out in the cold — jack abbot x reader
You experience a sub drop after hooking up with a date. Dr Abbot takes care of you.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader Word count: 9.5k+ Tags: Requited unrequited love; Dom/sub dynamics; Sub drop; Subspace; Soft Dom Jack Abbot; Assumed sexual assault (it never happened); Reader has tattoos; Reader is multilingual; Negative self talk; implied Bad BDSM etiquette (from previous partner); AFAB reader; NSFW content (Oral sex, Fingering, P in V sex). Credits: PSD colouring by gloomglimmer. Template inspired by louestat. Textures by cavalierfou. Notes: Title is from Hadestown’s All I’ve Ever Known. Consider it the 1 song playlist to this fic/series. Probably inaccurate sub drop/subspace experience but fuck it, we ball. Abbot also thinks that you were SA’d but it didn’t happen so tread carefully if that’s a trigger for you.
Cross posted to AO3.
Part 1 | Blurb 1 | Part 2 | Blurb 2 | Series tag.
You hand him the wrong sized needle.
“14 gauge,” Jack snaps.
You blink, hard. Frowning. How the Hell did you mess that up? You swap out the needles, uttering a quick sorry.
Head in the fucking game, you tell yourself. Eyes on the target—you cannot fuck up in the middle of a procedure. Just because some guy can’t be bothered calling you back? People are literally dying in the walls of the hospital. You cannot afford to be so vapid that you’re more worried about unread text messages and zero call backs.
You refuse to fail anywhere else, hovering, anticipating the doctors’ needs before they verbalise it. This is what makes you valuable to the team. They’ve said it again and again—they need more nurses like you.
And especially in front of Jack. You admire him—respect him a lot. You never wanted to be a doctor, but you love working as a nurse. With him. Being useful to him and the night shift.
“Swap out with Tim in Trauma 1,” Jack says, eyes darting to you.
“You got it, boss.” You don’t even try to argue with what you think is his judgement call of getting you out of his way. Making you someone else’s problem.
The thing was, he noticed. Of course he fucking noticed. Nothing happened in the ED, to his staff, without his knowledge. It was his job as an attending to ensure he was on top of it.
He noticed it in your docile greeting, normally a little more upbeat. He noticed it in the questioning look that Parker shot him when you were quieter than usual, citing the fact that you were tired. When Shen picked up on your dour mood, offering some coffee that you flatly dismissed, telling him you weren’t in the mood. For coffee, or for him; you left it up to interpretation.
It was downright rude. Rude and you didn’t go together. It was why they liked having you on night shift.
It worries him. The not knowing. The questioning. The way everyone looks to him for answers and he can’t provide them. You’re usually the kind one, the one that’s happy to help. But today, there’s a cloud hanging over you. Something bogging you down.
“What’s going on?” Shen whispers, nodding his chin towards you. You’re at the desk in central, blankly staring at the screen more so than typing the notes you should be inputting.
“Don’t know,” Jack confesses, and he hates that he doesn’t know. So much for being the one that protects the hive. As much as he makes himself the reliable one that everyone, especially his night shift team, can depend on, someone always falls through the cracks. “Been weird all day.”
“There you are,” Lena says, walking up to lean against the desk. Hovering over you. “We need you in central 8. Patient barely speaks English. Wanna see if you know what language she knows?”
You shoot her a clearly unimpressed look. “Right, because I must speak every language under the sun,” you bite out.
Lena pauses, eyes narrowed at you. “Are you—?”
“Hey.” Jack steps in, frowning. Not that he thinks it’ll escalate into a fight, but he’d rather not entertain that possibility. Night shift was meant to be chill; have less personality clashes compared to day shifts. Less staff, as well, which was why it was essential everyone worked well within the team. “Lena asked for a favour.”
You look away from him, cowed. Chastised—again. “Central 8, yes sir.”
You scurry off to the patient in central 8—Indonesian, which happened to be a language that you taught yourself for the fun of it, years ago. This isn’t even the first time they’ve asked you to try and communicate with a patient in another language. Ridiculously, it’s the first time you’ve taken offence to it.
You and Princess have a bet on who could learn the most additional languages. It’s been a long 18 months since she and Perlah initiated the bet. You refuse to lose, and Princess is competitive. Between the two of you, you’ve got a conversational handle on a minimum of 15 languages right now. It’s circulated around the hospital like common knowledge at this point.
“Hey.” Lena follows you when you’re exiting the room. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to imply anything—”
“It’s okay,” you say, quick. You feel embarrassed by your earlier reaction. “Really. I’m sorry. I’m feeling really crabby today, and I took it out on you. I’m really sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.” You’re absently massaging the back of your neck in a self-soothing fashion, and it’s the only reason she sees.
“Whoa,” Lena gasps. “Hey, did someone hurt you?” Ever the medical professional, she steps close, reaching.
Really, it’s on you. The bodily flinch before she makes contact with your shoulder. You both know she’s done it before—calming, gentle touches. Reassuring. Maternal. Her and Dana, mother henning the hospital when they step into the role of the respective shift’s charge nurse. You’ve always accepted those.
Except this time, your skin feels like it’s burning and itching at the same time.
She stares at you.
You feel frozen, heart thudding too fast in your chest. A dramatic reaction to a familiar touch. A mountain out of a mole hill.
“Hey—” Lena starts, softer. Like you’re a wounded animal in need of comfort.
“South 16’s opened.” Jack’s voice, clear and sharp.
You wince, pivoting to the side, where his eyes are on you. “I don’t need—”
“Get in there.” And his tone brooks no room for argument. “Now.”
With a sigh, you march yourself into south 16. Jack follows after a few minutes, no doubt gathering whatever supplies he thinks he needs. Door closed, curtain drawn.
You’re both silent, waiting for the other to cave. You’re perched on the edge of the bed. He’s standing by the door.
He breaks first. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”
“Nothing’s going on.”
His jaw clenches. Takes a seat on the stool. Wheels it to the foot of the bed. “I need to see how bad it is,” he says, carefully. Like he’s actively choosing every word.
“Nothing’s bad. Nothing hurts.”
Which, apparently, is the wrong thing to say, based on the breath released between his teeth. Maybe the right thing would have been to deny any source of pain.
He says your name, eyes analytical as he studies you. Something in his face softens. Pushing the stool back. “Would you be more comfortable if I got Dr Ellis or Lena to do the examination?”
You frown. “What examination?” You look—really look, this time—at the supplies he brought in. One of them is a white cardboard box, Sexual Assault Evidence Kit printed in bold letters among other black ink. You’ve catalogued enough of them to know you’re not mistaking it for any other kit. Have done a few on patients as well.
“I’m not—this, this wasn’t—” You take in a breath. Eyes boring into Jack’s, trying to impart the determination of your next words. “It was consensual.”
It’s silent in the room, with the door closed. With neither of you speaking. Jack doesn’t move; you barely breathe.
“Are you sure?” he asks, finally.
“Yes.”
“Okay.” And just like that, the weighted worry drops. He’s still concerned, of course. As soon as Lena had asked if someone had hurt you, everything in his mind jumped to a horrifying conclusion. He’s glad their shared assumptions aren’t correct. In his relief, he’s forgotten about your other symptoms—the moody countenance. “Can I still check you over? For my peace of mind?”
“Sure,” you sigh out. Shuffling further on the bed, back turned towards him, shucking your scrub top, then turtleneck beneath it. You know where the worst of it is.
“Jesus, kid,” he hisses. With you turned away, you don’t see the way his jaw ticks, compelling his fingers to unfurl from taut fists. He forces his attention to remain on the bruises and red wounds, and not the black lines of intricate artwork sprawling further down your back. Accentuating the lines of your body.
You hear the snap of the disposable blue gloves.
“It looks worse than it is,” you say.
“Bruising looks like it’s at least a day old.” His voice is clipped. Tight. Overcorrecting professionalism into cold and distant.
They must be purpling by now, you assume. “It’s been—uh, since Saturday night.”
You feel the cool swab of antiseptic on the bruises; the bite marks, the scratches.
“You know,” Jack says, and you feel his warm breath fan across your bare skin. That, alone, makes you shiver. “Even if you changed your mind part way through, it’s still sexual assault.”
You shoot a look over your shoulder at him.
He attempts a poker face. Do not react.
“I didn’t change my mind,” you say, firm. You turn back to face the wall. Stare down at the bed beneath you. “It’s—” And maybe it’s easier to admit when you don’t have to look at him. “I wanted it to hurt. For him to be rough.”
Jack breathes in. Do not react. He’s a doctor. He’s also tended to previous partners like this before. His own wife, even. Clinical hands; he’s seen this before. He cannot treat this like a new thing, just because it’s you.
“Where’d you even find the guy?” He doesn’t know why he’s asking. To twist the knife lodged between the fourth and fifth ribs, maybe.
“On an app.”
“What? Just a random dating one?”
“No. It’s—you know, specifically for hook ups of the non-vanilla kind.”
“The what kind?”
Oh my God, he’s going to make you say it outloud. Gaze resolutely stuck on the creases of the white, sterile bedsheets. “The kinky kind.”
A pause. “They have those, now?”
You can almost hear the beginnings of a ‘back in my day’ spiel. And isn’t that a thought? Dr Jack Abbot searching for his own BDSM partners—in his youth, maybe. You don’t want to think about his exploits in his current era. You’re already topless in front of him. You cannot bare yourself to him any more than this.
“Yeah,” you chuckle, a little breathlessly. Get it together. You can’t get all giggly in front of your boss. “They do, grandpa.”
“Hey. Careful now,” he remarks, amused. Something loosens in his chest, allowing him to breathe easier. It’s probably the first time he’s heard you express something akin to a laugh during this shift. He doesn’t realise how much he missed that today; how much he needs it to carry him through.
The ED can be a harrowing place, but it’s a lot less dark with you by his side.
You hum, letting the silence relax you. It must be past 3 AM, you think. There’s always that patchy, tranquil moment after the sporadic rush between midnight and 3 AM.
“So what?” he asks. Cotton swab dabbing ointment onto the wounds. “Your date just fell asleep and forgot to take care of you?”
You let out a huff, humourless. Head dipped. Embarrassed, again. It flushes down your neck. “He left as soon as he was done.”
Jack goes deathly still. The swab hovers, pinched tightly between his fingers. “What?”
“He, uh—left,” you sniff. Do not fucking cry over this. “And I’m pretty sure I got ghosted too, because I’ve been trying to—um, call him. Or text him. Which sucks, because, I…” You suck in a breath. “We took our time. Went on three separate dates before Saturday. Dinner. Movie. Museum. Four fucking months of talking and he dipped as soon as he got his dick wet.”
Jack is uncharacteristically silent over your shoulder.
You shuffle around, facing him.
He’s frowning. Lips downturned. Eyes stormy. Lines of his body wound tight. An older man outraged by the woes of modern dating, you assume.
“It’s fine,” you say, because you feel the sudden need to mollify that anger. To appease him. You try to covertly rub your eyes to wipe the tears that have collected. “Honestly, I’ve always been a bit bad about handling rejection, but I’m working on it.” It explains your shitty mood since Saturday. The dull awareness after he left.
Jack blinks, jaw unlatching at your words. Stares at you. “Is that what you think this is?” he asks, hollowly. “You feel hurt because of a little rejection?”
You make an obviously face. “I’ll feel better by next shift.”
“How much research did you do?”
“I read a few articles; people’s blog posts. There aren’t any peer reviewed journals on this.”
“I know,” he huffs out. He remembers his own reading journey, all those years back. “Did you read anything about dropping? Sub drops?”
Your forehead creases in thought. It sounds vaguely familiar. “Maybe?”
Jack doesn’t say anything, waiting.
You stare. The confusion eventually smooths out. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh,” he echoes. “You’re in a sub drop.”
You have been, since Saturday. That’s—mortifying, you think. Your kinky extracurricular affairs brought forefront and centre to your attending because you weren’t a good judge of character.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. Something humiliating thickens your throat; wells tears into your eyes. They avert from him, dropping somewhere low. “Fuck, I’m—I’m sorry.”
“Hey, it’s—hey. Look at me,” Jack says.
You’re not listening.
“Fuck. Hey. Hey, quit spiralling. Listen to me.” Jack yanks the gloves off his hands.
This is disgusting. You’re disgusting. This was something that was supposed to remain within your bedroom walls, far, far away from the hospital. Instead, you brought it right to the night shift’s front porch.
A rough palm slotted against your cheek.
The effects are near instantaneous—a shuddering inhale, a trembling whine. Glassy eyes shedding tears as they slide close. Cheek nuzzled against callused flesh.
His hand tipping your face upwards. “Open your eyes.”
And you do.
Shiny, blinking. Unfocused, then landing on him. Something registers, clicks in your mind. “Please,” you whisper. You don’t know what you’re asking for.
But he does. Something bittersweet in this throat. “I know,” he rasps. He wants this. Fulfilment delivered on a silver platter. But not like this. Not from someone else’s abymal attempts.
He’d seen the way you brightened when he passed by with a compliment. A well timed ‘great work in there’, and your shy smile followed him. Like a sunflower chasing the sun. Maybe it’s his ego stinging, now. Maybe it’s something else; something tender, something primal.
“I’m sorry,” you sniffle.
Jack hushes you. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” If he could get his hands on the man that called himself your date, he wishes for once, he could take back the sworn oath to do no harm.
“I’m sorry,” you say again.
He manoeuvres himself onto the bed. Pulls you into his lap, chests aligned. His arms encircle your waist, avoiding the bruises decorating your upper back. Settling on top of the tattoos. “Breathe with me,” he instructs.
So you do.
In and out. In and out. Inhale, exhale. Again and again.
Just until the dizziness fades a little. Until you feel like you have a few fingers back on the ledge.
“I’m sending you home,” Jack says.
“I don’t want—”
“Do not,” he demands, tense, “argue with me.”
Your mouth clicks shut. Face buried into the crook of his neck and shoulder. “Sorry,” you whisper.
“You go home,” he says, “you get yourself cleaned up. Eat. Rest. I’ll come by and take care of you when I’m done here.”
You suck in a breath. “No—”
“What did I just say about—”
A noise of complaint in the back of your throat, hand wrapped around his bicep, squeezing. “Red,” you utter.
It jolts him. Admittedly, it’s been a while, but the colours are ingrained in him as much as the safewords that he used. This isn’t a scene, but you’re so far down that you can’t tell.
“What?” he asks, around the thudding in his chest. He overstepped, somewhere. He doesn’t know you like this, can’t anticipate your needs like he would in the ED.
“I can’t,” you tell him, quiet. Small. “You can’t.”
“I can’t what?”
“Take care of me.”
Jack inhales gravel. Pissed off. “Did he tell you that? Is that why he left you alone?”
“No,” you say.
“Then what is it?” One of his hands lift from your waist, guiding your face away from where you’re hiding. Thumb brushes across tear stained cheek. “Talk to me,” he murmurs.
You peer down at him, positioned higher only because you’re straddling his thighs. You swallow against this heavy thing in your chest.
How do you even admit that the sole reason you started researching BDSM in the first place, is due to the man in front of you? Due to the way he doled out praises in the ED, unlocking something within you? You imagined it was him, pinning you down, hands around your neck, teeth sinking into skin, telling you to be good for him.
“I can’t have you mean nothing,” you whisper, eventually.
Jack swallows past the lump suddenly in his throat. “What does that mean?” A burgeoning of hope. “Sweetheart, what does that mean?” And maybe that’s the cruelty in him, a manipulative side that fools him into thinking that if he calls you as such, you can remain tucked inside his heart. Can convince you to stay there.
“You’re everything,” is all you say. Maybe it’s enough.
“Everything,” he repeats.
“Yes.”
Jack’s hand is a gentle thing against your cheek. No pressure, no guidance. Just slight pressure tracking your movements as you nose against his jaw. Scrape your skin against stubble.
His hand slides to the back of your scalp. “And that means I can’t take care of you?”
“Yes,” you say.
“Why?”
“I…” You’re not selecting words. Just trying to find them through the fog. “Because it’s only for today. Until I feel better.”
“And you don’t want that.”
“No.”
“What do you want?”
“Everything,” you say again. And your lips land on his pulse point, You feel it thrum. “With you.”
He doesn’t know how much of this is the drop. How much of this is you. All he knows is that you wouldn’t admit any of this if you were in the right mind.
Fingers flex at the roots of your hair. He tugs you up to look at him.
Your hips buck on their own accord. You keen, thighs tightening around him. Teary eyed.
His other hand against your waist digs in. Stopping your movements. “Fuck,” he swears, hoarse. “Sorry.”
“Feels good,” you murmur, reassuring.
He can’t do this. Here. While you’re like this. He needs you up and out of sub drop before he can have this conversation with you. But you don’t want his help unless he can promise you everything. He can only hope he knows what that means.
“Please,” you utter.
“I know,” Jack soothes. His hand braced against your cheek again.
You lean forward, weight against him. Lips almost on his.
His fingers lead you away. “No,” he murmurs, sandpaper in his throat.
You let out a cracked whine. He doesn’t want to kiss you.
“No,” he says, sharp, like he can see what conclusion you’re reaching. “Not yet.” His lips against your forehead. “Not here.”
Jack doesn’t know how long it takes. He can’t spend the whole shift in there with you, as much as he wants to.
The contact helps. His touches, the soft susurration aimed into the soft flesh of your neck. At some point, you’re coherent enough to be functional. Turtleneck and scrub top on.
Jack tells you to go home. You do.
Lena meets Jack’s gaze. Worried. Questioning.
He shakes his head. It wasn’t what she initially thought, but he’s still concerned. Not completely out of the woods yet.
The final two hours of his shift stretch. All he can think of is you. By the time he sees Robby, he feels dead on his feet.
“You good, brother?” Robby claps him on the shoulder, frowning.
“Long story,” Jack says, scrubbing at his face.
“Yeah? You don’t got time?”
“I gotta head out. John can hand off.”
“Seriously?” Robby blinks, surprised.
Jack’s never passed on a hand off before. But he feels like Shen was probably more present, anyway. Less distracted.
“Robby, my guy,” Shen says.
Robby fixes the other attending with a deeply unimpressed look. “John.”
“See you,” Jack says.
“I better get the short version some time,” Robby says.
“Me too!” John adds.
“You don’t even know what we were talking about…”
Their voices trail away as Jack walks. No rooftop. No drinks in the park. Just over to your apartment, the address memorised from your staff profile. Probably a privacy concern, but Lena turned the other way when he said he wanted to check on you.
You’re asleep on the couch when he comes. You were cogent enough to text him your apartment number and a picture of your welcome mat, letting him know your key was under there.
Not the most secure hiding place, but by the time he arrived, it was still there.
The back of his hand pressed against your forehead, taking your temperature. Fingers brush through your hair.
You stir. “Dr Abbot?” Spoken softly, eyelids heavy.
“Hey, kiddo.” He shifts, handing you your water bottle you’ve left on the coffee table.
You sip from it, blinking yourself awake. Scrubbing at bleary eyes. “Are you wearing shoes?” you ask around a yawn.
Jack blinks, not having expected your question. He looks down at the shoes he’s wearing—one on his foot, the other on his prosthesis. “Yeah.”
“Shoes off,” you say. “There are guest slippers in the bottom cubby hole.”
“Bottom cubby hole,” he repeats. More so to remember, than mock you.
“Please,” you add.
He rumbles a laugh before he follows your instructions. He takes out the ointment from his backpack before depositing it near the coat rack at the door. He shuffles back towards you, now clad in the slippers. “Did you eat yet?”
You hum your confirmation. “I have leftovers in the fridge. And I showered. You can use the shower too. Towels are in the cupboard in my room.”
“Alright. When I’m done, I’m going to check your back again.”
“Okay.”
He lingers. “How are you feeling?”
“Better.”
“Feeling like yourself?”
You think. “I don’t know.”
“Okay. That’s okay.”
When he’s done, you’ve relocated to your bedroom. It’s a strange situation for him to be in, invited into your apartment and encouraged to explore the place himself. Complete trust in someone else’s life.
He finds you curled under the soft blanket you have spread over your king single bed. Sprawled out, sleeping in a prone position. He pops his prothesis off.
Ointment in hand, he gently tugs the blanket down. Sees you in sleep shorts, no shirt on. The consideration of making your back easily accessible isn’t lost on him. He touches up the ointment while you remain asleep. Fingers applying pressure, massaging tense muscles even though you’re not awake for it. He feels you relax under his touch.
“What am I going to do with you?” he wonders aloud.
And he stays there, next to you, until he too, falls asleep.
When you wake up, you kind of forget what happened. It feels like a blur—something you could write off as a dream if you didn’t have any reminders. And in this moment, you don’t. Tiredly stumbling to the bathroom, then to your bedroom, wrapped in a towel.
You’re, somehow, too out of it to hear the noises in the kitchen. Once you’re in comfortable loungewear, you take your reusable water bottle with you. The intention is to fill it, grab some snacks, then head back into your room. Maybe pop on a show. Let your brain turn off.
“Hey.”
You startle, almost dropping the bottle. Pivoting to see Dr Jack Abbot in front of your stove. Cooking—something. Eggs, you think. It’s one of the things you always stock up in the fridge.
Yesterday in the hospital was not a dream. It was real. Very real. And he came to check in on you in your apartment. And stayed over.
“Hey. I…” you start. Trail off.
“Forgot?” Amusement lifting the corner of his lips. Trying to hide it for your sake.
“No,” you say, quick. You both know it’s a lie. Lips pressed into a line, heading to the water dispenser attached to the fridge to fill up your bottle.
Jack grins when you’re no longer looking at him. “Eat first.” The toaster pops with two slices. He’s made himself at home, studying your kitchen. Pantry, fridge, cupboard, drawers. He’s memorising the layout. Two plates, eggs, toast, slices of ham. You, apparently, didn’t have bacon. He searched.
Sitting at the tiny thing you call a dining table, Jack waits for you to tuck into your food. Despite the fact that you’re more lucid, he can tell you’re still off. As he eats, you’re not. Pushing food around. Tearing off pieces of your toast to nibble at.
Since Saturday, he remembers. Wonders if you treated all your meals like this before coming into the Pitt. You must have been running on fumes. Wonders how many times you’ve done this; if this is your first time, or just the first time it’s gone wrong.
Jack clears both the plates away. His empty; yours mostly full. Half your toast gone. He decides to glad-wrap yours, putting it in the fridge. Cleans his own plate in the sink, washing his hands after.
“You didn’t have to… be here,” you say. To stay. To make you food.
“I said I’d take care of you,” he responds, evenly. Leaning against the sink. Eyes on you.
And you both remember what happened after. What you said. Not unless you could have everything.
You feel—embarrassed. You meant it, of course you meant it. A stupid torch you’ve carried for two years. The humiliating realisation that it wasn’t going away. You tried to put those feelings onto someone else, tried to go out, go on dates. You were young. And yet.
The sinking knowledge that this wasn’t just some kind of silly crush born of proximity and praises.
“It’s not your responsibility,” you state. “You’re not my—” Mouth snapping shut, self-editing.
Even if you don’t finish it, the tilt of his head, the challenging tick of his eyebrow says he heard it. Arms crossing over his chest.
You can’t help the way your eyes fixate on the stretch of the short sleeves of his t-shirt around tensed biceps.
“I’m not your what?” Jack asks.
You clear your throat, moving to stand up. To get away, even if for a second. Even if he’s trying to do you a favour by being here.
“Stay down.”
You almost do. The chair scrapes backwards, instead. “Fuck off, Abbot,” you snarl, standing fully.
Hostility rearing its head again. Like with Lena, except this time, you’re not restraining yourself at an attempt at professional conduct. You’re biting. Pushing.
Jack knows there’s probably a few ways he can take this. Can respond. “Don’t do this.”
Gone is the sweet thing he held in his lap yesterday. Instead, you’re aching, scared of rejection and lashing out because of it.
“Quit patronising me. You’re not my—anything. And I’m not yours.”
His teeth scrape together, jaw squeezing. Jack knows this game. Can read you like a book. He can’t fall for the bait; if his temper wins, he proves you right.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, voice soft despite the urge to snap. He knows this is born of insecurity. One that was fed by some prick that abandoned you on Saturday. “I’m not like him—”
“Don’t,” you hiss out.
“—I’m not going to leave.”
It makes something ripple inside you. An age-old wound that tells you you’re unlovable. Something complicated passes over your face. You can’t decide if you want to believe him or squash it down. False hope.
Jack moves towards you. Three steps to close the distance between the sink and table.
Your eyes are wet, bright with tears. “Dr Abbot—”
“Jack,” he corrects. Chest twisting.
“Jack,” you say.
He nods, eyes darting between yours. Eye contact connoisseur. “Can you sit down?” He changes his approach. “Please?”
You do. Slipping into the dining chair. The backrest to your side. Legs facing him and not tucked under the table.
And Jack.
He sinks.
One of his knees makes contact with the floor. His other leg bent, foot on the ground. His hand resting on the flesh above your knee, balancing.
A tremulous breath releases from you. Shock. “What are you—?”
“You wanted everything,” Jack says. “Let me give you everything. Please.”
And hasn’t he been carrying a torch for you, too? Your first day with the night shift wasn’t anything special. It’s not that he was struck by you immediately—the consequences of being an attending physician, having a million things on his mind, and a hundred other things clamouring for his attention.
You were always quick. Responsive. Observant. At his elbow, two seconds before he asked, handing him everything he needed like you were a mind reader. It was fascinating, in a way.
He hadn’t even registered when the change happened. There was no adjustment period. One day you were that damn good nurse on his team, and the next day, he realised he couldn’t take his eyes off of you.
Watching, always watching, when you pushed the gurney from the ambulance bay into the trauma room; when you playfully saluted Parker after she asked for an IV on her patient; when you adopted that childish voice to say Nurse Lena, Nurse Bridget is being mean to me again, just to make them laugh after a tough patient; when Shen tried to get you to learn Mandarin but that was already in Princess’ arsenal, and the only rule established was no repeats.
As time went on, he noticed the way your tightly wound shoulders would relax at his words. The way your gaze lingered, like you wanted to ask for more. You never did, and he never pushed.
How could he? He was an attending. Much, much older than you. Had skeletons in his closet that he would rather shove down than let anyone sign up for.
Somewhere, he fell. Softly, then all at once.
You reach out, fingers drifting across his cheek. “Jack,” you whisper, an incredulous sound.
“Right here, sweetheart.” He cups your hand, angling his head to kiss your palm. Eyes never straying from yours.
Tears knocked loose. “I’m sorry,” you say, wet. Once again, ashamed of your behaviour.
“You did nothing wrong.” If he could spend the rest of his life reassuring you, he would. Maybe he can. Everything, after all.
“But I… yelled.”
Jack grins, wry. “I get yelled at all the time.” By patients. By admin. It’s no skin off his back.
“I said…” You inhale, wobbly. “I said I wasn’t yours.”
And there, that darkening of his eyes. Studious. Trained on nothing but you. “Are you?”
“I want to be.”
“So you are. Mine.”
You wet your lips. His eyes track the movement, unabashed. “And…” you say.
He waits, patient. Lets you find your words.
“You’re mine?”
“Yes. Yours,” he rasps. Kneeling before you, whatever else could he be?
“Get up. Please.” A murmured plea.
He does. It’s not a swift movement, but you’re past paying attention. You stand, slot your body against his. He’s meeting you halfway. Your palm splayed against his chest; his hand cupping your cheek.
A soft capture of your lips. Jack’s thumb sweeping, tugging lightly at the corner of your mouth. Fingers digging into the sharp of your jawbone tucked beneath your ear.
You let out a stuttering breath at the pressure, something fuzzy clouding your eyes. He slips his tongue inside your mouth. A welcomed weight against your tongue, a spit slicked slide.
A drawn out noise, broken into pants.
His hands gathered at your waist. Walking you backwards into the table. It grates against the linoleum floor, thudding into the wall. Neither of you pay it any heed. You’re perched on the table. He steps between your legs, hitching one thigh against his side.
“Please,” you gasp into the infinitesimal space between you, “I’ll be good.”
“I know,” Jack whispers. Something gentle and soft and so, so sweet tucked against him. Honeyed and viscous, coating his throat. Choking, unbidden tears in his eyes. “I’ll give you everything,” he promises.
Your arms hooked around his shoulders, lifting your core, angling up. Pressing the heat between your legs against his growing bulge.
“Fuck,” Jack groans. A palm laid against the surface of table, the other keeps a bruising grip on the flesh of your side. Stabilising himself. His face tucked to your neck, kissing a line against your throat. Buying himself time. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he says.
“Jack.” A breathy moan, as his lips trail down. Hips rolling up against him. You reach, fingers scrabbling against the waistband of his pants.
“Uh uh.” Digits wrapping around your wrist, pressing your hands against the cold wood beneath you. “Hands on the table.”
“I want—” Despite your protesting words, your palms remain flat on the smooth surface. “I want to make you feel good.” To get on your knees for him, to feel the heavy weight of his cock in your mouth, the stinging strain in the corners of your lips as you struggle to fit him, an aching in your jaw. You know he’d be big enough for that.
“I know, sweetheart.” His lips on yours again, a reassuring kiss. The problem isn’t you—it never is. It’s the fact that he’d finish within minutes if you got your mouth around him. He’s strung tight, and he knows his refractory period isn’t as short as it used to be. The reality is he’s old.
“Please,” you whine.
“Hands on the table,” he reminds, despite the fact that you hadn’t moved. He lowers himself to the ground, eyes on you. Watching you watch him. Roughened fingers tugging your pants down. Lips pressed to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Kissing up further and further.
Air catches in your throat.
Jack leans forward, closes his mouth around your clothed core. Tongue finding the split between flesh.
You moan, breath hitching at his touch. Fingers twitch against the table. You want to bury them in his grey curls, but he told you to keep them where they are.
“Good,” he whispers, hot breath fanning across your skin. “You’ll be good, won’t you?”
“Yes,” you gasp.
Jack pulls down your underwear. Rests his cheek against the side of your thigh. Stubble scratching against overheated skin. “Look at you,” he says, reverent. “You’re so wet, baby.”
You whimper. Your hands inch further behind you. Angling your body. “Jack.”
“Yeah, sweetheart?” Fingers around your calf, hiking it over his shoulder. Every touch, searing.
“Please.”
“So sweet,” he purrs. And then his tongue, finally, finally glides into the drenched heat. He hums through the wrecked sound you make, licking up. A brief kiss to your clit before his lips seal around it. Tongue lands, tip of the muscle working up and down repeatedly, then around.
You—shatter. No other way to describe it. Your hands are still somewhere behind you, maybe numb at this point. Your leg still hooked over Jack’s shoulder, heel digging into the stretch of his back. Hips rolling upwards, into his face. “Jack,” you cry, heavy with relief and something fractured, all at once.
His eyes are dark, captivated by you, preoccupied with taking in every reaction, every movement. His tongue never ceases. Fingers collect the slick from your opening, using his thumb to rub it along his middle and fourth finger.
Whining aloud. Fingertips digging into unrelenting wood. You want to touch him. You try to enclose your legs around him.
Jack pushes his free hand against your thigh, the one that’s not on his shoulder. Keeping you open. Then he sucks, tongue flicking against your clit at the same time.
Your hips grind upwards. “Jack—”
He presses his middle finger into you. He doesn’t take his time. Pumps it once, twice.
“Jack, please, please—”
He draws his finger out. Pushes his ring finger inside at the same time. You feel the stretch with two fingers, wider than yours. Longer than yours.
Jack doesn’t mean to rush, but he feels so lightheaded with want. Knows his knees will probably complain tomorrow morning. He needs you to come, wants to hear you fall apart. Crooking his fingers towards your belly, feeling around the wet insides. Pads of his fingers massaging.
You feel it building in your core. Breaths escaping. “I’m—oh, fuck, I’m—please—”
You can feel him responding, fingers moving faster. Working you from inside. And he keeps the suction on your clit.
“Jack, please, I need—” Almost there but not quite. You feel right at the precipice, but you can’t tip over. Chasing it, though, the way you grind into his face. Onto his fingers. Hands splayed on the table, head tipped towards the ceiling. Every sound punched out of you.
He hums, a deep thing that sends vibrations through you.
“Talk to me, please, Jack, please I want to hear you.”
Jack shifts, mouth opening, tongue pressed flat against your clit. The hand pushing your thigh moves, fingers rubbing against the sensitive nerve. Still fucking you with the fingers inside.
“Yeah?” he asks, and his voice is frayed. “Need me to talk you through it?” There’s spit and you on his chin, glossing his lips. Tongue swipes across petals, swallowing like it’s nectar. Cheek resting against your upper thigh. Stubble scraping against skin.
You shudder. “Yes, yes please, Jack, please.”
“Yeah. Need me to tell you’ve been good, honey?” A kiss pressed to your leg. Your sensitive skin burning, itching every time he moves. The scratch of his shadow. His eyes are lava on you, even if you can’t see him.
“Just like at work, is that it? I tell you you’ve done a good job and you walk around the hospital all wet and pent up? Tell me, baby, do you come home and think of me when you get yourself off? Hear me in your head?”
The nail knocked on the head. The hole-in-one.
You can’t be surprised, and yet, somehow, you are, that he figured it out. You’re clenching around his fingers, tight. Gasping. You don’t even need to verbalise that you’re coming. He can feel it. Your hips bucking up, his elbows digging into the meat of your thighs to keep your legs apart.
Wordless litanies of moans. High pitched and wrecked. Jack pushes his fingers in further, letting you ride yourself through it. And he doesn’t stop his ministrations over your clit. “Jack,” you sob.
“There you go, baby. This is what you wanted, right?” Jaw clenching, hips stuttering against air. He’s so painfully hard. It could almost be concerning, how ready he is. “Fuck me, you’re beautiful.”
He stands, knees cracking, back sore. Yet, he keeps his fingers moving. Inside and outside. Your thigh slides off his shoulder. He positions himself between them, your legs drawing up at his sides. He leans down towards you, hissing something ragged when his cock makes contact with your thigh. “Come here,” he says.
You weep with relief, arms moving from behind you, wrapping around his shoulders. You meet his lips. The fingers inside stop moving, but press insistently on that spot. He keeps rubbing your clit, just to hear you moan, to feel the tremors of your body, to feel the way you contract around his fingers. Imagining that it’s his cock.
“Jack,” you heave. “Too—ah, too much—”
“No, baby,” he says, “I say when it’s too much.”
“Jack,” you whine. “Please. Please, I need you.”
Oh, the unfair games you’re playing, begging like that. He huffs impatience through his nose, jawline ticking. “I’m right here, sweetheart. Not going anywhere.”
And you feel it—the way you’re falling into the second orgasm. One of your hands gripping his bicep. Harder than necessary, maybe. Complaining. Retaliating. “Fuck, mmm, Jack, I’m—oh, I’m coming—”
Your back arches upwards into him. Hips grinding down between his fingers again. Fingers crooked inside you, rubbing against the soft spot. Fingers rubbing your clit. Sensitive.
He grunts, head falling onto your shoulder. Hears the pathetic little sounds that you don’t even realise you’re making.
Your head’s fuzzy, your ears dulled like you’re underwater. And yet, so aware of where he’s touching you. Every point of contact ignited, like he’s leaving a brand on this mortal vessel that was created to contain nothing but love for him.
“I know, baby, I know,” he hushes. And finally, his fingers still. Small mercies as he removes the hand from your clit. Not yet sliding his fingers out.
Jack kisses you. Your chest heaving, craving air. Trembling, clenching around the fingers still inside you. “Fuck,” he breathes out. “There you are.” Observing those glassy eyes. The lazy limbs that cling to him. Lips pressed to your temple.
You cup his erection through the fabric of his pants.
He hisses, jerking into your touch. “Fuck,” he swears.
You stroke him, feeling the length.
“You—shit—you gotta stop, sweetheart,” he says.
You make a questioning noise. You want to make him feel good.
“You really want our first time to be in the kitchen?”
You’re slow to gather your words. “Anywhere,” you slur out. Too much effort to talk. “Whatever… you want.”
Jack huffs out a chuckle. “Yeah,” he whispers, tender at your deference. He kisses you again, sliding his fingers out of you. He parts momentarily, eyes locked on yours as he brings his fingers into his mouth. Licking, fingers splitting, tongue moving down the space between slick digits.
Your hips twitch, a lazy movement that brings you flush against his body. Smearing your come and his spit against the fabric of his pants. He’s still fully clothed, you realise.
“Bed,” you croak, even though you told him it was his choice, just moments before.
Jack laughs, a gentle thing. Nose bumping against yours. Hands lifting you. Legs wrapped around his waist. “Get your bottle,” he says.
You blindly grab for it before he walks you towards your bedroom. Door closing behind him, even though there’s no one else here. He deposits you on the bed. Tells you to take a sip of water before placing it onto the nightstand.
You don’t move. You’re exactly where he left you on the bed when he turns back to you.
He sits on the edge of the mattress. “C’mere,” Jack says.
You shuffle towards him. He’s expecting you to crawl into his lap, maybe. What he doesn’t expect, is the way you slide off the bed to kneel by his feet.
His breath hitches in his throat. Fingers twitching, as your cheek rests against his thigh. Digits threading into your hair. You angle your face to look up at him, blinking. Slow.
“Hey,” he says, fraught with something delicate. Raw and soft.
You nuzzle against him. Head feeling stuffy. Floating. Sinking. Contradictory, yet somehow. True.
“What do you need?”
Nothing. Everything. Wordlessly, you feel at his leg, calf down. Almost like you’re palpating it. Onto the next leg. You unbuckle the prosthesis, hearing him hiss at the twist, at the unlatching. Pained or relief, you can’t tell. Pressing a kiss to the bend of his knee when you remove it, prosthesis intentionally placed aside. You want him comfortable.
You’re slotted back against his thigh, like you didn’t just change his world, like you didn’t just show him the kind of tenderness he never thought he’d deserve after losing the leg.
Jack breathes, unsteady and ragged, but you blink up at him like you’ve never been surer of anything in your life. Complete trust.
You inch forward, nosing closer towards his crotch. Mouthing a long, lingering kiss to his dick. Slow and muted through layers of clothes. Sucking, wetting fabric. An unspoken request.
Jack groans, hips jerking. Fingers reach out, cradling. Callused pads against your jaw, thumb sliding across your lips.
You part them.
His thumb slips in, access easily granted, applying pressure against your tongue. Gliding down. Molten eyes on yours. Your brain is hazy with static. Blissful. Half-lidded eyes. Moaning as you swallow around his digit.
Jack laughs. You feel the reverberations of it, rather than hear the sound. His thumb lets up, still inside your mouth, but no longer pressing down. You blink your eyes opened, questioning, protesting.
“I asked what you prefer, baby,” he rumbles, corners of his lips lifting. Revelling in the way you’re so lost, so dazed. “Do you want me in here?” Thumb circles your tongue. “Or in here?” His good foot shifts, tucked under where you’re kneeling. Front of his ankle catching just right on your bare clit.
A hitched whine, hips grinding down. Sticky heat on his skin.
“I can only do one, sweetheart. You’re killing me, here.” He’s so gone on you, it’s almost devastating. Man made soldier, thickened skin to take on the sins of the world. And his Achilles heel is a precious thing by his knee.
You lap at his thumb, tongue flexing along the grooves of his fingerprint. For a second, he thinks this is how you want him, but you move. An obscene, wet pop as you back away from his hand. You treat it as if it were his dick, licking, tongue against nail and skin, like it’s the leaking seam of his cock.
“Jesus,” Jack groans. You’re going to be the death of him. Completely and absolutely. No differential diagnoses required.
You rise into his lap, nothing shy or uncertain in the way you straddle him and grind yourself against his clothed erection. Lips against his, kissing like you need it to breathe. Need him to breathe. Maybe you do. A low and quiet buzz in your head.
Fingers bracing against your jaw, then lips travel down your neck. You’re still rolling your hips against him. It feels heavenly, the graze of fabric against your already sensitive clit.
Jack lets out a pained noise, shifting. One moment to the next, you went from being in his lap, to facing the ceiling, back against the soft blanket. You rise to your elbows, blinking, eyes moving to the foot of the bed.
He doesn’t make a show of taking off his clothes. It’s quick, the way he removes his shirt, pants, and briefs. He’s pretty sure that if you continued moving on top of him like that, he was just going to come in his pants like he’s in college again.
“You’re killing me,” he says again. He crawls towards you. Body on yours. Divests you quickly of your top.
The slide of his palm to one of your breasts. Cupping. Squeezing. “Been thinking about this since your first scrub change.” Fingernails pinching the tip of your nipple.
You cry out.
Lips over your other tip, a mimicry of the attention he paid to your clit. Licking. Tongue slathering. Then, teeth, biting.
You rut up against him, one leg hooking over his back. Feel the length of him against you. “Please,” you whine.
His hips stutter. “Fuck me,” he groans. Inhales, then lets it out heavily.
“Trying to.”
He laughs, then, a sound that’s disbelieving, even though he should have expected nothing less from you. You’ve been hanging around the night shift too much. A hand in your hair, tugging, born of your insolence. Stealing the sound you make with a kiss. Fucks his tongue into your mouth again.
You feel like you’re losing your mind with the need to feel him. The slide of him, the delicious drag of him against your walls. To clench around and feel his dick inside you. Instead, you’re still empty.
Gasping when you part for air. “Jack,” you plead. “Please, I want to feel you.”
Jack smacks a kiss to your cheek. “Where are your condoms?” He has some in his bag—was part of his prepared care kit alongside the ointment he brought. But he’s left that by the doorway, and he doesn’t want to leave this bed with you in it, wrapped around him.
A hand smoothing over his chest, up his shoulder, clasping around his nape. “No, we don’t need—”
“Uh uh, no,” he says. “Not today.”
“But I’m—”
“No.” Stern. Lifting up, leaning back. “If you don’t listen to me about this, we’re not doing this today.”
“Sorry,” you hiccup, the easiest acquiescence. “Sorry. Nightstand. Bottom drawer. Sorry.” Tears in your eyes. Gripping at his arm, then letting go, undeserving. “Don’t go. I’m sorry.”
Jack lets out an agonised noise. You both know that if you were more cognisant, you would agree with him, would want this too. But it doesn’t make it any less hard to say no when you’re like this. “I’m not mad,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss you again. Soft. Apologetic. The last thing he wants to do is to let you believe that he could up and leave you so easily. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Bottom drawer,” you say again.
Jack gets up, moving towards the nightstand to grab what he needs. The distance is close enough that one leg remains on the bed for balance. Tucked under rumpled towels, a box of condoms. And if he happens to see some toys, cuffs, other accessories you’ve clearly purchased for yourself, haphazardly hidden—oh, that’s something that he can use next time.
Packet torn, condom slipped on. Muffled groan at the relief of being touched, even if it’s just himself. Returning to the bed, to you. You’ve been watching him the whole time, eyes dragging over his skin, his body.
He doesn’t feel shy under your gaze. Exposed, though, is a different feeling.
“Can I go on top?” you ask.
He falters. He usually doesn’t. Usually surefooted. But this—you. You have a tendency to cleave apart his every defense. Every sure thing he knows about life. “You want to?”
“Yes,” you say. “Feels better.”
Tucked and saved somewhere safe. To keep and know about you. “Okay,” he says, and settles at the head of your bed, back against the wall. You draw close, slipping your pillow under his calf. Then you climb into his lap, a soft sigh releasing, like homecoming. Kissing him again, a silent addiction. His arms are warm and weighted around your middle. And he lets you take your time.
Once again, the slow rolling of your hips down to his. Your entrance flushed against the length of his dick. The torturous drag, up and down.
Jack grips your waist, lips against your collarbone. Harsh breaths of air. “Fucking Hell.”
And when you seem content to let it draw on like this, he bites at the flesh under your collarbone. Warning.
You downright mewl at the threat his teeth breaking through your skin. “Ah—mhm.”
“You gonna let me fuck you anytime soon?”
It takes a little to register that not only has he asked you a question, but you should probably respond as well. “If you want to,” is what you end up saying.
“If I want to.” Mocking, a dangerous scoff. He feels like he’s on fire. Lifting you, one hand around his cock, lining it up against your entrance. Tip catching between your folds.
And finally, you’re sinking down on him.
The hitched sounds coming from you, trapped in your throat. Arms hooked around his shoulders, keening into the side of his throat. The stretch of your walls making way for him. The soft insides, swallowing, welcoming. And it keeps going.
Your fingers digging into the corded muscles of his arm, his hands petting the sides of your stomach. Soothing. “You’re—you feel—oh—” Sinking further around his girth. Until you’re sure he’s completely inside you.
Jack lets out a low groan. “Fuck.” Breathes in deeply. Holds it. Then out.
You try to rise.
His arms immediately snap a tight brace around you, holding you in place. “Fuck. Give—give me a minute.”
“Jack—”
“You,” he grinds out, “have no idea how tight you feel. Just give me a minute, sweetheart.”
And of course, that involuntary spasm of your walls around his cock.
Jack swears. Forehead thuds against the space above your sternum. “Quit that.”
“Wasn’t on purpose.”
He notices the lack of apology. “Brat,” he says fondly, and kisses you again.
You don’t know how long you stay like that for. Lips and air. Arms refusing to budge around you. His cock inside you. You swear you feel him in your diaphragm. Your skin feels like fire. “Can I move?” you beg. “Jack, please, can I move? Please, I need—can we—I want to feel you—”
“Shhh, baby, it’s okay. I got you, honey. You’re okay.” A hand reaches up to wipe a thumb across your cheeks.
It comes away wet. You hadn’t realised you started crying.
“Please,” you sob.
His hips snap upwards.
Your next breath comes trapped between a moan and a cry.
Both arms wrapped around you again. An iron band. Then he fucks up into you.
“Oh,” you whimper. “Oh, fuck, ah, ah—thank you, thank you thank you—”
The noise Jack releases is inhuman. He keeps an unrelenting pace, punching out moans from you. He’s flooded by the need to feel you come around him. “Yeah, that’s it. You’re doing so well, honey. Taking what I give you.”
You’re meeting him halfway. Grinding down against him, desperately keening. You feel his hand slip between you, thumb against your clit. You white out. Pressure, more so than stimulating you. Fucking yourself onto his cock, then up against his thumb, making you chase what you need. “Please, more, more, please.”
“Yeah? You want more? You want to come again? You want to come with my dick inside you?”
“Yes, please, I need it. I need you, please.”
“Yeah, you do.” Unmoored, slightly. His thumb rubs circles on your clit. “Come on, baby, I wanna hear you.”
Your chin hooked over his shoulder, angling your lips towards his ear. Discarding every notion of shyness. Every sound, every cry, every thought about him; needing him, wanting him, released. The burgeoning that starts in your belly. The fiery licks of something wonderful.
Jack hears it in your gasping breath, feels it in the velvet walls convulsing around him. “There you go, sweetheart. Give me another one. Fuck, you’re so fucking perfect.” Tenderness in the way his lips press against your shoulder.
You whine. Close.
“Poor baby needs to hear my voice to come, is that it? So fucking obsessed with me. Be good and come for me, baby, let me hear you—fuck—there you go.”
Holding you in place, your hips riding through the orgasm that crashes into you. His thumb rubbing incessantly on your clit. He stops fucking his cock into you, but his hips still move. Rolling, grinding.
You’re outright crying, heaving in gasps of air. Overstimulated. His thumb never stops. Your walls spasming around him, again and again.
“I know, baby, I know. I’m almost there. Can we keep going until I’m done? Is that okay, baby?”
“Yes,” you sob. You’re so so gone. Floating. “Please. Use me.”
You’re flattened on the bed.
From one blink to the next, Jack had shifted up, pressing you onto the mattress. Legs around him. The pillow at his calf tucked under your hips. The angle slides him in deeper. “Fuck,” he grinds out, hoarse. “Fuck. You’re perfect. So fucking perfect, baby. So fucking good for me.”
“Yes, yes yes yes yes yesyes.” Litanies of yesses, completely overloaded with pleasure. With the feeling of him inside. Everywhere. The fingers digging into your thigh. Forehead shoved against your chest, somewhere above your heart.
Then, the broken groan. Low, ragged. “Fuck. Coming, baby, I’m coming.” His thumb back on your clit, circling once more. Fucking into you while your walls flutter around him.
You’re completely spent. Keening, whining, hiccupping.
He stops, eventually. Dragging his hand over your belly, stroking. Up your chest. Petting overheated skin. Then cups your face to kiss him.
You feel so faraway. Numb. On fire. Both.
He flips you both, somehow. Arms straining. You’re folded into his chest, his dick still inside you.
And he stays.
You’re too out of it to realise he’s reached over to the nightstand until the straw to your bottle is pressed against your lips.
“Drink,” he says.
You do. Eyes fluttering shut. Cheek against his chest.
“You did so good for me, baby,” Jack murmurs. “You were so perfect. You are perfect.”
His fingers trace the tattoo that sprawls along your back. You shiver, accidentally grinding against him again. You both hiss.
Tilting your head up, lips finding yours again. Kissing. Gentle. Soft.
“Love you,” you whisper.
Jack lets out a tremulous breath. Kisses you again. He’ll talk about this—say it back tomorrow after you’re coherent enough to remember. But for now, it’s just this sweet thing in his lap.
Part 2.
