like sugar on my tongue
pairing: jack abbot x reader summary: mdni, army vet!reader, army inaccuracies, drinking, p in v, anal fingering, aftercare, munch!abbot, jack loves consent, pan!reader, use of y/n dr. robby invites everyone out for drinks on your night off, and you accept without thinking twice. it’s harmless, just a night to unwind with the pitt crew. what you don’t expect is the way the night shifts, how one drink turns into too many, and how you end up somewhere you never planned to be. specifically: underneath dr. jack abbot. ao3
Your phone buzzed incessantly on your kitchen counter as you tried to enjoy your first real day off in two weeks. You'd been planning to do absolutely nothing. Maybe catch up on sleep, definitely avoid thinking about work or Parker and the complicated knot of feelings that had taken up residence in your chest.
But the Pittsburgh Trauma Center group chat had other ideas.
You grabbed your phone, watching the messages fly by in rapid succession. Dr. Robby was organizing drinks at a bar some of them had been to before. You found yourself smiling at the chaos of it and at the fact that you'd been included at all. It had been a long time since you'd felt like part of something, since you'd had people who might actually become friends rather than just colleagues you nodded at in passing.
Before you could overthink it, you typed out that you were down to go.
The bar was exactly the kind of place you'd expect a bunch of medical professionals to frequent. Dim lighting that was easy on perpetually exhausted eyes and a decent beer selection. When you walked in just after 9, you spotted the group immediately, clustered around a few tables they'd pushed together near the back.
"Look who actually showed up!" Whitaker called out, raising his beer in salute. "Thought you night shift people were allergic to social interaction."
"Only with day shift," you shot back with a grin, and the table erupted in giggles.
You made your rounds, greeting everyone, shaking hands and exchanging hugs with a few day shift people whose names you were still learning. Dr. Robby introduced you to a couple of the day shift residents, they were bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in a way that made you feel ancient despite only being a few years older. You made polite conversation, but you felt yourself gravitating toward the night shift crew. You wanted to chill with the people you actually knew, who'd seen you at your best and worst during those long overnight hours.
You scanned the crowd quickly looking for Dr. Jack Abbot. You knew he had tonight off too, and there was something comforting about the idea of having at least one person here you could really talk to. But he hadn't arrived yet, and the mild social anxiety you'd been trying to ignore started creeping up your spine.
You excused yourself and headed to the bar, sliding onto a stool and catching the bartender's attention. "Lemon drop, please."
While you waited, you let your eyes drift over the crowd. Santos was holding court at one end of the table, telling some story that had everyone leaning in. God, she was fucking hot, all sharp edges and sharper wit, the kind of woman who could probably kill you with a look. She was also a little scary, if you were being honest. You'd seen her tear into a cocky surgical resident last week, and it had been both terrifying and impressive. You shook the thought out of your head. You were already tangled up with Parker. You didn't need to complicate things further by developing a crush on another coworker.
The bartender set your drink down, and you took a sip, the sweet-sour combination making you pucker slightly. The lemon drop brought you comfort for a few moments. You tilted your head back to take the last of it, letting the alcohol warm your chest and ease the anxiety, when you felt a presence behind you.
"What are you drinking?"
You turned to find Jack Abbot at your elbow, grinning that easy grin that had probably gotten him out of trouble more times than he could count.
"Lemon drop," you said, setting the empty glass down.
He raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? You seem more like a whiskey person."
"That's because you don't know me as well as you think you do," you said, your tone playful. "And, whiskey gives me heartburn."
"Fair enough," Jack laughed. "I'll get the next round. Can't have you drinking alone."
Jack shifted closer as he flagged down the bartender, the crisp bite of his cologne cutting through the warm, noisy haze of the bar. The room buzzed with coworkers unwinding from a long week, a peds nurse shouting across a table, residents arguing about the worst rotation this week.
The next few hours passed in a blur of easy conversation and steadily increasing inebriation. You and Jack ended up at one end of the table, your heads bent close together, talking about everything and nothing. It started innocently enough. You were comparing notes on the best and worst shifts you'd had so far and complaining about the new charting system that seemed designed to waste as much time as possible.
But then Jack mentioned he'd done two tours in Afghanistan, and suddenly you were talking about things you rarely discussed with anyone.
"Where were you stationed?" he asked, and when you told him, his eyes lit up with recognition. "No shit. I was at Bagram for my second tour. When were you there?"
The conversation flowed easily after that. Shared experiences, even more shared frustrations, the kind of dark humor that only made sense to people who'd been there. You found yourself laughing in a way you hadn't in months. The tactical stoicism you usually wore like armor fell away, and you were just; yourself.
"Try this," you said, sloppily pushing your lemon drop across the table, the glass nearly tipping before Jack caught it. "You'll love it."
Jack took a sip, his expression transforming from skeptical to delighted. "Oh, that's dangerous."
"Right?"
"I'm getting us another round of these." Jack said, flagging down the bartender.
You couldn't help but notice the way Jack's eyes kept drifting to your lips when you puckered them from the sourness of the drink. It was subtle, a flicker of something that made heat pool inside you despite the voice in your head reminding you about Parker.
"You know what I miss most?" Jack said, already a little loose from the alcohol. "The clarity. Everything was so simple over there. You knew who the good guys were, who the bad guys were, what your mission was. Here, it's all... complicated."
"Yeah," you agreed, understanding exactly what he meant. "Everything's gray."
"Exactly." He leaned back in his chair, studying you. "You get it. Most people don't get it."
You were definitely losing count of how many drinks you'd had, because the lemon drops at this bar tasted amazing. They were perfectly balanced, not too sweet, just sour enough to make you want another one. Jack was keeping pace with you, and somewhere around drink four or five, you both stopped pretending you were going to slow down.
Jack was actually really funny, and he was a yapper. You'd noticed that about him during night shifts in the way he could fill a silence with stories and observations, the way he actually listened when you talked instead of just waiting for his turn to speak. But seeing him out in a social setting, he was in his element.
At one point, his hand brushed against yours as he reached for his drink, the touch light enough to play off as accidental but lingering just a second too long to be coincidence. His scruffy jeans grazed your knees every time he shifted in his seat, the rough denim sending tiny sparks through your skin. And when he jokingly called himself your “oomfie,” you snorted and reached out to swat his arm. Leaving your hand there a beat longer than necessary. Jack didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned in, that warm grin stretching wider like he was filing the moment away.
The day shift people started filtering out around midnight, citing early morning shifts and responsible adult decisions. Dr. Robby paused by your table, keys in hand, looking at you and Jack with an expression that was half-amused, half-concerned. He’d stopped drinking a while back, so he was everyone’s unofficial designated driver.
"Hey, you two staying, or do you need a ride home?"
You looked at Jack, who looked at you, and you both started laughing. That kind of drunk laughter that was probably way funnier to you than it was to anyone else.
"We're staying," you said in unison, which only made you laugh harder.
Robby shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. "Your funeral. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
"That's a pretty low bar, Robby," Jack called after him. "I've seen your Tinder profile!"
"Fuck off, Abbot!" Robby shot back, but he was grinning.
Closing time came too quickly. You and Jack stumbled out into the cool Pittsburgh air, both of you far drunker than you'd intended to get, leaning on each other for support as much as companionship.
"My place is close," Jack said, and you nodded, because going home alone to your empty apartment suddenly seemed unbearable.
The walk to Jack's apartment was a blur of laughter and stumbling steps, his arm around your waist, yours slung over his shoulders.
"Watch the step," Jack said as he fumbled with his keys, and you both nearly went down in a tangle of limbs that sent you into another fit of giggles.
"Oh my god, we're a mess," you laughed, steadying yourself against the doorframe.
"The best kind of mess," he said with a grin, finally getting the door open.
His apartment was neat, organized in that military way you recognized immediately. But you barely had time to take it in before he was pulling you close, his hands grabbing your hips.
"This okay?" he asked, his voice dropping to that gravelly tone that sent heat pooling low in your belly again.
"Yeah," you breathed.
The kiss started soft, tentative, but quickly deepened into something hungry and desperate. His hands slid up your back, pulling you closer, and you went willingly, your fingers tangling in his hair. He tasted like lemon drops and want, and you couldn't get enough.
You stumbled backward together, giggling against each other's mouths when you nearly tripped over his coffee table. "Smooth," you teased.
"Shut up," he laughed, steering you toward the bedroom instead. "I'm trying to be sexy here."
"You're doing great, soldier," you teased, and then you were falling onto his bed together, the world tilting pleasantly from the alcohol and desire.
Jack caught himself above you, his weight pressing you into the mattress in a way that made you gasp. "God," he groaned against your mouth, his hips rolling against yours.
You arched up into him, wanting to be as close to him as possible. Your hands found the hem of his shirt, sliding underneath to feel the planes of his stomach. He grunted, his hips grinding down harder, and you moaned at the delicious pressure.
"Jack," you breathed, your head falling back as he kissed down your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point. "Fuck."
He pulled back slightly, his eyes dark with desire as they roamed over you. "Can I taste you?" His voice was pure gravel now, dominant and hungry. "I want to make you come on my tongue."
You let out a breathless giggle that turned into a moan. "God, yes. Please."
His hands were reverent as he helped you out of your clothes and underwear, and then he was settling between your thighs, his breath hot against your skin.
"So beautiful," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh.
The first touch of his tongue on your soaked core made you cry out, your hands finding his curls, gripping tight. He groaned against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body, and then he was devouring you like a man starved. "Oh fuck," you gasped, your hips rolling against his face. "Mmm, Jack, that's–oh god"
He encouraged your movements, his hands gripping your thighs, holding you open for him as he worked you higher and higher. His tongue circled your swollen clit before dipping lower, tasting you thoroughly, and you couldn't stay still, couldn't do anything but chase the pleasure building inside you.
"Jack," you moaned, your fingers tightening in his hair. "Don't stop, please don't stop."
Just when you thought you might come apart, he pulled back, wiping his face, and you whimpered at the loss. But then his hands were on your hips, strong and sure.
"Turn over for me," he commanded, his voice rough with desire. "On your hands and knees. Come to the edge of the bed."
You obeyed, your body thrumming with anticipation as you positioned yourself on all fours at the edge of the mattress. You heard the rustle of fabric as he stood behind you, the clink of his belt, and then his hands were on your hips again, positioning you exactly where he wanted you.
"Fuck, look at you," he groaned, and you could hear the awe in his voice. "So perfect like this."
You felt him line himself up, and then he was pushing inside you slowly, giving you time to adjust. Fucking lemon drops you think to yourself. The angle was incredible and you gasped as he filled you completely.
"You okay?" he asked, his hands gentle on your hips despite the tension you could feel in his body.
"Yes," you breathed. "God, yes. Move, please."
He started slow, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, and the sensation made you moan. From this angle, standing behind you, he had perfect leverage, perfect control, and he used it to devastating effect.
"That's it," he growled, his pace increasing. "Take it. You feel so fucking good."
Every thrust hit that perfect spongy spot inside you, sending sparks of pleasure through your entire body. You could hear the slap of skin on skin, your own breathless moans, Jack's rough breathing behind you. The smell of his cedar and sandalwood cologne surrounded you, mixing with the scent of sex and sweat.
"Fuck, Jack," you gasped, your arms trembling as you tried to hold yourself up. "Right there, oh god, right the—"
"Here?" he asked, angling his hips slightly, and you nearly screamed.
"Yes! Fuck, yes, don't stop."
He didn't. His pace was relentless now, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks, the other sliding around to find your clit. The dual sensation was overwhelming, pleasure building and building until you thought you might explode.
"You're close," he said, and it wasn't a question. "I can feel you. You gonna come for me, baby?"
"Yes, Jack" you whimpered, your whole body trembling.
"Can I try something?" His voice was strained, like he was barely holding on to his control. "Do you trust me?"
"Yes," you gasped without hesitation.
You felt him shift slightly, and then there was pressure at your other entrance, his thumb slick with something as it pressed gently against you. "Breathe, solider" he commanded, and you followed orders, and then his thumb was sliding inside, just to the first knuckle, and the sensation combined with everything else sent you flying over the edge.
Your orgasm crashed through you in waves, your whole body convulsing as pleasure overwhelmed every sense. You heard yourself crying out Jack's name, felt him still thrusting into you, prolonging your climax until you thought you might pass out from the intensity.
"Fuck, I'm gonna—" Jack's voice was wrecked, and then he was pulling out quickly, and you felt the hot splash of his release on your back. You collapsed forward onto the bed, boneless and satisfied, your heart pounding. Jack disappeared for a moment, then returned with a warm washcloth, gently cleaning you up with a tenderness that made your chest ache.
"You okay?" he asked softly, helping you turn over and pulling you into his arms.
"More than okay," you managed, your voice hoarse. "That was amazing.”
"Yeah," he agreed, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "It really was."
You lay there together in his bed, his weight a comfort against you. The alcohol was still buzzing through your system, making everything feel soft and hazy and perfect. You knew you'd probably regret this in the morning, knew it complicated everything with Parker, but right now, wrapped in Jack's arms, you couldn't bring yourself to care.
Jack woke to his phone buzzing on the nightstand. He fumbled for it, squinting at the too-bright screen. 6:00 AM. A text from Dr. Robby lit up the display.
Jack stared at the messages, then at you sleeping peacefully beside him, your hair spread across his pillow, your face soft and unguarded in sleep. He ran a hand over his face, wondering what the hell he was going to do about the bet that was looming over night shift like a storm cloud. He slipped out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake you, and headed to the kitchen to make breakfast.
You woke to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows and a headache that felt like divine punishment. For a moment, you couldn't remember where you were, but then the memories came flooding back—Jack's laugh, the drinks, his mouth, the easy way you'd fallen into bed together, the way it had felt both completely wrong and entirely right.
You sat up slowly, taking in Jack's bedroom. On the nightstand next to you was an ice-cold water bottle and a packet of Liquid IV, positioned like an oasis in the desert of your hangover. Beside it, was your phone. You reached for your phone, and your stomach dropped.
Two missed calls from Parker. And a text: you went home with Jack last night???
Fuck.
The smell of coffee and bacon drifted in from the kitchen, and you heard Jack moving around, the clink of dishes, the sizzle of something cooking. You pulled on your clothes from last night and padded out to find him at the stove, looking far more put-together than anyone had a right to after the amount you'd both drunk.
"Good morning," he said, glancing over his shoulder with an easy smile. "Hope you like your eggs scrambled."
And fertilized, you thought, then immediately wanted to smack yourself. Your brain supplied an unwanted image of what every morning could look like with Jack making you breakfast. His easy smile, the domesticity of it all, the way he moved around the kitchen like he knew exactly what he was doing.
You snapped out of it. "I hope last night wasn't weird," you blurted out, because apparently your hangover had destroyed whatever filter you normally possessed.
Jack turned off the burner and turned to face you fully, spatula still in hand, his expression easy and relaxed. "I was thinking the same thing. Look, we're both adults. We had fun. Who cares?" He shrugged, setting the spatula down and leaning against the counter. " No weirdness, no expectations. We're good."
The relief that washed over you was almost physical. "Yeah. Good. Professional."
"I should probably tell you something," you said, accepting the plate of eggs and bacon he handed you. The smell made your stomach growl despite the hangover. "I'm seeing someone. It's not serious or anything, but I didn't mention it last night and I wanted you to know."
Something flickered across Jack's face—surprise, maybe, or disappointment, or both but it was gone in an instant, replaced by that same easy smile. "No problem. I appreciate you telling me. We're good."
But inside, Jack's mind was racing. He should tell you. Right now. He should tell you about the bet, about how it had started before anyone even knew you, before you were a real person to them with feelings and complications and a life outside the ED. How it was supposed to be harmless speculation that had spiraled into something with nearly $600 in the pot. How people were changing their bets weekly, how the list kept growing, how it had taken on a life of its own.
How Parker was part of it too.
The words were right there, sitting on his tongue. There's something you should know. The night shift has this stupid betting pool about your sexuality.It wasn't meant to hurt you. It started as a joke and got out of hand. I should have shut it down. I should have told you weeks ago.
But looking at you now, standing in his kitchen with bedhead and yesterday's clothes, holding a plate of eggs he'd made you, looking vulnerable in a way he'd never seen you look at work. He couldn't do it. He couldn't be the one to fuck up whatever trust you'd placed in him by coming home with him last night. He couldn't watch your face close off, watch you rebuild those walls you'd let down.
He'd let this morning be perfect and pure. He'd tell you later. Soon. Just... not now.
"Coffee?" he offered instead, and you nodded gratefully.
You ate breakfast together at his small kitchen table, and the conversation was easier than it had any right to be. He told you about the time he'd accidentally given a patient the wrong discharge instructions and they'd come back thinking they needed to take their medication rectally. You told him about a particularly disastrous field operation in Afghanistan that had somehow ended with an entire unit covered in purple dye. You laughed together, and for a moment, you could almost forget about the complications waiting for you outside this apartment.
When you finally headed home an hour later, stomach full and headache slightly improved thanks to the Liquid IV, you told yourself that everything would be fine.
You told yourself that what Parker didn't know wouldn't hurt her.
You told yourself that it had just been one night, a mistake born of too much alcohol and too much loneliness, too much connection with someone who understood parts of you that most people couldn't.
But as you head home through the mid-morning Pittsburgh traffic, your phone heavy in your pocket with Parker's unanswered text burning a hole through the fabric, you couldn't shake the feeling that you'd just made everything infinitely more complicated.
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