeeze shuts as holds Samira’s hair with one hand and the bedsheets with the other.
Samira takes every drop, continuing to work Jack through his orgasm with a mix of her mouth and hand.
Finally, she sits back on the heels of the foot just as you slither in to kiss her.
First her hips, then her stomach, and finally her boob. You wrap your lips around her nipple, a whimper leaving Samira at the sensation.
You’re perfectly fine to stay latched where you are, swirling your tongue around the buds and grabbing at whatever you can.
But when Samira grabs your chin and lifts your head up to face her, you’re putty in her hands. She presses her thumb down on your bottom lip.
A silent ‘open up’.
Your lips part.
Samira spits Jack’s release, gravity taking it down right into your waiting mouth.
You accept it eagerly, waiting until the lost drop for you to close your lips and swallow.
Jack strokes his softening cock at somehow the freakiest but hottest thing he’s ever seen.
Samira pats your cheek. “Good girl.”
The exhaustion begins to creep in. You were all spent. Multiple orgasms and a long night of drinking was taking a toll.
You finally clamber up to the top of the bed.
Jack’s arm loops around you as you duck down to kiss his bottom lip.
The mattress shifts once more as Samira’s weight is added. You rest your head on Jack’s chest as the resident opts to curl around you. Samira kisses the back of your neck as she reaches over to hold Jack’s hand.
The resident ducks down close enough she can whisper. “You know I own a strap.”
The confession mixes with the haze of the room. Jack’s head snaps over. He lets out a low whistle.
The words send a delicious shiver straight down your spine. Your mind races with the mental image, already aching for how wild the next time will be.
But for now, clean-up can wait.
Sandwiched between Jack and Samira is the only place you ever wanna be.
★ summary: you and samira mohan were ‘fire and ice’ long before jack abbot came into the picture. but when ambition, obsession, and desire blur together one thing becomes painfully clear: tennis always wins
★ pairing: challengers!au! jack abbot x reader x samira mohan
★ warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, internalized homophobia, situationship but make it a throuple, toxic relationships, manipulation, threesomes, p in v, oral, fingering, public sex, cream pie, dirty talk, tennis inaccuracies
★ word count: 13k words
★ notes: rewatched challengers & something crazy came over me. this feels out of my comfort zone for writing so i hope u all like it??? part two maybe??? ;) <3
In August, the Stanford courts smelled like sunscreen, wet concrete, and too much ambition. While the California sun beamed down on your skin, your eyes were locked onto the match happening a few feet away from you. Even as your own partner’s ball whizzed right past your head.
Everybody arrived here with rankings and reputations and old trophies clinging to them like bad perfume. Former junior champions. Olympic hopefuls. Rich girls with private coaches and devastating backhands.
Most of the team grew up inside tennis academies with recovery trainers, nutritionists, and parents' trust funds. You grew up learning how to rewrap your own blistered hands with pharmacy tape because proper grip supplies cost too much that month.
You spent high school waking up at four-thirty in the morning to practice before classes, then racing across town afterward to whatever job was currently paying you enough to keep competing. Waitressing at a sleazy diner in town. Cleaning locker rooms at a fitness center where rich women complained about Pilates while your knees throbbed beneath you. During summers, you coached little kids at the YMCA under brutal heat until your voice went raw from yelling instructions all day, only to stay afterward and practice serves alone until dark.
There were nights you fell asleep still smelling like tennis court asphalt and fryer grease. Nights you bled through your socks because your shoes were too worn down to support your feet anymore but you kept playing anyway because you didn’t know what else you were supposed to do. College scouts didn’t care if your body hurt.
Nobody cared how badly you wanted it until you started winning enough to force them to pay attention. And God, you wanted it.
You wanted it with a desperation ugly enough to scare you sometimes.
You clawed your way into national rankings one ugly match at a time until colleges started calling. Not because you were polished or even marketable. But because you won. Relentlessly. Meanly sometimes. You turned yourself into the kind of player people dreaded drawing in brackets. You were willing to destroy anyone and anything that got in between you and your dreams.
Then Stanford offered you a scholarship and suddenly you were here surrounded by girls who looked born for this life.
Girls like Samira Mohan.
She was a freshman, just like you. Her reputation preceded her, a full-ride scholarship with sponsorships already circling like sharks in the water. She could have gone pro almost immediately, but insisted on going to college. You thought this was to lessen the hype surrounding her, but instead, they treated her like the future of American tennis had descended graciously onto collegiate courts for fun.
On paper, you wanted so desperately to hate her.
But from the moment you first caught a glimpse of her, you knew that was easier said than done.
You expected someone with that much attention around her to be unbearable in an obvious way. Some polished media-trained nightmare with a smile that belonged on sponsorship campaigns and magazine covers. Instead, she barely seemed aware of herself at all. She was kind, genuinely kind in a way that was hard to be in competitive sports.
And the worst part? She was the most beautiful woman you had ever laid your eyes on.
She was a vision on the court, all elegant moves and precise shots. An absolute firecracker, who was currently screaming in Hindu under her breath at her partner. Her white tennis dress contrasting against her sweatlined skin, her curly hair in a messy braid down her back. She was golden, practically glistening against the court. The sight of her in person had the habit of taking your breath away, right before another ball was struck directly at your head.
You just barely ducked, nearly falling flat on your ass.
“What the fuck Trinity?” You barked, looking back at your partner who was already in position to serve another one directly at your head.
“Stop staring, you pathetic gay.” She yelled back, making your face blanch.
This was the other worst part, you may have, just maybe, had the tiniest of a schoolgirl crush on her. Your roommate and best friend Trinity would disagree with the tiny part, but that didn’t matter.
“Half gay,” You grumbled, in a weak attempt at a comeback.
“And fully pathetic, get in position! We only have the court for another hour.”
”Fuck you.” You cried out, hitting the ball back at her with expert precision.
“Yeah, she’s back.” She cheered playfully, the two of you continuing with your head-to-head match. It was endless practice and drills to start the year. Your head was not in the game, it was on the pretty girl a few feet away who hadn’t even glanced your way once.
By the second week of preseason, the Stanford courts had already become something ugly and sacred. Blister tape littered the benches. Empty electrolyte packets rolled across the concrete in the wind. Everyone walked around with ice-wrapped shoulders and knee braces were the new chic accessories. Nobody spoke much between drills anymore. Competition had worn through the friendliness fast. Every girl here wanted the same thing.
You especially.
Which was why Coach Al-Hashimi eventually made the mistake of putting you and Samira Mohan on opposite sides of the net.
Trinity physically recoiled when she saw the matchup sheet.
“Oh man, you're gonna stumble over your shoes if she stares at you too long?” She asked, walking alongside you as you grabbed your gear.
“Come on,” You whistled, adjusting the tape on your wrist, “When have you known me to stumble on the court?”
“That’s fair, but come on. Don’t make Stanford’s golden child cry, it’ll be bad publicity.” She laughed, plopping down on the bleachers.
You scoffed, “Please, if she cries then she shouldn’t be in this sport.”
Across the court, Samira laughed softly to herself as she’d overheard it. Which she probably had. Her racket rested against her shoulder while she tied her curls back into a cleaner ponytail, sunlight catching against the gold chain at her throat.
You took a few steps forward, spinning your racket around loosely in your hand.
Samira adjusted the brim of her visor and tucked a loose curl behind her ear with absent elegance, as she existed in an entirely different environment than the rest of you despite standing under the same brutal sun.
That was the thing people noticed first about her. Not even the beauty, though there was certainly enough of that to make half the men’s team act brain-damaged whenever she walked through the athletic center. It was the composure, it never slipped.
You had spent the last few weeks trying very hard not to care about her. Which mostly translates to thinking about her constantly.
Not in the pathetic way Trinity kept accusing you of, though she certainly enjoyed making your life miserable over it. It was more that Samira unsettled you. Players like her were not supposed to exist naturally. Nobody should have been that technically gifted while remaining genuinely kind at the same time. Every talented player you had ever met carried sharp edges somewhere underneath the surface.
But Samira smiled at everybody. Remembered names. Helped freshmen pick up tennis balls after practice without being asked. She thanked trainers. She apologized when serves clipped the net during warmups. She played with ruthless precision while somehow never seeming cruel about it.
She was the complete opposite of you, all sharp edges and bite. You’d made a girl cry during a junior's tournament in Texas after targeting her backhand for two straight sets until she unraveled publicly. You argued with judges and snapped more rackets than you could afford. It only got worse when you met Trinity, judges called the two of you the angriest doubles teams in the history of tennis.
At least they were talking about you.
Samira glanced toward you while bouncing a ball lightly against the concrete, her expression relaxed. Not a hint of tension to be seen on her shoulders. “You ready?”
You rolled your shoulder once before settling into position at the baseline. “Depends, you gonna uphold the title of Stanford’s golden child?”
She just laughed softly under her breath at that, not embarrassed or thrown off in the slightest. “I’ll try not to disappoint you.”
You refused to let it show that her words made your shoulders tighten. The game began, slowly at first. A warm-up between two peers clearly on the same level of technicality. But that didn’t last long, neither of you seemed particularly interested in easing into anything gently, and within minutes the pace escalated into something far more competitive than a preseason practice match.
You started pushing first, mostly out of instinct. Harder pace off the forehand swing. Sharper angles designed to test her movement, to coax a response out of her.
Samira redirected pace with surgical precision, using your own power against you instead of fighting it head-on. Watching her move across the court felt strangely hypnotic because there was absolutely no wasted motion anywhere in her game. Every recovery step landed perfectly balanced. Every swing flowed seamlessly into the next movement. Even the sound of her ball striking strings felt cleaner somehow, less violent than yours despite carrying just as much danger behind it.
The first real rally of the match came, and the bystanders grew and grew. Bleachers were full watching the match unfold in all of its glory.
The secret truth about tennis was that at a certain level, it stopped being a game built purely around mechanics and became something far more intimate than people realized. You learned another player’s habits through repetition. Their breathing patterns under pressure. The exact shape of their frustration. The milliseconds of hesitation before riskier shots. Great rallies felt less like combat and more like conversation conducted entirely through movement and anticipation.
And Samira spoke your language immediately. In a way that had your palms sweaty.
You slammed a forehand down the line hard enough to nearly strip paint from the baseline, the impact cracking sharply across the courts and drawing several startled reactions from nearby teammates. It was an objectively ridiculous shot, the kind designed specifically to end points outright. Samira somehow reached it anyway, sliding into a desperate recovery before redirecting the ball crosscourt with absurd control that landed inches inside the sideline.
“Oh, fuck off,” you snapped automatically before you could stop yourself.
Instead of looking offended, Samira burst into startled laughter, bright and genuine enough that it briefly threw off your concentration entirely.
“What?” you demanded, already resetting your stance.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re intense?,” she asked, still smiling as she moved back toward center court.
“Just about everyone I’ve ever met.” You smiled viciously.
The next rally lasted even longer. Twenty shots at least, maybe more, both of you pushing each other deeper into increasingly impossible angles until your lungs started burning beneath the heat and sweat dripped steadily down the side of your face. You could feel your pulse everywhere by that point, wrists and throat and chest all hammering violently beneath exertion.
All it took was one shot, a millisecond too late of a reaction for the ball to go whizzing past you. A chorus of boos and cheers erupted from behind you, your heart nearly stuttering out of your chest.
You bent slightly at the waist catching your breath, chest heaving hard while sweat rolled slowly down your spine beneath your shirt. Across the net Samira rested her hands against her knees for a moment before glancing back up at you, loose curls escaping and sticking damply against her golden skin beneath the sunlight.
When you caught her eyes, something dangerous split between your ribs. There was admiration sparkling there, a beaming smile that contrasted your furrowed brows and scowl.
“Wow,” she said honestly between breaths. “You’re the first actual opponent I’ve had since I got here.”
From that moment, a friendship was born.
At first, it was a practical matchup approved by your coaches. Nobody else on the team could push either of you properly anymore. Samira needed someone aggressive enough to force her out of her comfort zone, somebody willing to turn every practice set into controlled warfare. You needed somebody steady enough to withstand your worst moods, to turn you into a ‘civilized player’ they said.
It was five-thirty runs through campus while fog still hung low over Palo Alto and the world smelled faintly like wet grass. It was weight room sessions spent shoulder to shoulder beneath fluorescent lights, Trinity half-asleep beside you both while Samira quietly corrected your form with gentle hands against your spine. It was the endless hours on court until your bodies moved around each other instinctively, your games sharpening together like knives dragged repeatedly across the same stone. The first time you two played together officially, one commentator called you two ‘Fire and Ice’ after the two of you bulldozed through doubles nationals together.
For the next two years, the two of you were inseparable. A match made in tennis heaven, that’s what ESPN called the two of you after Stanford won nationals your sophomore year, the article accompanied by grainy action shots of you snarling at the net beside Samira looking composed enough to belong in an entirely different photograph. Beauty and brutality.
The analysts loved turning the two of you into mythology because it made good television, because people were fascinated by the impossible chemistry of watching someone as elegant as Samira Mohan somehow fitting together seamlessly with somebody as sharp-edged and openly vicious as you.
Behind the cameras and headlines, Samira knew you better than anybody alive.
She knew when your shoulder started bothering you again because your serve motion tightened slightly afterward. She knew the specific silence that meant you were angry versus the quieter one that meant you were hurt. She knew how to talk you down after losses without making you feel pitied, knew exactly when to push and when to leave you alone entirely.
Nobody had ever handled you gently before. Your whole life, people either tried to control your intensity or feared it outright. Coaches called you difficult. Opponents called you cruel. Even people who loved you sometimes treated your emotions like natural disasters to survive instead of something worthy of understanding.
Samira never asked you to become softer. She just learned how to hold the sharp edges without cutting herself open on them.
Falling in love with her was never part of the plan, but it came easier than winning a match.
You never told anyone, besides Trinity who called it that day on the court during Freshman year. You planned to die with the secret. As far as you knew, Samira didn’t even like women so it never crossed your mind as being an option, until the end of your Junior year.
The season had just ended badly. Samira lost a semifinal she should’ve won and spent the entire night furious and vibrating with restless energy. The two of you snuck your way onto the courts half-drunk from some terrible fraternity party neither of you even wanted to attend. The two of you were barely able to play an actual game, your vision too blurry your balance too off. Rackets and balls were neglected on the court, for some poor lackey to clean up tomorrow.
In a fit of giggles, and sweaty from the night air you two found yourselves in the locker rooms. She was still ranting about missed shots while peeling off sweaty party clothes in the showers afterward because neither of you were thinking clearly. The next thing the two of you knew, you were both naked in front of each other. Steam fills every inch of the tiny stalls, making the distance between you two feel even smaller.
Her mascara was smudged beneath her eyes, and her cheeks flushed from the drinks. You remembered the exact moment she stopped talking. The way her teeth bit down on her bottom lip. The exact moment she looked at you differently.
Her gaze traveled down your body when you stepped beneath the spray with your eyes closed, letting the hot water hit aching muscles. You could feel her looking before you opened your eyes again.
”I don’t even know why I’m so angry,” she’d laughed softly, water dripping down her shoulders. “It’s stupid.”
“Because you care too much.” You said, focusing on rinsing the rest of the shampoo out of your hair.
“Maybe I’ve just been spending too much time with you.” She joked, but her laugh came out flat and unfocused. You could see the faraway look in her eyes, the way her fingers twitched at her sides.
“You okay Mira?” You asked softly, taking a tentative step closer.
She stared at you for a long second after that. Then the distance was closed, and her lips were on yours. It was startling and desperate.
You fell into her immediately, your hands finding her hips in the steamy room and pulling her body against yours. Her hands were cold against your jaw, while your mouths explored each other’s messily. You pressed her against the damp tile, kissing down her jaw and her neck while her hands tangled in your hair.
Her skin was soft and wet as your hands traveled down, gripping the supple flesh of her chest. She responded to you almost immediately, her legs parting for you as your hand slipped in between. Between the water gliding down her body and the arousal pooling, it was easy for your fingers to slip through her folds. You remember her lips parting, as she begged you for more. You remember the feeling of her warm cunt spasming around you with each expert thrust of your fingers.
A lot of it was a blur looking back, but you remember with startling clarity your heart beating so hard you thought you might throw up from it. You’d never forget the sound of your name on her lips as she came, how her skin tasted, and then the horrible realization of what happened after the water ran cold.
You couldn’t look her in the eyes afterward, not when your mouth tasted like her. Shame was deep in your stomach as you watched her towel dry her hair in the mirror, your eyes pleading for her to let you out of your misery.
You stood there pleading silently for her to say something different. Instead, Samira laughed once under her breath, thin and uncertain.
“It was just a mistake.” The words hit like physical pain.
“We’re a little drunk,” she added quickly. “That’s all.”
You weren’t sure who she was trying to convince. Maybe herself, but it didn’t work on you.
All you could do was nod because losing her entirely felt more terrifying than swallowing the heartbreak whole. Your friendship survived on unspoken things already. One more secret buried between the two of you hardly seemed impossible at the time. Nothing really changed in your friendship after that, but Samira never really touched you casually again, not outside the court anyways.
Everywhere else, she hesitated. Pulled herself back at the last second. Wrapped every dangerous feeling in sarcasm or competition before either of you could examine it too closely. But on the court, instinct took over. She reached for you constantly there.
Your wrist between points. The small of your back switching sides. Your hand crushed in hers after impossible rallies. Your bodies thrown into each other in celebration.
It became easy to pretend none of it meant anything because technically it belonged to the game.
During the NCAA quarterfinals, the two of you came back from a nearly impossible deficit after Samira saved a match point with a return so vicious the crowd audibly gasped. The stadium erupted in an ear-bursting cheer.
Before you even processed winning, Samira had already collided into you full force, laughing breathlessly while her arms wrapped around your shoulders hard enough to nearly knock you backward.
“Oh my god,” she shouted against your neck, adrenaline making her voice wild and bright. “Did you see that?”
You barely heard the crowd. Not with her legs tangled around your waist. Not with her heartbeat pounding against your chest. Not when she looked at you afterward glowing with triumph so beautiful it physically hurt to witness.
Somewhere between junior and senior year, the shape of your life stopped orbiting tennis and started orbiting Samira. It felt like trading one obsession for another.
It didn’t happen all at once. It wasn’t a decision you made. It was slower than that, subtle reallocations of attention that felt reasonable in the moment. You missed a training session because she needed a ride to a sponsor event. You stayed after practice longer than you should have because she was frustrated and you knew just how to make her laugh. You started saying no to things that would have advanced your own ranking if they meant less time in her orbit.
You didn’t even realize until rankings came out, and Coach Al Hashimi sat you down. Her perfectly styled eyebrows furrowed in frustration.
”Don’t let love dim your potential, Y/n.” She had said, Samira’s picture looming behind her on the banner hanging against the fences. It felt like a punch to the gut, but still, you kept trailing behind her.
-
”You know,” Samira started, staring down at the US Open pamphlet in her hand. Her other hand occupied by her blackberry and lip gloss, “I used to have a poster of him in my room.”
JACK ABBOT FINAL US OPEN
The words were in a bold white font, underneath a photo of the rugged man. He was handsome, there was no doubt about that. You’d never had the privilege of seeing him play, but everyone who knew anything about Tennis knew about Jack Abbot. He was a legend. A legend who suffered a horrible knee injury last year, a legend who had already defied odds by being the oldest professional player to win a US Open. He was determined to finish his career on a high note.
“Really?” You laughed, sipping your overpriced drink. “That’s so embarrassing."
She knocked her shoulder with yours at the tease, “Oh please, you had a Katy Perry poster on your wall until last year.”
“Okay, it was a really good album-“ Your banter is cut off by the crowd erupting as Jack Abbot himself steps onto the court.
Jack rolled his shoulder once before stepping up to the baseline, testing the stiffness in his knee with the smallest shift of weight. The stadium lights bleached everything silver-white around him, sweat already glinting along the sharp line of his jaw despite the match barely beginning.
His entire body snapped through the shot with that old predatory force people wrote articles about in the early years of his career, the kind that made tennis commentators sound religious trying to describe it. The ball cracked into the service box so fast it almost looked unreal, skidding low and hard enough that his opponent barely got a racket on it.
Beside you, Samira made a small involuntary sound.
You wanted to tease her, make fun of her for fawning over a retiree, but you found yourself just as mesmerized. It was like watching a future version of yourself down there. He was ruthless and aggressive in each swing and pump of his arms. The vein in his neck protruded with each yell, spit flying from his mouth.
Every rally carried that same furious edge to it. Every point felt personal, when his opponent tried to pull him wide across the baseline, Jack chased the ball down with a grim sort of joy, shoes screeching across the hard court while the crowd gasped around him. His knee visibly buckled once during a slide, just for a heartbeat, and somehow he still turned the return into a winner down the line.
The stadium erupted and Samira grabbed your thigh so suddenly it made your breath catch.
Her fingers dug into the bare skin just above your knee without thought, gripping hard as the replay flashed across the giant screen overhead. Heat flooded through you instantly, not just from the contact, but from the fact she clearly hadn’t realized she’d done it. Her attention remained glued entirely to the court, body pitched forward in disbelief while her nails pressed crescents into your skin.
“Did you see that?” she demanded, half turning toward you now, eyes bright with adrenaline.
“Yes,” you laughed breathlessly, though it came out weaker than you intended because her hand was still there. “Jesus Christ.”
Every time he won a point, the two of you reacted before thinking. Leaning into each other, grabbing each other, knees knocking together in the cramped seats while adrenaline crackled so violently through your veins it almost stopped feeling separate from attraction.
You glanced down pointedly at her hand still gripping your thigh when her thumb began stroking small circles on the inside.
Her eyes widened slightly before she snatched it back almost violently, as the skin contact itself had burned her. A flush climbed immediately into her cheeks, though whether from embarrassment or adrenaline, you couldn’t tell.
“Sorry,” she muttered quickly.
Before you could answer, Jack fired a forehand winner so vicious the entire stadium seemed to inhale at once.
You and Samira reacted at the same time.
“Oh, fuck off,” you gasped.
“No way,” she breathed.
Then both of you dissolved into disbelieving laughter together, shoulders knocking hard enough to nearly spill your drinks while the crowd around you stood roaring to their feet.
Down on the court, Jack finally allowed himself the smallest flicker of satisfaction. He stood at the baseline breathing hard, chest rising beneath sweat-dark fabric while the stadium screamed around him. His curls clung damp against his forehead, racket hanging loose at his side as he stared across the net with an expression that bordered on feral.
You hadn’t felt that alive watching tennis in weeks, now it was as if something had been ignited deep in your chest. A desire to blow this afterparty and head straight to the court. But, Samira’s hand was gripping your forearm tightly, dragging you into the Jack Abbot retiree celebration party.
Everyone wanted a piece of him. And Samira looked absolutely gone.
“He’s shorter than I thought,” she murmured for probably the fourth time that night, staring openly across the terrace where Jack stood with a drink in hand speaking to two ESPN commentators.
You took another sip of your cocktail. “You said that twenty minutes ago.”
“You should just go talk to him,” you said finally, the words sour in your mouth.
Her head whipped toward you immediately. “You think?”
“I think if you stare any harder, security's gonna intervene.”
“Oh shut up.” But she laughed, biting briefly at her bottom lip before glancing back toward him again, “Do I look okay?”
You smile sadly at her, bringing your hand up to smooth down her stray hair that the wind blew out of place. “Beautiful.” You choked out, like the word didn’t hurt.
She just watched you for a moment, wringing her hands together.
“You gonna go now?” You laugh, chewing on the cocktail straw, aching to sneak off for a cigarette that Samira would smell and yell at you for later.
“I’m working myself up,” She was practically bouncing on her heels, “You know I can’t believe he’s not married,” she said, almost absently, eyes following Jack as someone from Adidas laughed too loudly at something he’d barely said.
You smirked without looking at her. “He is.”
She glanced at you. “What?”
“To tennis that is.”
That made her laugh under her breath, but it didn’t last long. Her expression shifted as she watched him again. “Well,” she said finally, quieter, “that’s just sad. I hope you don't end up like that.”
That made you look at her.
She was still watching the room, not you. Still following Jack with her eyes like he was the most interesting thing in it. A weird feeling in your gut simmered at this. Has she ever looked for you in a room like that? Or were you simply furniture? Her peer turned partner turned cheerleader.
And suddenly you were aware of it again, the slow erosion of yourself over the last year. Practices that became about her timing. Matches that became about her schedule. Decisions that always curved back toward Samira Mohan’s trajectory like gravity.
“Maybe tennis is my only true love,” you said, your eyes still hopelessly on her.
Samira finally looked at you, but it felt like she was looking through you, “You used to be mean on the court, you know? Like breaking rackets spitting in people's faces means. There used to be a fire there.”
You let out a quiet breath through your nose. “I’m still mean.”
She cocked her head, “Y/n, you haven’t played a solo in weeks. The papers are saying the fire in ‘Fire and Ice’ is dwindling. Your ranking is lower than it should be.”
You frowned, letting your shoulders fall. You saw the papers, it was impossible not to. Trinity had taped them to your door, alongside a note that said ‘get your shit together.’ There was no time for you to play, not while Samira had your calendar booked up.
In the silence, Samira speaks up again. “Have you ever considered coaching? I think it’s time to focus on the next step of your career, and I think that would be the best thing for you.”
”What?-“ Before you can answer, or even formulate a thought a hearty laugh breaks through the crowd.
Across the venue, Jack laughed at something someone said, the sound low and unbothered even surrounded by people trying too hard to matter to him. Camera flashes from somewhere caught him mid-turn, that familiar rough-edged charm slipping into place without effort.
Samira’s attention snapped back to him like a reflex. You noticed the exact moment she stopped thinking about you.
“I might go get some fresh air.” You said, suddenly finding it hard to breathe.
“Go on,” she said suddenly, nudging your arm lightly. “I think I worked up the courage.”
You nodded once and slipped away to the edge of the crowd.
The air outside the main cluster was cooler, quieter, carrying the distant sound of the city below like something alive and indifferent. You found a corner near the cliffside, the sounds of the river lulling your beating heart as you pulled a cigarette from your bag, and lit it with hands that only shook a little.
The first inhale grounded you in a way nothing else had all night. You exhaled toward the skyline, watching smoke disappear into neon.
“So this is where the real party is.” A timber voice spoke up from behind you, making your shoulders tense.
Looking back, maybe this was the first crack in the glass. When Samira spent all night trying to get him to look at her, and he saw you first.
“Jack Abbot,” You breathed out, thumb still flicking the cigarette filter.
“Y/n Y/l/n.” He said, with a smug smile on his lips.
His name coming from your mouth made your stomach fall, brows furrowing at the man. He seemed to have noticed the confusion, taking a few steps closer to you.
“What?” The jilted teasing in his tone made your knees weak, “You don’t think I’d keep up with the up-and-coming tennis stars from my alumni?”
“Didn’t think my name would be on that list,” You scoffed, still wallowing in your own self-pity.
“Highest ranking score. What was it, top junior results? Higher than Mohan’s early numbers,” he said, like he was reading something off memory. “And now you’re what? Holding her water bottle at courtside and running drills like a shadow?” The cigarette paused halfway to your lips.
“That’s not true-“
“Come on,” he cut in, not unkindly. “You know what I’m saying.”
Silence stretched. Behind you, laughter erupted from the party again. Music pulsed faintly through the wind. You knew what he was saying, it was the same thing everyone close to you had been drilling into your head the past few weeks. Jack didn’t look away from you, his gaze heavy and startling.
“She’s my best friend,” you said finally, quieter.
A hum from him. “But?” he prompted.
Your eyes drifted back to the party. Samira was on the dance floor now. Laughing loudly. Surrounded by attention without ever seeming to need it. She looked like she belonged in the center of everything. Like she always had. Beautiful in motion. Confident in a way that made people forget how sharp she actually was.
”She’s just really good.”
Jack followed your gaze. “Yeah,” he said softly. “She is.”
There was a beat of silence before he spoke, quieter, almost like he wasn’t speaking to you anymore:
“But you could be better.”
He scoffs, “How many games do you let her win in practice? I bet she doesn't even realize you’re pulling your hits anymore, huh?”
“Don’t act as if you know me,” You snapped, “What you watch our film? See a game? Read our stats? Just because you’re famous doesn’t mean you know anything about us.”
There was that stupid infuriating smirk still on his face, like he was looking into a mirror, “Okay, okay.” he says, his hands up in surrender. “Apologies for offending the lady, but you can’t deny that you’re selling yourself short.”
You rolled your eyes, going to flick the cigarette out before a hand captured your wrist.
“You mind?” He asked gently, to which you took too long to shake your head.
Jack’s fingers loosened only slightly around your wrist, rough warmth settling against your pulse as he guided your hand back toward him instead of away.
His gaze never left yours as he leaned down, his mouth wrapping around the cigarette between your fingers.
Heat flooded through your entire body so fast it almost made you dizzy.
The scrape of stubble against the inside of your wrist. The slow inhale hollowing his cheeks slightly. The deliberate eye contact while smoke curled between both of you in the humid night air.
It was obscene, and erotic. Jack pulled back after a second, exhaling smoke toward the river before finally releasing your wrist. His thumb brushed once against the inside, before dropping it as if it had never happened.
“C’mon,” he said easily. “Let’s go meet your best friend.”
Jack walked ahead of you through the crowd with effortless confidence, occasionally nodding at people who tried to stop him but never slowing down long enough to get trapped. You followed behind him in a daze, knees weak as a newborn fawn on ice.
It was as if the party bent to his will. Not because he was handsome, though he absolutely was. Not because he was famous or that this whole party was for him anyways. It was something stranger than that. Jack carried himself like a man completely at ease with being desired. Comfortable under attention, thriving even. The kind of confidence people spent their entire lives trying to fake.
”Samira Mohan,” Jack said as he approached the bar beside you, his voice smooth and warm with amusement. “This lovely lady was outside singing your praises.”
Your stomach twisted as Samira’s brows flew up her forehead. What kind of game was he playing?
“Was she?”
”All of them,” he said easily. “Most of which I already knew were true.” Then he reached for her hand.
You’ve known him for all of ten minutes and you already knew flirting was simply another language he spoke fluently. His fingers curled around hers with surprising gentleness before he dipped his head just enough to brush a kiss against her knuckles.
A blush bloomed immediately across her cheeks and down the elegant line of her throat, visible even beneath the warm amber lighting of the tiki torches. Through all the years you’ve known her, never once have you seen her so flustered, yet here she was tripping over her words.
“Your backhand tonight was insane,” she said quickly, words tumbling over each other now that she finally had his full attention. “That second set crosscourt return in the fifth game? Nobody hits that angle anymore because everybody’s obsessed with baseline power but your timing was-“
“Old school?” Jack offered.
“Surgical,” Samira corrected instantly.
Then, they were off. She and Jack fell easily into a discussion about court surfaces and younger players and racket tension like they’d known each other for years.
You stood beside them sipping melting ice from your drink feeling more and more like a third wheel in your own life.
Your jealousy curdled slowly. Not even entirely toward Jack, mostly toward the sport itself.
Because tennis always won in the end. It always got the deepest parts of Samira before anybody else could. You’d spent years quietly accepting second place to it, even making it second place in your own life to carve out space for the love you had for her.
Then, Jack’s eyes met yours. Samira was still deep into conversation about his pacing, and his footwork, before he cut her off.
“Fire and ice,” he mused, glancing between the two of you. His finger lifted from his whisky glass, twirling around. “That’s what they used to call you, right?”
Samira laughed softly under her breath. “God, that was stupid.”
“It wasn’t stupid,” Jack said. “People loved watching you two.”
His gaze settled on you again. Heavy enough to make your skin feel hot beneath your dress. “I related to the fire part personally. Hell, you know they called me a tennis cowboy for years. Never following the rules.”
You looked away first, unable to keep his gaze. Not while Samira looked like a kicked puppy the moment his gaze was no longer on her.
“Well,” Samira said brightly, trying to shake herself out of whatever strange current had settled between the three of you, “she’d make an incredible coach.”
“She sees the game differently than anybody I know,” Samira said immediately. Proud. Certain. “She notices momentum before it shifts. Patterns before they happen. Half the reason my game improved at all was that she could always tell what I was doing wrong before my coaches could.”
”So, you giving up all of this,” he moved his hands around to gesture to the party raging on without him, “to be a coach?”
It occurred to you that Jack Abbot had seen in half an hour what you’ve spent the past few years blind to. Samira had decided your future for you, on her side of the court rather than the opposite. Just the person standing behind somebody else’s success rather than making your own.
You shrugged lightly, trying for indifference. “Maybe.”
Jack’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly at that.
Samira laughed awkwardly beside you, immediately jumping back in before the silence could settle too deeply. “She’s being dramatic. She still plays recreationally and honestly if she wanted to start competing again she probably could, she just would be much better at-“
”Do you want to coach?” Jack interrupted her gently.
You looked at him, caught briefly off guard by the intensity of his attention again. Around you, the party blurred warm and loud, people brushing past in expensive fabrics and perfume, but suddenly it felt strangely isolated there at the bar with him watching you like your answer actually mattered.
“I don’t know,” you finally admitted. “Maybe I am better suited for coaching than competing.”
Jack stared at you for a second like you’d said something genuinely absurd.
“No.” The certainty in his voice made your stomach flip. “You’re the most competitive player I’ve ever seen.”
You blinked. “That’s definitely not true.”
“It is.” His gaze dragged over your face slowly before settling heavily on your eyes again. “Players like you don’t just wake up one day and stop wanting it. Where did that fire go?”
Something hot curled low in your stomach.
Samira shifted beside you, suddenly very interested in finishing her drink.
”You just need that…” Jack tilted his head slightly, mouth curving into a knowing half-smile. “Fire back.”
Samira downs her drink in one swallow, the air suddenly much hotter than it was before.
“Doesn’t she?” Jack elbowed Samira lightly, brushing his body against the side of hers.
She set the empty glass down harder than necessary before forcing a quick smile back onto her face. “Okay,” she laughed thinly, “now you’re just feeding her ego.”
”Aww,” Jack pouted playfully, looking down at her. “Are you jealous?”
The question landed with a sharp little crack between all three of you. Samira froze for half a second, then laughed too quickly. “Please. She’s had an ego since she was sixteen.”
“S’ a part of the game,” you muttered, trying desperately to diffuse the strange electric tension coiling tighter and tighter around the conversation.
But Jack only grinned wider, like this dynamic was the most interesting match he had ever seen.
“You know,” he said conversationally, “most players would kill for somebody who believes in them the way Y/n believes in you.”
”Well,” Samira said suddenly, buoyed again by alcohol and adrenaline and the fact that Jack Abbot was still standing here talking to her like she mattered, “if you’re not sick of us yet, we could do a nightcap somewhere quieter?”
You nearly choked on your own spit. Samira looked equally surprised at herself for approximately half a second before stubbornness took over. Her chin lifted slightly. “What? We’re fun.”
Jack barked out a laugh. “Jesus,” he said, rubbing one hand over his jaw dramatically. “You girls even old enough to drink?”
Samira rolled her eyes instantly. “We’re twenty-three.”
“Mm.” His gaze slid toward you lazily. “What do two young tennis players want with this broken old man?”
“To seduce you, obviously.” Samira teased, letting her perfectly manicured nails hover above his forearm. It didn’t feel like a joke the way his eyes glittered. He pulled his hotel keycard out of his pocket within seconds, guiding both of you away from the lights and noise.
Her fingers curled around his bicep while she talked animatedly about some disastrous junior tournament in Florida, head tipping toward him every time he laughed. Jack listened with easy patience, occasionally teasing her just enough to keep her flushed and smiling.
Meanwhile, you walked half a step behind them feeling strangely untethered.
The jealousy inside you has become complicated now. Twisted together with attraction and longing and something lonelier. Because Samira looked so happy beside him. Glowing from his attention. And Jack, infuriatingly, seemed equally comfortable with her hanging off his arm while still somehow tracking your every movement at the same time. His gaze had a way of making you feel seen in a way you weren’t sure if you had been before.
The US Open spared no cent when it came to his accommodations. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the entire glittering city. Low modern furniture. Expensive dark wood. A terrace stretching out beyond the glass with the skyline spilling endlessly behind it. Somewhere inside the suite jazz played softly through hidden speakers.
Jack loosened the collar of his shirt as he stepped inside, immediately more relaxed here than he’d been all night.
“One drink,” He mused, grabbing a bottle of champagne that had been sitting on ice, “Then it’s off to bed for you two.”
The bottle was popped with a loud cheer, bubbles were poured into overpriced glasses.
“Cheers, to the legend Jack Abbot himself.” Samira cheers, clanking all of your glasses together.
Conversation stretched deep into the night after that, sprawling loose and intimate in the strange way conversations only become after midnight. Shoes abandoned by the couch. The city glittered outside the windows. Samira was twirling her now frizzy curls between her fingers while you were arguing with Jack about whether modern players lacked aggression.
”They’re too fucking soft nowadays.”
“You think everybody’s soft,” she accused.
“Everybody is soft.” You argued back, your bare feet pressing against her thighs from where you two were lounging on the couch.
“You cried during your Australian Open press conference in 2006.” She pointed, making you groan. Your empty glass being filled up again by Jack who sat perched on the velvet armchair, right across from you two.
“It was an angry cry though, those judges didn’t know their heads from their mouths.” You gulped down another drink, the bubbles going straight to your head.
“If you can’t handle the heat, stay out of the kitchen, that’s what I said after my opponent in 2008 said I was, ‘A disgrace to the sport of tennis itself’ for forcing his hand for five rallies.” Jack chimed in, his hands lazily on his knees while he leaned back.
“What an old saying.” Samira snorted, her hand falling on your bare ankle absentmindedly.
“Can I ask a question?” He asked suddenly, “It might be personal but..”
You both just hummed, nodding for him to ask.
“Are you two together?”
Samira’s hand is gone from your ankle like it was never there at all, pulled back so fast it’s almost violent in its restraint. The absence of it is louder than the touch was. She shifts in her seat, reaches for her drink too quickly, and you can see it in the small, betraying details of her body that she’s recalibrating in real time, trying to put herself back into something legible.
“No,” she says immediately, too quickly.
You feel the gap she leaves beside you widen, even though she hasn’t physically moved away. It’s just suddenly obvious that whatever space she occupied a second ago was more intimate than she’s willing to admit in front of him.
You smile anyway, because that’s what you do. It’s what you’ve been doing for so long it comes out easy, practiced. “Just best friends,” you add lightly, tilting your glass slightly in your hand as if the question barely touched you. “The best of friends.”
There’s a faint curl at the edge of his mouth, not quite amusement but not far from it either. “Right,” he says slowly, like he’s accepting the answer without believing it.
Samira adjusts her hair behind her ear, her nervous tick. “Why?” she asks, but her tone is careful now, guarded in a way it wasn’t a minute ago.
Jack’s attention shifts to her briefly, then back to you, like he’s refusing to let either of you escape the frame of his observation. “Just curious,” he says, “It changes how people move around each other on the court. That’s all.”
He doesn’t let the silence last for long, “Tennis is probably the most erotic sport there is,” he says. “You spend hours watching someone’s body under pressure. You learn their timing. Their breathing. The exact moment they break rhythm.”
He tilts his glass slightly, watching the liquid shift. “There’s no distance in it. Not really. Not when you’re paying attention. It’s intimate.”
The tension in the room is so thick it makes it hard to breathe, so you swing your legs to the side of the couch, sitting upright.
“We’re out of champagne.” You smiled, shifting the topic almost as soon as it came.
It took a while, but the conversation drifted after that into softer territory, though the tension never loosened. If anything, it deepened with the hour, settling low and heavy into the suite like another entity in the room.
Jack had migrated from the armchair to between you two on the couch at some point, abandoning the performative distance between all of you. The cushions dipped beneath his weight as he stretched one leg out carefully, wincing faintly at the stiffness in his knee before hiding it behind another sip of whiskey.
The city glowed silver through the windows behind him. The suite lighting turned everything honey-soft. Samira’s bare knees brushing his every few seconds unconsciously, and every time it happened Jack’s eyes flicked downward briefly before returning to your faces.
”So, you’re telling me after all these years nothing has happened between you two?” He asked, Samira practically shoved against his side while his arm was slung across the couch, directly behind your head.
“This again?” Samira groans, shoving him gently.
You shift on the couch, drawing your legs in slightly, suddenly hyperaware of how close all of you have ended up without anyone actively deciding it. “It was one time,” you say, more casually than you feel, like you’re tossing it into the air just to make it lighter than it is. “Sophomore year. We were drunk. It didn’t… it wasn’t anything.”
You have Jack’s full attention again, his eyes sparkling at getting confirmation of something he could have easily guessed.
Samira’s head snaps toward you immediately. “Can you not,” she mutters, half-laughing, half-warning, but there’s no real heat in it. Only panic trying to disguise itself as annoyance.
”No, can we, please?” Jack pleads, looking like the cat that caught the canary.
“We don’t talk about it,” You shrugged, ignoring her pointed glares. “Didn’t mean anything.”
Jack dragged his thumb slowly along the rim of his whiskey glass. “So what’s the angle here?”
Samira blinked. “Angle?”
“Mhm.” He gestured lazily between the two of you. “Two gorgeous Stanford tennis players get a newly retired athlete alone in his hotel suite after midnight. They clearly have some unresolved sexual tension.”
”I think we just, admire you.” She whispered, his face gradually inching closer and closer to hers.
Your eyes are glued on them, watching their bodies gravitate towards each other.
His hand lifted absently, fingers brushing along the back of the pillows behind Samira’s shoulders. Not touching her exactly. Hovering close enough to make her breath hitch anyway.
“You two act like you’re in the middle of a match neither of you wants to win.” He said, “You two just bounce off of each other, when it would be so much easier to just let someone win.”
Samira laughed softly under her breath, though it sounded nervous now. “You think everything’s tennis.”
“Everything is tennis.”
He leans forward slowly giving Samira all the time in the world to pull away.
“So what is it, Samira?” He asks, his breath hot against her lips, “Who wins?”
She wastes no time in pulling him closer, their lips slotting together messily. Time moves slowly, watching as his large hand cradles her face in his hands. The sound of their tongues pressing against each others makes your legs squeeze together, the temperature in the room rising.
He suddenly pulls away from her, both of them immediately meeting your gaze. He says nothing, simply turns his head and presses his lips to yours with the same urgency.
You can taste her lip gloss on his lips, and it makes your head spin. The rough stubble of his cheeks brushing against your palms makes you groan into the kiss. As soon as your mouth parts he takes that as an opportunity to glide his tongue into your mouth, caressing against yours. It’s hot and desperate, and it’s over way too fast.
When he pulls back your lips are swollen, and your heart is nearly beating out of your chest. The first thing you see when you open your eyes are Samira’s on yours. Her own lips red, her hands perched on Jack’s legs to pull her closer to you.
Jack leans back slowly, looking down at the two of you like he was watching a ball bounce across the court.
“Come on,” He whispered, nudging his head to the empty space across his lap. The only space separating the two of you. “I know you both want it.”
Her pupils are blown, lust written all over her face as she looks at you. It’s unspoken as the two of you are pulled together. You don’t know who leans in first, you just know your lips are on hers.
You’ve kissed Samira Mohan before, but it didn’t matter because each time it felt like getting your first breath of fresh air in weeks.
Her hands grab your face, while yours steady themselves on Jack’s legs. He’s just watching, both of his hands cradling your heads as you kissed each other like you were starved. It was years of tension, of longing all rolled into this one kiss and he was getting to spectate it.
When you pulled away, her spit was still attached to your lip. Jack groaned softly at this, the tent in his pants evident as he shifted.
“Should we take this to the bed ladies?”
It’s a messy tangle of limbs, and clothes being shed as the three of you stumble over to the bed. Samira falls into it first, her dress still dangling off her ankles. Jack’s lips are still on your neck, his hands unzipping your own dress to let it fall in the pile of clothing. When he pulls away to unbutton his shirt you take the chance to grab Samira’s legs helping her pull the dress off of her slowly.
She looks ethereal like this, laying back with her eyes wide. Her nipples erect, and poking out high just waiting for you to put your mouth on them again. You crawl over her, settling your legs on either side of her hips.
“This okay?” You ask, your voice hoarse. Thick with anticipation.
She nods so fast you’re surprised it doesn’t give her whiplash.
You lean down, dragging your lips down from her neck to her chest. Pulling each of her nipples into your mouth, tongue flicking the small buds before you pulled off of them with a wet pop. You traced a line down her stomach with your tongue, stopping right above her underwear.
You press a kiss over the warmth of the fabric. “Can I taste you?” You practically begged.
She lifted her hips up, urging you to pull the fabric down. There’s no time wasted in you doing this. As soon as she’s bare in front of you, you almost feel like you’re dreaming.
”Fucking gorgeous.” You whispered, running your fingers through the dark hair perched on her mound. With one swipe of your tongue against her glistening cunt, you were gone, pressing your face even further into her.
“Holy fuck,” She cried out, her hips bucking against you.
Neither of you even noticed that Jack had crawled back on the bed, watching the two of you patiently while you were lost in your own world. Samira tilts her head back, a smirk on her lips.
“Aren’t you gonna join us?”
He whistles, “Well baby, I was just enjoying the show.” He leans up off the bed, walking behind where you were still on top of her.
You lean your head up to speak, but you’re pushed back down by Jack’s hand wrapping itself in your hair.
“I didn’t say you could stop,” He ordered, pressing his boxer-clad cock against the curve of your ass, “You keep making our girl feel good, and I’ll make you feel good.”
Your underwear are discarded, with Jack’s fingers finding your clit with expert precision. His callused fingers slip inside of you with little resistance, as he works you open for him. It didn’t take long for your arousal to drip down his hands, between the taste of Samira on your tongue and her breathy moans you were aching for it.
“Think you’re ready for me?” He asks, and you’re nodding into Samira’s cunt, your moans only causing vibrations to run through her. With her legs shaking around your head, Jack’s cock slips against your entrance.
The stretch of him takes your breath away, your hands gripping Samira’s legs tighter as he slowly inched himself inside of you. He was huge, that was no surprise you’ve seen the pictures of him in his tight shorts, but now you could feel him in your stomach.
“Fuckkkk.” He grunted out behind you, his hips meeting yours with a soft pop. “So tight f’me.”
“Right there,” Samira cried, when your fingers slipped inside of her, your tongue still sloppily licking her cunt, “Fuck, Jack make her feel good.”
“Yeah?” He asked, amused at watching the two girls so focused on each other’s pleasure. He bucked his hips up into you once, then once more until he slowly found his rhythm.
The moans bouncing off of the walls were enough to make a porn star blush, between Jack’s grunts and Samira’s wailing moans you wouldn’t have been surprised if you got a noise complaint.
She came into your mouth with a cry of your name, pushing your head away gently. She crawled over to you, pulling your lips onto hers to taste her own release.
All while Jack was holding your hips with an iron grip, fucking into you so deep you could hardly feel your toes.
“Oh, my god.” You cried into Samira’s mouth, “I’m gonna come.”
Her eyes flickered up to Jack’s, while she still lazily kissed your open mouth, “Mhm, come on Jack’s cock baby.”
“God, yes.”
Samira drank up your moans, swallowing them down as Jack slowed down his thrusts, watching your cunt cream around him. He slipped out of you with caution, making you cry out at the emptiness.
Your arms were shaking when you pushed Samira back down on her side, watching Jack stalk behind her like prey. His cock is slick with your release and hanging heavy between his legs.
“Your turn, baby.” Jack hummed, crawling behind her and lining himself up with her entrance. You lie next to her, letting her body rest on top of yours.
”Holy-“ She cut herself off by biting down on your shoulder, muffling her screams. You watched Jack’s cock stutter as he pushed further and further inside of her. ”S’big.”
“Both of you taking m’cock so fucking good,” Jack moaned, his hand heavy on her hip as he began to fuck into her from behind, “M’ so lucky.”
Samira’s jaw was lax, Jack kissing into her mouth messily as you watched him fuck your juices into her.
“He feels good doesn’t he?” You moan, reaching forward to start biting and sucking whatever flesh of hers you could grab while Jack fucked her brains out the same way he just did you. Your hands are pulling at her tits, circling her clit in a frantic motion.
She lets out a gargled moan as response, kissing you back lazily.
“Yeahhh, he does.” You cooed, “That big cock splitting you apart, baby?”
”It’s so good, gonna make me cum, gonna make me cum, oh yes.” She sobbed, falling apart sandwiched between the two of you.
“M’ right behind you.” Jack warned, his thrusts only getting faster as his balls tightened. You pressed your mouth against Samira’s and that’s all it took for him to still, cumming deep inside of her with a desperate shout.
The silence that followed was soft, not harsh or uncomfortable. It was heavy breathing and the post-orgasm daze of realizing what had just happened.
Samira broke the silence with an uncontrollable giggle, her head lolling against your bare chest.
“You didn’t cum twice.” She pouts, suddenly staring at your body like her hunger had yet to be satisfied.
“I’m not sure what to do.” She breathed out, suddenly nervous despite the events that had unfolded over the past hour.
“I‘ll walk you through it,” Jack whispered, his head nuzzling into the crook of her neck. Guiding Samira’s hand between your still open legs. You were still sensitive when her fingertips found your clit, flinching at the sensation. She kept making sure you were okay between each stroke.
“Now you can slip your fingers inside…” Jack guided, to which Samira nodded.
“Just one or…”
“She can take two, can’t she?”
“Yes,” You cried, feeling her second finger slide inside next to her other. Her fingers weren’t as big as Jack’s, but the softness in which she moved had you wanting to cry out in pleasure.
With instruction, she learned how to thrust her fingers just right. Her thumb hits your clit with each roll of her hand. The sound was absurd as she pulled you closer and closer to your last orgasm of the night.
“You hear that, just how wet you make her?” He whispered to her, making her eyes nearly roll to the back of her head. His softening cock was still deep inside of her, plugging her with his cum that threatened to leak out the sides. Meanwhile her fingers were making a mess of your cunt, the lewd wet sounds making both of them mewl into each other as they watched you writhe and come apart on her fingers.
“See that?” he asked, watching your hips grind into her hand. “She’s gonna cum.”
“Mira,” You cried out, trying to pull her as close as possible, your lips brushing as you came around her with a shout.
Her eyes stayed locked on you while you came, drinking in each twitch of your body.
When she slipped her fingers out of you, she stared at the slick digits like Eve staring at the apple in the garden.
“Taste her.” He whispered, but it sounded more like an order.
She slid her fingers into her mouth, sucking around the digits moaning at the taste of your release against your fingers.
“Fuck.” You breathed out, watching her cheeks hollow.
“Fuck is right.” Jack said, in awe at the two of you.
All of your bones were heavy with exhaustion, bodies still floating in bliss. You remember cleaning up, and Samira pulling you into her chest. The next thing you remember was waking up to the bright light peering through the curtains.
The bright intrusion made you groan, trying to roll over only to be blocked by a hard block of muscle. That’s when the memories of last night rushed through you. It wasn’t a dream, it was real and the ache between your legs and the two warm bodies lying next to you were proof of that.
New York was still dark beyond the massive hotel windows, the city painted in soft blue-gray light while rain tapped quietly against the glass high above Manhattan. The suite smelled faintly like champagne and expensive linen and something warmer underneath it all musk, sweat, and sleep.
For a long moment, you didn’t move too busy watching her.
Samira slept on her side facing you, curls spilled messily across silk pillowcases, mouth slightly parted beneath the dim morning light. Without all her sharpness awake inside her, she looked younger somehow. Softer. Like the version of her all those years ago you first fell in love with.
You reached out carefully, brushing a loose curl back from her face with your fingertips. Her eyes fluttered open almost immediately.
For one disorienting second she just stared at you sleepily, lashes heavy and lips still swollen from sleep and kissing and all the champagne from the night before
“Hi,” she whispered, voice rough.
“Hi.”
Behind her, Jack groaned softly into the pillows before tightening his arm instinctively around Samira’s waist. His eyes blinked open slower than hers had, still foggy with sleep while he looked between both of you lazily.
”Oh, so it wasn’t a wet dream.” He mumbled, breaking a bit of the awkward tension.
“Hey, how are you feeling?” Samira asks, grabbing your wrist from underneath the blanket, holding it gently in her hand.
“I’m good,” You smiled, and maybe for the first time in a while you really meant it.
“Good,” She beamed, “Then I have a question.”
“Oh, god.” You started to sigh, then squealed when she wrapped her still bare legs around yours pulling herself on top of you to straddle your hips. The blanket sat low on her waist, her curves on display while her tits bounced in your face,
“Will you coach for me?” She asks, her hair falling around her head like a halo.
How could you say no? When she looked like that, and the taste of her was still faint on your mouth. Her bare skin pressed against yours felt like heaven, and in that moment you would have done anything for her.
“Yes, god yeah.” You laughed at her immediate squeal, leaning up to press your lips to hers gently.
Jack just laid there, his arms behind his back staring over at you two. “Ready to play some tennis, girls?”
Your relationship was never defined, everyone knew you and Samira came as a pair. It had been unspoken since your undergrad days, but now Jack Abbot was also there.
Jack accepted Stanford’s offer not long after that night. Officially, it was temporary. Guest coaching. Mentorship. Media appearances as an alumni. The university parading around the fact that they had Jack Abbot wandering their courts now, older and limping slightly but still magnetic enough to draw attention.
Unofficially, he was there for Samira. Everyone knew it. The rumor mill started almost immediately.
It became one of those things nobody directly addressed but everyone understood instinctively. Samira Mohan arrived with you attached at her side like gravity itself demanded it, and somewhere along the way Jack had slipped seamlessly into the orbit too.
It was late-night practices under empty stadium lights. Jack fed impossible balls across the court while Samira laughed breathlessly after missing them by inches. You correcting her aggression while he corrected her footwork. The three of you collapsing onto benches afterward sweaty and exhausted, sharing water bottles and protein bars and tension so thick it practically sat beside you. It was stolen kisses and the nights the three of you never talked about during the day.
It wasn’t what any of you had planned, but it was something sacred between the three of you. At least you thought it was.
At first, it was small things. She’d look to him first after matches now, searching his face for approval before yours. During practices, she listened more sharply when he spoke, more immediate in her adjustments, more eager to impress him in ways she never tried with you anymore because your approval had become assumed.
He challenged her constantly, pushed her harder than anyone else ever had. He understood the uglier side of her ambition. Where you soothed her spirals, Jack sharpened them into fuel. Where you protected her confidence, he provoked it deliberately just to watch her fight her way back.
Jack would pull her aside afterward for “extra work,” and suddenly two hours had passed without either of them answering texts. You’d find them still on court long after dark, standing too close near the baseline while discussing strategy, Samira flushed with her hair a little out of place. Sometimes she’d forget you were supposed to be there at all.
Suddenly you weren’t the only one who understood her game, and it made you green with envy. How were you on the outside of something that you all had started together?
“Late for your own practice.” You said, your voice short and clipped. Nothing but the harsh sound of your racket slamming the ball into the wall echoes from the training room you booked weeks ago. You had spent the last hour and a half, stewing in your own anger.
Her hair is a mess, eyeliner still smudged underneath her eyes. She looks the least put together you’ve ever seen her at practice, but she’s still vibrating with energy.
“I’m sorry,” Her voice was dry, water bottle swinging in her hand, “It was a long night. Jack and I were watching some of his old games.”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” You whistled, another ball cracking against the wall with so much force it made her flinch at the sound.
“Okay,” She breathes out, crossing her arms over her chest. “Are you upset with me?”
“Why would I be upset Samira?” You laugh cruelly, “Is it the part where you decided my future for me, or the part where you know how I feel about you but you continue to exploit it?”
“I’m not exploiting you,” She gawked, “Where is this coming from?”
The bitterness that rose in your throat tasted humiliating. “You asked me to coach you,” you said. “You asked me to put my career on hold because you said nobody understood your game the way I do. You said you needed me.”
“I do need you-“
“But not the way I needed you to.” The words exploded out of your chest, making your hands shake. “Not the way you need, him.”
Her eyes widened, nearly stumbling over her own feet as if the words you said made the ground shake beneath her feet.
“You know what the worst part is?” you laughed bitterly. “I would’ve done it anyway. That’s what’s so pathetic.”
“Y/n-”
“No, seriously.” You turned toward her sharply. “You asked me right after that night in New York. That was fucked.”
Neither of you ever talked about it directly anymore. Not Jack’s hands on both of you. Not the unbearable intimacy of waking up tangled together afterward and pretending it hadn’t changed everything. It just lived underneath every conversation, every fleeting glance. You let it happen, again.
“You asked me after we slept together because you knew I was too in love with you to say no,” you said quietly. “And I said yes so fast I didn’t even stop to think what it would cost me. Because I love you, Samira.”
She looked like you had slapped her, “You think I planned that?” she asked, voice cracking now. “You think I manipulated you into all of this?”
”I think you always knew you’d never choose tennis over me, but I think you loved that I’d choose you over tennis. Fuck, I would have chosen you over everything.” Your voice cracked, tears welling in your lash line.
Samira wiped angrily at her eyes before looking back at you. “That’s not true, Y/n. I need you on my team, so I’m confused. I’m confused and scared, but what I do know is that I need you. I need us, together.”
“There’s no us Samira,” You scoff, feeling your knuckles ache from just how hard you were gripping your racket. “There never has been, not really.”
“Y/n..”
“No,” You threw your hands up, stopping her from walking closer, “I need some space, okay?”
She sniffles, but spins on her feet anyway leaving you alone.
The moment the door closes behind her, you let out a blood-curdling yell. The racket slams on the ground with such force that you can feel the ache in your shoulder before you see the plastic splinter across the concrete. You lose track of how long you’re slamming it into the ground, but when you hear the door open the racket is nothing but the handle.
Like a bad omen, Jack Abbot is walking into the room.
“Oh fucking great,” You scoff, trying to blink away the angry tears from your eyes, “Just the fucking person I wanted to see.”
“You done?” he asked quietly.
“Fuck you.”
He shut the door behind him anyway, walking into the now plastic mess scattered on the court.
Your shoulder was throbbing now, the familiar burn shooting down your arm from overtraining and rage and three straight days of sleeping badly. You wiped angrily at your face before bending to grab your bag, already wanting him gone.
”Your shoulder’s swelling again,” he said.
“I don’t care.”
“Yeah,” he muttered, walking closer. “That’s kinda the problem.”
You should’ve told him to leave, should’ve beaten him over the head with your spare racket. Instead, you sat heavily on the bench while he crouched in front of you, pulling athletic tape and scissors from your bag with ease.
The room felt unbearably quiet now. Just the soft tear of tape and your heavy, labored breath.
Jack’s fingers brushed carefully against your skin while he rolled your shoulder experimentally, making you flinch.
“Tight,” he murmured.
“No shit.”
His hands steadied your arm anyway, surprisingly gentle despite everything else about him. The touch should’ve annoyed you more than it did. Instead, it made something inside your chest ache.
“When’s the last time you did something for yourself?” He asks, setting down the scissors and tape with a clank.
You let out a shaky breath, shrugging, “My whole fucking college life has just been her.”
“Maybe,” He whispered, his hand grabbing your thigh gently. “You need to start being selfish again.”
You looked down at his hand on your bare thigh, your stomach twisting in knots. It was this again, the weird tension between the three of you. The wanting each of them in different ways that made it all so complicated.
“She loves you.” The words escaped before you could stop them.
Jack’s expression barely changed. But his hand tightened slightly against your leg.
“She loves you,” you repeated more quietly. “And you love her.”
He nods, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “I do.”
Something bitter twisted through your chest. “She’ll always love tennis more,” You pinch the bridge of your nose harshly, trying to warn him against the heartbreak that’s settling deep within your ribs.
“So will I, which is why I think it’ll work.” His confession leaves you stunned, your fingernails still digging harshly into your palms.
A harsh cry escapes your throat, amusement laced with sadness at the absurdity that is your life.
“She loves you, you know? But you’re competition. You always have been. It’s probably why she loved you in the first place,” He hums, like it’s a fact that was glaringly obvious. “She’s not like you, she’s not insults and penalties on the court. She’s keeping you close, she wants you in her corner because if you're not? You’re her biggest competition and she fucking knows it.”
”You’ve been stroking my ego since we met,” You mumbled, “Doesn’t make any sense. I’m always second to her. In every fucking aspect.”
His thumb rubs a soft circle against your leg, goosebumps rising on your skin.
“What’s your angle?” You asked finally, looking up at the man. “New York, your hand on my leg, what the fuck is all of this?”
“My angle?” He laughs, and it’s different from how you’ve heard him laugh before. It was deeper, more real. ”I just wanna watch some good fucking tennis.”
You ripped your leg out of his grasp, grabbing your bag so harshly you couldn’t even think about the pain that was still radiating down your shoulder.
“I’ll show you good fucking tennis.”
“I know you will!” His voice echoed through the hallway.
-
In hindsight, you shouldn’t have called your friends and drank half a bottle of vodka to dull the pain that was pressing against your ribcage. It just felt like the only logical thing to do. You were a month away from graduation, your future suddenly blurry around the edges after years of precision. Tennis had always been the one thing in your life that made sense. Work hard enough and you get results. Fight hard enough and eventually somebody would recognize it. You earned your spot here, and you let love ruin all of that.
Samira had never played by those rules inside your heart and now Jack had walked into both of your lives like a lit match tossed into dry grass.
By the end of the night, Trinity had taken your phone away twice to stop you from texting them things you’d regret. You vaguely remembered crying in the bathroom while one of the girls from track held your hair back even though you hadn’t actually thrown up.
When you woke up your mouth tasted like vodka and regret. You groaned quietly and rolled over, fumbling blindly for your phone on the nightstand.
Three missed calls from Samira <3
You stared at her name for a long moment before finally pressing call back.
It rang twice before voicemail picked up. The sound of her recorded greeting nearly shattered whatever fragile resolve you’d managed to piece together overnight.
Hey,” You breathed out, the sound of your own voice making you cringe, “I’m sorry about last night. I just, Samira, I really love you. Jack coming into our lives has just made everything so fucking complicated. I’ll support you every step of the way, you know that. If you love him, go for it. I’ll step aside. I’ll be okay, you know? But you’re right, we n-need each other. We’re a team. Just, listen, I'm sorry again. I’ll bring you your favorite coffee before practice, okay?”
As soon as you hang up the phone, a loud banging against your door makes you jump.
“Y/n!” You hear Trinity’s voice on the other side, banging even harder than before.
“Jesus, who’s on fire?” You yelped, rushing to swing the door open. She doesn’t even greet you, simply pushes her way into your room shoving her phone in your face.
“Did you fucking see?” She’s furious, her face is red and her chest is rising meaning she probably ran all the way here.
“What-“
You finally read the words on the news article, your breath catching in your throat.
“RETIRED TENNIS LEGEND JACK ABBOT TO COACH RISING STAR SAMIRA MOHAN THROUGH HER PROFESSIONAL DEBUT”
Below is a picture of a press conference, no doubt happening this morning. He’s standing next to her holding a contract, both of their smiles wide. You read it again, and again, snatching the phone from her hand in disbelief. You read it so many times that the words blur together and stop making sense in your brain.
“Are you fucking serious?” Your voice doesn’t waver; instead, it's a loud bark.
“It came out just a few minutes ago,” She whispered, “It seems like this has been in the works for a while.”
One argument, one disagreement and she throws away years of hard work, years of love between the two of you.
You look at Trinity with a hardened look of absolute, feeling the fire rise up in your chest, “I’m gonna beat Samira Mohan, even if it fucking kills me.”
⇢ summary: you've been best friends with trinity since you were in middle school, two peas in a pod. while she went into med school, you started a very successful band. when you come home from your 18 month world tour, trinity wants you to met her work friends, you're excited to meet all but one. samira mohan, although her and trinity are now friends, as her best friend you simply cannot get over the fact that one comment from samira made trinity spiral and doubt herself.
⇢ warnings/contains: poc!fem!reader, reader uses she/her pronouns. reader is a lead guitarist in a famous band. slow burn (one sided enemies to friends to lovers.) mutual yearning. established relationship (between jack and samira). age gap between jack + samria and reader (samira + reader late 20's, jack is late 40's-early 50's). for mature audiences due to explicit language and sexually mature content. this story follows both a smau and written plot. reader falls under the lgbtqia+ community but not otherwise labeled.
⇢ inspiration: triple match point @barnesonfilm + do i wanna know? @tresleches333
tags: jack abbot x fem!reader x samira mohan, reader is a dr. house variant, reader is early 40s, mohabbot is in the beginning stages of a relationship, unhinged comments, flirting that'd make HR blush, medical inaccuracies, 18+ MDI for highly suggestive comments
notes: welcome to my second mini-series! everyone seemed to love my last throple fic, so I was like, why not for Mohabbot :) , like always, if you want to be added to my taglist, please let me know by commenting! all parts can be found here! enjoy!
word count: 5k
The Pitt had crossed the line from busy to catastrophic nearly an hour ago.
Every hallway was filled; every curtained room held at least two patients; gurneys lined the walls while nurses moved between them with the speed of people already running on adrenaline along. Somewhere across the nurses’ station, a child was crying enough to turn hoarse. Monitors beeped incessantly in overlapping bursts that never fully stopped long enough to give the employees’ brains a small respite.
The ambulance bay doors, always in a continuing sliding motion of open and close, opened fully again, giving way for yet another gurney guided by paramedics to roll across into the belly of the beast.
“Incoming!” one of them shouted over the noise, but no one seemed to catch it at first.
Dennis was halfway through suturing a scalp laceration in room number four when Trinity appeared beside him, her gloves already bloody.
“Trauma two’s asking for another set of hands if you’d like to join in,” she announced over his shoulder.
“I physically do not have another set of hands at this moment.” His lifted his hands ever so slightly to emphasize that they were already full.
“Then please tell me you have a secret twin because—”
A gurney barreled past them out in the hall before she could finish, forcing both residents to stop and watch it go by. Their eyes locked on the patient, who was in the middle of a violent convulsion. Their minds noted that the jerky motion wasn’t seizure-like at first glance. His muscles locked and released in abrupt jerks while one of the paramedics struggled to keep the oxygen mask in place even with restraints around his arms and middle abdomen.
“Thirty-two-year-old male!” the paramedic called out while steering through the overcrowded corridor. “Altered mental state, sever fever, hypotensive en route. Seized twice in the ambulance!”
That last bit got attention.
Behind the gurney, Samira was quick to pull off one pair of gloved while snapping another on. “What’s his pressure?”
“Eighty over fifty last check.”
“Any history?”
“Girlfriend said flu symptoms for about a week. This morning he became confused and combative.”
The man let out an involuntary sound between a laugh and a choke that tugged Samira’s lips downward into a frown. Her big, brown eyes scanned the room before landing on the two roommates.
“Whitaker and Santos, you’re with me,” she barked before looking back to the nurses’ station. “Dana, do we have anything open?”
The blonde charge nurse glanced up and her board. “Room three’s all I got. Both traumas are both still full. Perlah go with them, please.”
The small crowd around the man moved as one into the smaller room. The door stayed wide open as Samira, Dennis, and Trinity carefully transferred the man into the bed. Perlah dragged a metal tray closer, causing it to rattle while Dennis cruised over the ultrasound machine. The three residents took the fastest moment to give the man an evaluation.
On first glance, they noticed the man’s skin looked wrong. He was flushed bright red across the chest and face, sweat soaking through his shirt, but his fingertips had already started taking on a faint bluish tint. Tiny muscle spasms clenched wildly beneath the skin along his jaw.
Leaning over the man, Dennis grabbed his pen light and quickly flashed it in the man’s eyes. “Pupils are anisocorias.”
“What’s his temp?” Samira asked.
“102.1” Trinity answered, clipping the oxygen monitor to his finger.
Dennis swore quietly under his breath just as the patient jerked hard against the restraints again, eyes rolling wildly before suddenly locking onto Samira with a terrifying clarity.
“Don’t let them—” he slurred before his entire body seized again, back arching against the strap around his middle.
“Okay, seizure activity,” Samira called out. “Push 4 mg Ativan. Santos, hold him down. Whitaker make sure his airway stays clear.”
The room became motion and noise. Samira and Trinnity held the man’s shoulders while Dennis’s hands carefully cupped the man’s cheeks, face close enough to notice if the patient was going to choke or not. Perlah pushed the Ativan through the IV, and the seizure finally broke after several endless seconds, leaving the patient limp and gasping.
Dennis straightened slightly. “Okay. Differential.”
“Must be Sepsis,” Trinity said.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?” she echoed.
“He doesn’t look septic.”
“Absolutely he does.”
Samira stared down at the patient’s face and body, unease slowly crawling through her chest. “Can’t be sepsis. There’s no obvious visible infection source. The girlfriend would have said something about possible infection.”
Trinity cocked an eyebrow. “Could be meningitis?”
Dennis shook his head. “No neck rigidity.”
“Encephalitis, then.”
“Wouldn’t explain the muscle spasms,” Samira replied.
“Toxic exposure,” Dennis put out there, rubbing tiredly at his forehead.
“No pinpoint pupils though,” Trinity shot back.
“Not every toxin causes—”
Suddenly, the patient started laughing. They froze as the sound crawled up the walls of the room wrongly: wet and strained and completely disconnected from anything happening around him. Their eyes widened as blood began trickling from one nostril, thin at first before steadily worsening.
Trinity took an involuntary step back, hands raised. “Okay, that’s new. I officially hate this.”
Samira grabbed a paper towel while her mind raced through possibilities do quickly, they blurred together uselessly.
Fever. Neurological symptoms. Bleeding. Spasms. Blue fingertips.
Nothing fit correctly.
Sure, one or two of the symptoms might fit with a diagnosis, but that would leave the others out with no way to make sure they were giving the poor man the right medicine. She nearly went cross-eyed trying to figure things out when the monitor alarm suddenly shrieked.
“Oxygen’s dropping,” Perlah snapped.
“How much?” Samira asked, eyes glued to the monitor.
“Eighty-two and falling.”
“Lungs?”
“Still clear,” Dennis announced after quickly whipping his stethoscope from around his neck and pressing the end to the man’s chest.
Samira let out a frustrated groan. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
The patient’s heart rate climbed higher on the monitor, jagged and unstable. Sweat beaded down the side of his face while another tremor passed through his arms. Everything had narrowed into the growing realization that none of them knew what they hell they were looking at.
Dennis stepped back from the bedside first, his similar growing frustration overtaking focus. “You think this is a good time to find Dr. Robby or Dr. Abbot?”
Trinity nodded. “Yep. Saw them by the nurses’ station, I think. Last I saw, they were dealing with the MVA paperwork disaster.”
“Great. Fantastic. Love that for us.”
Another violent tremor hit the patient while Samira stared down at him, mind still turning uselessly through possibilities. The symptoms contradicted each other too much. Every answer created three more questions to the point it felt like trying to hold water.
She was already halfway out the door when she made up her mind. “I’ll get them.”
Dennis’s head shot up. “I’ll come with—”
“No, stay here,” she interrupted. “If he starts to crash again, come out and get us.”
The hallway outside was even worse than before. Samira shoved past a transport team moving in the opposite direction while Trinity followed close behind, narrowly avoiding colliding with a nurse carrying a tray of medications.
Their objective—the nurses’ station—looked like a war zone.
Charts were stacked everywhere. The red phone rang endlessly. Dana and another nurse were arguing over bed placement while someone else loudly demanded results that still apparently hadn’t been uploaded.
And in the middle of it all stood Robby and Jack.
Jack leaned against the counter, biceps bulging in his scrub sleeves with exhaustion written clearly across his face despite the composure he always seemed to maintain. Robby was reading over a tablet with the kind of concentration that suggested he was trying to actively pretend the rest of the ER didn’t exist.
Samira didn’t bother slowing down in her approach. “We need help.”
Neither man looked surprised as their eyes lifted to meet hers.
“What’s up?” Jack asked, hazel eyes boring into hers.
A small smirk rested on his lips, and Samira willed herself to look away before she was caught staring.
“Weird neuro case in room three,” she began. “High fever, seizures, hypotensive, possible hallucinations. He just started bleeding before I came to find one of you.”
His expression tightened. “Bleeding from where?”
“Nose. We can’t figure out what’s causing any of it.”
“Labs?” Robby asked.
“Pending.”
Trinity crossed her arms loosely. “None of the symptoms line up correctly.”
Jack pushed away from the counter at that. “Usually that’s an indicator you’re missing something.”
“Thank you. I feel so very inspired.”
Robby was already moving toward the room, Jack at his side falling into tandem steps. “How unstable?”
“Very,” Samira responded following behind them.
“Fan-fucking-tastic.”
By the time they entered room three, the atmosphere had changed completely. The patient was conscious again, though barely. His breathing had become shallow and uneven with blood soaking the paper towel below it. One hand twitched intermittently against the bedrail like his nerves were firing independently from the rest of him.
Dennis looked up the second they entered, relief flickering across her face too quickly for him to hide. “His symptoms are changing too fast for us to keep up with,” he admitted.
Jack stepped to the bedside without hesitation, eyes moving clinically over the patient. Robby stayed near the foot of the bed while the three residents started talking over each other.
“Possible encephalitis—” Trinity tried again before Dennis cut her off.
“But the rigidity doesn’t fit, and his lungs are clear despite the stats—”
Samira tried her best. “No infection source—”
“Could be toxin related—” Dennis spouted like earlier.
“His pupils changed again—” Trinity pointed out.
That was the moment the patient started whispering again with words too slurred to understand at first before actual sounds began forming through his lips. “Hurts,” he mumbled weakly. “Hurts, hurts, hurts, hurts—”
His heart rate spiked again, causing Jack to frown again.
“How long between onset and neurological decline?” he asked.
“Girlfriend said maybe twelve hours,” Samira replied. “But that’s way too fast.”
Robby’s eyes narrowed slightly at the pattern. Dennis noticed the movement scarily too quickly.
“You thinking of something, Dr. Robby?” the blond asked quietly.
Robby sighed silent before sighing heavily once like he already heated the conclusion he’d reached. His head bobbed as he spoke. “Not something.”
Jack looked over at him knowingly, shoulders dropping at his friend’s unsaid implication. “You really want to do that to us today, brother?”
“We’re already being punished apparently.”
Trinity blinked between them. “Wait—what does that mean?”
Robby reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “I need to make a call.”
_______________________
The emergency department had somehow become even more unbearable in the ten minutes since Robby made the call.
The waiting room was overflowing with irritated families packed shoulder-to-shoulder beside exhausted nurses trying to maneuver equipment through spaces never designed to hold this many people. Trauma alerts echoed enough they’d begun blending together into meaningless static. Inside room three, whoever, the tension had condensed into impatient panic.
The patient’s fever continued climbing despite the cooling measures already attempted. Sweat soaked through the sheets beneath him while intermittent tremors continued wracking his limbs hard enough to shake the rails of the bed. Blood still leaked slowly from his nose in uneven streaked that stained every towel pink.
Dennis stood at the monitor station pretending to review vitals while actually watching the hallway entrance every few seconds. Trinity leaned against the counter beside him with her arms crossed tightly, curiosity slowly overtaking frustration.
Samira remained nearest the bedside, though her concentration kept slipping toward Jack.
He stood across from her near the foot of the bed with one hand braced against the rail while he reread test results that still weren’t giving them anything useful. Fatigue sat heavily across his face; the kind earned after coming in as a favor to Robby and dealing with the chaos in the halls for close to 6 hours.
Unfortunately for Samira, he looked unfairly sexy in all that exhaustion. And even more unfortunately, he’d glance her way and flash that knowing smirk that he knew got her all hot and bothered.
The thing between them had stopped being subtle weeks ago. Linger glances had turned into inside jokes, accidental touches that neither of them pulled away from quickly enough became the grounding go-to technique, conversations began stretching too long after the day shifts ended and night shift began. Nothing was official; nothing was ever discussed out loud. All it seemed to be was tension building slowly and steadily until even the other residents had started looking between them knowingly whenever their shifts overlapped.
Which meant the second Robby had said I’m calling her, Samira immediately understood this shift was about to become significantly more complicated.
Dennis finally broke the silence. “So, she’s actually insane, right?”
Jack didn’t look up from the chart. “Professionally? Absolutely.”
“No, I mean like . . . medically?”
“That too.”
Trinity frowned. “How come a lot of us haven’t met her?”
“Because her insaneness would infect my ER if she was down here all the time,” Robby muttered.
Jack let out a quiet laugh at that, rubbing tiredly at the stubble along his jaw.
Just as the patient slightly moved, their ears picked up on a faint sound growing louder down the packed hallway.
Click.
Click.
Click.
The cane struck tile at an unhurried pace, measured and steady despite the absolute catastrophe happening around it. The noise cut clearly through the chaos outside the room, distinct enough that everyone unconsciously went still listening for it as it drew closer.
Dennis straightened. Trinity’s eyebrow rose. Jack closed his eyes briefly like a man preparing for impact.
The sound grew louder.
Click.
Click.
Click—
You appeared in the doorway, dark blazer jacket hung open over a rumpled graphic-tee, one side slipping slightly off your shoulder like you either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care. A paper coffee cup was gripped loosely in one hand while the other gripped the handle of your cane. The small group immediately noticed a visible limp in your gate, though it somehow projected irritation more than weakness, as though the injury itself was inconveniencing you.
Your eyes swept across the room once— Patient. Monitors. Blood. Panicked residents. –before finally landing on Robby.
“Well,” you said dryly, “this looked medically expensive.”
Dennis blinked at you like he wasn’t entirely convinced you were real.
You limped further into the room, cane clicking softly against the floor. Despite the obvious slump written into your posture like you couldn’t care less about the people around you, there was still something unnervingly alert about you, almost like your brain was moving several steps ahead of everyone else’s at all times and found the rest of the world vaguely disappointing for not keeping pace.
Your attention shifted toward Jack, and your face visibly brightened at the sight of the older attending. Once he caught your gaze, he closed his eyes, sighing loudly, hand now rubbing along his temple.
“Oh here we go,” he muttered.
“Well, hello, Dr. Abbot.”
He huffed your name before you’d even said anything else, not even meeting your wide eyes again. “No. Not today.”
“What?” you asked innocently. “I’m being professional.”
“You’ve been here six seconds—”
“And already thinking deeply inappropriate thoughts about you,” you cut him off with an overly dramatic wink. “That has to be some kind of efficiency record.”
Dennis choked on absolutely nothing, and Samira bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to stop herself from laughing.
Jack finally looked at you fully, expression flat but unsurprised. “Patient’s actively dying.”
“Mm.” Your gaze moved slowly over him anyway, entirely unbothered. “You know there’s something really attractive about a man covered in other people’s blood. Make me want to make several terrible life choices that involves you and a bed.”
“Please don’t.”
“You say that like I haven’t already mentally undressed you twice since walking in. You’re underestimating me in your old age.”
Robby pinched the bride of his nose so hard it looked painful.
Jack, meanwhile, had gone completely still in the way people did when trying very hard not to react at all. Unlucky for him, the faint flush climbing up the sides of his neck to his cheeks betrayed him.
You noticed right away, a slow grin spreading across your face. “Oh, now that’s interesting, Dr. Abbot. I thought you military men were immune to this sort of fire.”
“We are not doing this right now,” he hissed, though malice was absent in his tone.
“Why not? Morale’s important during emergencies.”
“You told me last month you wanted me face down in an on-call room.”
“In my defense,” you replied reasonably, “you did look good holding retractors.”
“Please focus.”
“Uh, I am focused.” You pointed your cane toward him. “On you and your sexy ass.”
Poor Dennis looked seconds away from passing out.
Growing a bit bored of Jack’s deflections, you let your eyes roam until they stopped on the pretty dark-skinned lady.
Now, your flirting with Jack had the reckless ease of habit, sharp-edged and deliberately provocative in a way that suggested the two of you had been doing this dance for a long while. But the second your gaze landed on Samira, a quiet type of curiosity bloomed in your chest. You studied her openly for a moment.
“Well,” you murmured. “You’re new.”
Samira crossed her arms automatically, though the movement looked more defensive than closed off. “Dr. Mohan.”
“Mohan,” you repeated thoughtfully, drawing it out along your tongue. “Pretty name.”
Jack side-eyed you with suspicion which you immediately ignored.
“Are you always this pretty during chaotic shifts” you asked, “or is the universe specifically trying to ruin my concentration today?”
Samira giggled—like, actually giggled—despite trying her best not to. “I think HR would probably have concerns about this conversation.”
“HR sends me wellness emails weekly.”
“They send those to everyone.”
“No, mine are personalized.”
Robby pointed sharply at you and then toward the patient. “Absolutely not. Diagnose first. Sexually harass my staff later.”
You looked offended. “I can multitask. And technically, Robert, it’s not harassment if they’re into it.”
Neither Jack nor Samira denied quickly enough, and that alone stirred the pot simmering in your stomach. Your grin deepened briefly before you finally, finally turned toward the bed. Like a switch, they watched as you shifted visibly. The teasing nature you exhumed vanished (not entirely, because you seemed fundamentally incapable of behaving like a normal person), but your focus narrowed with startling intensity. Your eyes tracked rapidly over the patient, catching details everyone else had either dismissed or stopped seeing after the first hour.
“Symptoms,” you all but demanded, voice stern yet kind.
Dennis started listing them. “High fever, seizures, possible hallucinations, hypotension, muscle rigidity, nosebleeds, oxygen saturation keeps dropping but lungs are clear—”
“How long since onset?”
“Twelve hours maybe?”
“Travel history?”
You shouldn’t have been surprised by the blank stares, but you somehow managed.
You looked up slowly. “You didn’t ask.”
Not a question. A knowing and mildly disappointed statement.
“We were a little busy trying to keep him alive,” Trinity defended.
“You got mystery neurological symptoms, and no one asked if he recently locked an endangered frog overseas? What? Did you all collectively decide tropical diseases were canceled for the day?”
Jack watched you carefully from across the bed now, already tracking the direction your thoughts were moving.
You stepped closer to the patient, gaze narrowing at the twitching muscles in his legs. “Medication history?”
“Nothing confirmed,” Samira answered.
“Drug use?”
“Girlfriend denied it.”
You snorted loudly. “Everybody lies.”
The patient’s hand jerked against the bedrail in a rhythmic motion. Your eyes dropped toward his feet, then up to the monitor, and back down to the blood staining the towel under his nose.
“Oh, for the love of everything that is good and holy,” you muttered. You pointed toward the patient with your cane. “Tell me someone checked for serotonin syndrome.”
Dennis frowned deeply. “We considered it, but SS didn’t fully fit.”
“Because he’s bleeding and hypoxic,” you replied. “What antidepressants is he on?”
“We don’t know if he takes any.”
“He does.” Your tone carried complete certainty now. “Look at the clonus.”
Samira moved closer, eyes tracking the involuntary muscle contractions more carefully this time. Once pointed out, they became impossible to miss. Her eyes widened.
“Oh,” she whispered.
Jack shook his head. “The girlfriend said he’d had fly symptoms all week.”
“Which probably weren’t flu symptoms.” You looked almost delighted now that the pieces had clicked together. “They were side effects.”
Dennis still looked unconvinced. “Serotonin syndrome doesn’t usually progress this fast.”
“Correct.” You lifted your cane toward him approvingly. “Good. Gold start for blondie over here.” Your expression sharpened again. “So, he mixed something with it; cold medicine maybe; dextromethorphan likely. Idiot probably took half a bottle trying to self-medicate while already maxed out on SSRIs.”
Trinity stared at you. “That explains literally everything.”
“No,” you corrected casually. “It explains most things. The bleeding means his body’s currently trying to deep fry his internal organs.”
“Cyproheptadine,” Jack ordered immediately. “Cooling blankets, and someone call toxicology now.”
Samira looked downright stunned. “You figured that out in under two minutes.”
You shrugged lightly. “Three, technically. I spent at least one minute sexually objectifying your attending.”
Jack let out a tired laugh, immediately regretting it when you looked absolutely delighted by the reaction.
“Aha!” you pointed out. “I was worried you stopped liking me.”
“I never said I liked you.”
“You looked at my mouth for a full ten seconds while I was talking earlier. That’s gotta mean something!”
Another choking sound erupted from Dennis in the background. Samira outright turned away to hide her smile after she glanced toward Jack for a moment too long, something you’d caught right away. Your eyes moved slowly between the two of them.
“Oh,” you said softly.
Jack pointed right at you, hazel eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”
“You two would be unbelievably hot together.”
Robby physically grabbed your coffee cup out of your hand before you could continue. “Okay. Great work. Now time to leave.”
“I’m just making an observation, Robert.”
“You’re making a hostile work environment.”
Against your best wishes, you allowed him to steer you toward the door anyway, leaning heavily onto your cane as you walked. Your limp looked more pronounced now that the adrenaline had worn off slightly, through you still carried yourself with irritating confidence. As you walked through the threshold, your face turned so you could look up at Robby.
“Oh, I get it now. You’re keeping all the hot people for yourself, Robert. Shame on you.”
_______________________
By the end of the shift, the hallways had finally been emptied out, the waiting room had thinned, the rooms were being cleaned instead of actively flooding with incoming patients. Nurses moved slower now, drained enough that nobody bothered pretending otherwise anymore. The panic that had consumed the Pitt for most of the night had dulled to a low roar.
Samira stood at the nurses’ station finishing charting she’d been too busy to touch for the last three house. Her eyes burned from staring at monitors all night, and there was dried blood near the cuff of her sleeve she still hadn’t noticed.
A few feet away, Jack leaned against the counter reviewing discharge paperwork with the same tired concentration he brought to everything. His forearms leaned against the counter with all his weight behind it. His hands displayed the faint marks left behind by snapped gloves and hurried handwashing throughout the night.
Samira though he looked absolutely handsome despite the deep lines in his face that seemed more chiseled with exhaustion these past few days than they had been. The realization annoyed her almost as much as the fact that she was apparently not being subtle about her staring anymore.
She closed the chart in front of her. “So,” she said carefully, loud enough for Jack to here that she was speaking to him. “What exactly is her deal?”
Jack didn’t even glance up. “That narrows it down to absolutely nothing. Everything’s her deal.”
Samira smiled softly. “The flirting, mostly.”
Jack set his paperwork down slowly, studying her expression with a careful softness. “Did she make you uncomfortable?”
The concern in her voice was genuine enough to make her soften. “No,” she answered honestly. “Actually . . . weirdly not.”
Jack looked surprised.
Samira leaned back against the counter, considering her next words meticulously. “I mean, objectively, HR should probably sedate her. But it was kind of . . . endearing?
Jack barked a tired laugh. “That’s definitely not the word most people use.”
“She doesn’t seem mean about it.”
“No,” he admitted after a moment. “She’s not.”
There was something familiar layered in his answer, almost close to affection hidden under exasperation.
“She does it with you a lot?”
He gave her a deeply unimpressed look. “Constantly.”
“And you survive it?”
“Barely.”
She smiled again, glancing briefly at the computer before looking back up at him. “Okay, but seriously. Dr. Robby called her like she was some kind of Pitt cryptid.”
“Because she basically is.” He straightened away from the counter slightly, folding his arms in such a way Samira’s gaze lingered for a brief second. “She’s the hospital’s diagnostic specialist,” he explained. “Technically, she’s attached upstairs to the actual hospital, but administration mostly unleashes her on ER cases no one else can solve.”
“Because she solved that in, what, two minutes?”
“Closer to one if we’re being technical.”
Samira blinked.
Jack nodded toward the now-empty room three. “She’s a genius. Annoyingly, horrifyingly brilliant. Used to work emergency medicine before her accident.”
Samira’s gaze dropped toward the memory of your cane clicking against the tile. “Her leg?”
“Yeah.” His expression shifted into something a bit more serious. “She was in a car accident during her residency. Underwent multiple surgeries; nerve damage never healed correctly. She refused amputation, so they reconstructed her leg as best they could.”
“And she still works like that?”
“She works worse than that<’ he corrected dryly. “Earlier was actually her during a good day.”
Samira frowned slightly. “That can’t be healthy.”
“No,” Jack agreed. “It’s not.”
His answer held no hesitation, and that told her more than he probably intended too. Under his irritation and sarcasm and eye-rolling every time Robby said your name during the rest of the shift, his eyes held a concern there too, and it was deep enough that Samira was able to pick up on a few things.
“Oh,” she said slowly, eyes softening as she looked at him.
He looked wary. “What?”
“You two definitely have something going on there.”
“What? No.”
“Jack.”
“There’s nothing going on.”
She tilted her head slightly, totally unconvinced. “You let he tell you she mentally undressed you in front of three residents and Robby.”
“First of all, I don’t let her do anything. She does when she wants to.”
“You blushed.”
“I absolutely did not.”
“You absolutely did. It was cute.”
Jack opened his mouth to argue further before stopping himself halfway through, which only made Samira laugh quietly. The sound drew his eyes back toward her again, and his features softened.
“You weren’t bothered by it?” he asked again, more quietly this time.
Samira understood the actual question beneath that one.
Would it bother you if there really was something there?
She held his gaze for longer than necessary before shrugging lightly. “I mean if there were something going on . . .” A small smile pulled briefly at the corner of her mouth. “I don’t think I’d mind.”
The silence afterward lasted exactly two seconds.
“Well, that’s convenient.”
Both of them turned like they’d been caught hand-deep in a cookie jar before dinner.
You stood several feet away near the end of the counter, one hand resting atop your cane while the other held a patient chart apparently neither of them had noticed you returning. Your blazer hung loose over one shoulder again, hair slightly messier than before, exhaustion written clearly into the curve of your spine.
But your grin looked positively evil.
Jack stared at you with wide eyes. “How long have you been standing there?”
You considered the question thoughtfully. “Long enough to become emotionally invested.”
Samira looked away, mortified by the heat blooming under her cheeks.
“Oh, she blushes,” you murmured approvingly.
Jack said your name flatly. “Please leave.”
“Can’t. Hospital needs me.” You limped closer to the desk enough to drop the chart onto the counter between them. “Turns out I’m the only thing preventing upstairs from becoming a very expensive funeral home.”
“You are absolutely impossible.”
“And yet,” you replied casually, eyes glancing slowly between him and Samira again, “you’re both still looking at me like that.”
When neither of them answered, your grin widened. “This is very fun for me. I hope you two know that.”
Jack rubbed a tired hand over his face. “You need supervision.”
“No. What I need is eight hours of sleep, and someone to kiss me against a supply closet.” Your eyes drifted meaningfully toward the two of them. “Preferably simultaneously, if we’re up for brainstorming.”
Samira made a strangled sound somewhere between a laugh and complete psychological collapse while Jack briefly stunned into silence at the sheer audacity of the statement. You, meanwhile, looked deeply pleased with yourself.
You adjusted your grip on your cane and started hobbling backward toward the elevators.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Halfway there, you glanced back one final time.
“Oh,” you added conversationally, “and Jack?”
He looked up despite himself.
“If you keep staring at my mouth every time I flirt with her, eventually I’m going to start charging you for the show.”
Samira nearly chocked, and Jack went completely red.
You, on the other hand, smirked once before turning smoothly on your cane, disappearing toward the elevators while the sound of your cackles echoed faintly down the hallway behind you.
↳ ꒰ even now, you’re undressed in your dreams with me. ꒱
# 𝐒𝐘𝐏𝐍𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐒 — you realize you’ve been into your college bff turned coworker for years now. you think it’s gonna be an issue, so you end up switching to night shift. upon working with your night attending, you also realize you really like him too. you also see his tension with the girl your infatuated with. what you don’t seem to realize is that they both really like you, too.
↳ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 — age gap but reader doesn’t have a specified age other than it being close to samira’s, swearing, shenanigans and pining, reader fell first & mohabbot fell harder, gn!reader, some written parts, no smut but it’s a little suggestive, reader is a 2nd year resident & went to college with mohan, friends to lovers, enemies to lovers, coworkers to lovers, forced proximity, jack abbot thinks he can handle that (reader) but he can’t, more to be added later.
# 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 — divider credits to @cursed-carmine. i lowkey started this because im very very interested with jack abbot but there is not NEARLY enough samira mohan fics and i also really like their dynamic so she’s also here.
1. coffee smell and lilac skin
2. i’m a stranger in this town
3. everybody here thinks he needs you
4. you’re free with me
5. i know everybody here wants you - written, 1k words
