they should invent a high ponytail that doesn’t give me a headache and they should invent a low ponytail that doesn’t make me look like a miller’s apprentice going off to enlist in the continental army
You have to watch Jack and Robby fuck Dennis until you finish your assignment.
Warnings: SMUT. PWP. Oral (m receiving), group sex, PiV, anal sex (m receiving), cucking, unprotected sex (wrap it before u tap it folks).
The sight in front of you was downright depraved. Three men moaning and writhing against each other while you could do nothing but watch.
“Such a good boy aren't you” Jack coos from behind Robby, who is currently laying against his chest while Dennis takes his shaft down his throat, grinding and humping into the mattress.
Meanwhile you were stuck in a chair facing the bed, forced to observe silently until you finished your paper. “You can join in as soon as you hit submit baby, no more procrastinating” the two older men had warned you. And now Dennis was getting rewarded for his on time essay with his favourite past-time, sucking your boyfriend's giant dick.
Your fingers rapidly slammed on your keyboard- correcting formatting and citing sources, made all the more difficult by the delicious gagging noises emerging from Dennis' throat and the groans of the two older men. Not to mention the ache between your thighs that you can't help but rub together.
Jack catched that “Uh-uh baby. Stay focused. Don’t you wanna help Denny? Or are you gonna let him have all the fun?” His tone is so condescending but it sends a shiver through you.
“Is that what our good boy wants? To have us all to himself? Good fucking boy, doing all your work. So smart.” Robby chokes out as Dennis moves to suckle on his balls, big doe eyes blown black with lust. Utterly fucked dumb.
What you wouldn't give to join him in his blissful ditzy state and not worry about stupid fucking medical journals that all blur together and give you headaches. Tears prick at your eyelids in desperation as you watch your boyfriends touch each other, Jack sucking and biting at Robby’s neck.
Finally.
You hit submit.
You slam the lid of your laptop shut, all but throwing it across the room and rushing to the bed. Launching yourself at every piece of skin you could touch on any of the men.
Until Jack pulls you towards him by the back of your neck, causing a whine to rip out of you “Are you happy with it baby. Not gonna feel guilty about shitty work when we get finished?”
“No-No! I swear. Checked it twice!” you stammer out reaching your hands to his chest, thrusting it between the place it meets Robby's back, relishing in the feeling of his muscles on your palm. “Need you. All of you. Plea- been so good!”
Jack moves from his position behind Robby, mirroring his position on the bed, shoving you down so you match Dennis. “Go ahead then sweetheart, you earned it” he says stroking his thick red cock. “But you gotta hurry and catch up. Don't want our good boy to show you up and finish before you again”.
You quickly match Dennis' pace, taking Jack down your throat quickly while his firm hand guides you along his length. The older men moan in unison, voices combining in a beautiful harmony that has wetness dripping down your legs. You nuzzle your nose into the thick grey hair at the base of his cock, inhaling his masculine scent.
“You think they’ve been good enough Jacky?” Robby croaks. “Should we give them what they want?”
Jack just nods, stilling his hips as you roll your tongue around his tip.
And suddenly you're on your stomach. Face to face with Dennis. Ass up in the air as jack palms your cheeks, rubbing his shaft along your wet cunt, the tip catching on your sensitive clit.
The younger man is in the same position with Robby behind him, pressing into his well prepared asshole making him whimper into the bedding. “No baby boy, look at each other when we fuck you.”
And then you’re being filled completely. The stretch of Jack's thick cock in your weeping pussy finally makes your mind go peacefully blank. You already look wrecked. Jaw slack and open in pleasure- forcing your eyes not to roll back into your head so you can keep them focused on Dennis, who is similarly struggling to keep them open. The men behind you maintain a brutal pace.
You reach your hand out, touching his face. Cradling it in his palm while his puppy dog eyes make you clench around Jack. You sink a finger into his open mouth, which he begins to suck on instinct. “Jackieeee” you keen “Wanna kiss him. Pleaseee”
The older men laugh, “So cute” Robby says, smacking Dennis on the ass. “Our smart little students wanna kiss eachother.”Jack wraps his arms around your waist lifting you forward towards Dennis so you can finally press your lips to his. The kiss is sloppy and messy, teeth clashing together when one of your partners thrusts particularly hard. So you pull back and are content with breathing into each other's mouths maintaining eye contact as best as you can.
Dennis musters some remaining will power from his hazy mind to lift his fingers and roll your pebbled nipple between them. “You’re so - Nnnnngg- so. Prettyy” That sets you off. You let ecstasy wash over you, squeezing Jack's cock so tightly that it triggers his own orgasm grunting as he floods your insides with his warm cum.
The visual of the two of you set off robby and dennis after a few more harsh thrusts. And soon you’ve collapsed in a sweaty fucked out heap with your lovers, quiet except for panting breaths, revelling in the floaty aftermath of your orgasms.
“So proud of you” Jack mumbles into your temple.
“Both of you” Robby chimes in “Getting your work done and doing us. Such busy little things.”
“Take such good care of us” Jack coos “c’mon, lets get you two cleaned up and in bed so you can do more good work tomorrow.”
Awwww I loved loved loved your hound x lady!reader where he gifts her a fox.
How about a pt.2 where he teaches her to skin it at her request?
(Sitting behind her to guide her hands, getting closer and closer)
Sedate me please
the mess we've made / Sandor Clegane
synopsis: The Hound sends a pelter to skin the fox he's killed only to be summoned by you. Expecting delicate matters, he instead finds you determined to learn the brutal art of skinning. He can't say he's not a tiniest bit intrigued.
status: series, part 1
content warning: female reader, romance, kissing, blood, animal death, skinning, use of knives (obviously), GOT Sandor, maybe OOC I don't know honestly
author's note: thank YOU OMG I kiss your brain. honestly I was already writing a part two for this where lady reader wears the pelt, but now I'm going to make it a trilogy 🫠😩 enjoy!! also, this is kinda self indulgent and reader is a lady so she's squeamish.
He sends a pelter the very next day to collect the fox. Not just any, no, a damn good craftsman, so he could be sure the beast was skinned and tanned properly—no tears or blood patches. Gives the man his signature glare, just in case. He comes running back not an hour later, sweating and stuttering nervously, saying the lady didn't want him there. Wide-eyed, he says she wanted to speak to the Hound himself.
Sandor cringes, his expression pulling at the tight, burned part of his skin. More trouble. It's always more trouble with ladies and their sensibilities. He should have known when he chose not to toss the damn thing into the woods.
What now? You want to bury it before it rots? Changed your mind about making a lining of it? Your taste too refined and delicate for the Hound's trade? See if I fucking care.
He comes looking for you like a pup anyway.
Your maid shoos him away from your chambers as if he carries disease. At last he finds you in a small, disused antechamber, filled with old books, dish drawers, and a small window, specks of dust flying through the stale air. The fox lies on the rough tablecloth spread upon a heavy wooden table. Gone completely rigid now, its small body looks more like a dummy than an animal.
You stand beside it, hair tied into a neat braid starting at the crown of your head and following to your nape, sleeves of your dress rolled to your elbows as if you're ready for a damn lesson in painting. Looking up as his bulk fills the room, your expression is not one of distress but rather of unsettling determination. Sandor thinks back to Lannister familial portraits—a beauty and a dead beast instead of juicy fruits on a silver platter.
He dips his weary head out of habit, though the frame clearly accommodates his size.
"You sent the bloody pelter away."
Sandor growls, his tone an accusation, shutting the door behind him with an unceremonious thud. He doesn't bother with formalities. The scent of old parchment and the slightly coppery smell of the fox fill his nose, and he curses under his breath.
"I did," you answer simply, eyes on his face, not his burnt scar, and he has to fight the urge to turn back to the shadows. "I didn’t want him to do it."
For a moment Sandor glares at you from beneath a heavy brow as if you've turned into Joffrey himself. You take a slow breath, steadying your voice before you make yourself clear.
"I want you to teach me. How to skin it, I mean… the fur."
The silence that fills the room is thick enough to choke on as Sandor stares at you. He looks at you as if you'd just asked him to teach you how to fly and lets out a harsh, almost offensive kind of laughter, making you frown. Of course it's you who asks the king's butcher to teach you his ways—the strange lady who has her cloak's pockets filled with acorns and oddly shaped rocks.
Sandor's laugh dies in his throat as he notices your pout deepen, but the amused scowl never leaves his patched face. He stomps closer, his worn armor producing a grating sound against the floor, shadow falling over you and the tiny body on the table. You have to crane your neck up to look him in the eye, which only detracts from the angry expression you're trying to pull. You look like a chipmunk, puffing your cheeks out.
"This isn't embroidery, m'lady. Your soft hands aren't made for this," his surly eyes bore into yours, searching for any hesitation. "You'll ruin this dress of yours for good."
"It's seen worse," you retort, placing your hands on the table in noble defiance.
"It sure hasn't. Thought you didn't fancy looking at dead foxes?"
He's got you there. A blush heats your cheeks and ears. You swallow, fingers brushing the stiff, coarse fur of the fox's side. It's cold. Dead. Your fingers curl into a fist, away from it. Sandor watches, as if proving his point.
"See? You're soft as goose down."
"I don't," you admit, voice quieter now. "I don't like the sport of it… like them. This is for a purpose."
You don't need to tell him who them is—the lords with their laughter, Joffrey with his murderous glee. Sandor's scoff is softer this time, more of a gruff exhale. He looks from your face to the fox, then to your hands—soft, lady's hands, the ones he has no right to stain. They are to be held gently, not to cut into gristle and stink.
He walks around the table to you, his giant form reshaping the already small room. You hear the porcelain plates rattle inside their oak cabinets. Sandor gestures roughly at the fox, not quite looking at you.
"Turn it. Belly up."
Your eyes light up with childlike joy, the previous pout gone. "So you will?"
"Don't get all excited," he grunts, but the harsh lines around his mouth are gone. "You listen and do as I say. And if you faint, I'll splash a bucket of water on you—no sniffing salts."
"I won't faint!" you object, chest puffing out, insulted he thinks of you that way.
"All ladies do."
"Well, I'm not like all ladies."
"Aye, figured so."
He shifts and stands behind you, his bulk a furnace up close, and you hear the rustle of his belt. Taking out a wicked-looking dagger—no shiny toy like Trant presented you with—he lays it on the table with a soft click. It's slightly crooked, perfectly sharp, polished to the point it shines in the dimly lit room.
"Take it, lady. Feel the weight of it."
You pick up the dagger, and it feels surprisingly light in your hand. Then, unexpectedly, he wraps your hand in his, the expanse of his palm engulfing yours completely, steadying it above the fox. His other hand takes your wrist, not rough but firm, and places it on the cold corpse before you. You don't breathe. Your heart, which you try to will silent, gives quick, treacherous thumps against your chest, and you pray Sandor can't hear them.
He senses your trembling and goes still, his breath fanning over a loose lock of hair that has slipped from your braid. The smell of wine, sweat, and man fills the air, and for a moment you feel as if you've gone blind, the table and the fox gone from your vision completely.
"See that slit?" You sense him jerk his head above your shoulder. "Did its job, swift and keen. It didn’t suffer."
You exhale. He sounds concerned for your feelings, but it's not the fox you're thinking about.
"Are you going to be sick?"
"N-No!"
Seven hells, he's enabling a foolish woman's whim. He's tempted to grab the fox and take it to the pelter himself and be done with it, but your silent determination and lack of whining halt him. Something about the feel of your dainty hands in his, doing something real and bloody together, creates that familiar pull inside his gut. The same pull that made him throw that dagger in the first place.
"It's just… It feels like I'm going to hurt it," you mumble beneath him as he guides your hand with the blade, positioning it where the beast's fur and skin connect. Of course you know it's a silly thought.
"It's dead," he says it like you're soft in the head, "You're not going to hurt it. It's just meat and bone now."
The blade enters the flesh smoothly as your combined hands sink the tip in. The initial resistance of the creature's skin shocks you, but the steel is razor sharp, and soon you hear a skin-crawling, terrifying pop. A trail of dark, watery blood seeps out and runs over your finger. The smell of viscera fills the antechamber.
"Ugh..."
You shiver all over at the stink as Sandor chastises you, his hand still secured over your sweating palm.
"Your hand is shaking, little doe. You're going to tear it. Won't be able to walk around with a lining that has holes in it."
"Then I'll make gloves of it," you answer, your voice slightly shaky as you let his hand guide yours through the process of separating skin from flesh.
Sandor growls, frustrated with you, but he doesn't stop, pushing your body slightly closer to the table instead, pinning your back to his front. The movement draws a shallow, barely audible sound from the back of your throat, but you quickly compose yourself before you hear his gravelly voice in your ear again.
"Don't think of it as meat, then," he ponders, searching for a word you'll understand. "Think of it as… unlacing a gown."
The words are ash on his tongue, the whole concept of the ridiculous situation he's in slowly dawning. What the fuck is he even saying?
The analogy is so absurd and so unlike Sandor that you can't help but chortle at his suggestion. You're sure no one in the whole Seven Kingdoms has ever heard such words escape his foul mouth. Your shoulders shake slightly again, not in disgust or shame this time, but from gentle laughter.
"That's… an unusual comparison," you giggle, looking up at Sandor. The corners of his own scarred mouth twitch, fighting a losing battle against your charm.
"Shut it. Better?"
"Quite so."
Your smile fades as you return to the task at hand. It's slow, meticulous, slightly gruesome, and dirty work, but with Sandor's patient silence and the sound of your mutual breaths, it feels less like butchery and more like creation.
Some blood smudges on your middle, a dark red line transferring from the table to the fabric, and you pause. Sandor notices.
"Told you," he rumbles, eyes on you.
"It's just a dress," you brush it off.
After some time, he tells you to turn the body over with your other hand to continue. You make a small mistake by nicking the pelt near the shoulder junction, gasping pitifully.
"Easy, girl," he chides as you hit a tricky part of the connective tissue on the fox's back. "You're not hacking it—it's not a pork pie. Slowly."
"Have I… ruined it?"
He wrestles your hand impatiently and takes full control, making precise, tiny nicks as you hold your breath. His face draws impossibly near to yours as he concentrates, his breath hitting the side of your cheek as he works on the pelt.
The world stills around you, and it's only the two of you, the fox a grounding anchor in between. Everything—his smell of steel and ale, his hands on yours, his body bracketing you as if you're being hugged by a grizzy bear—makes your gentle heart hammer against your ribcage.
He's a natural, the Hound. Manly. That's the word. You don't think when you turn your head ever so slightly and place a feather-light peck on the corner of his scarred mouth. It's coarse, feeling strangely like worn leather, but warm and prickly in an oddly pleasant way.
The hand that held yours over the dagger loosens slightly, and you nearly drop the blade. For a few moments, you think you've made a terrifying mistake.
Sandor's head turns to you slowly, his sparse hair tickling your nose and cheeks, the rough tissue of his burnt scar grazing your porcelain skin. His eyes find yours—dark, menacing—but he doesn't look furious. More like a bewildered beast shocked that a little bird dares to pick at his muzzle. The corners of his mouth drop, parting and closing again.
"You start something," his jaw works, a gravelly, almost tender whisper, "you see it through."
He doesn't give you the chance to pull away.
The claiming of his mouth is nothing like your feather-light kiss. It doesn't feel like a kiss at all, but rather as if he's trying to bite you, to gobble you up whole until there’s nothing left. It's clearly inexperienced and rough, but the way his stubbled chin scrapes against yours, mixed with the salt and smoke on his tongue, has your legs wobbling.
Just in time, Sandor's bloodied hand—the one that's been holding the fox in place—flies to rest heavily on your waist, anchoring you against him. The power, the sheer force of him behind you, is frightening and intoxicating at the same time as he gnaws at your lower lip like a dog, making you woozy. Any sane noble lady would be mortified, but…
A sudden, sharp clatter of a dropped tray jerks you apart, breaking the silence. Your elderly maid, a mask of horror on her face, stands frozen in the doorway, a spilled jug of water pooling at the hem of her simple gown.
"My lady..?"
Sandor reacts instantly, shielding you and the butchered fox with his broad back. His usual snarl is back, the soft look vanished as if never there.
"Out, wench."
She flinches, still trying to peer over his shoulder bravely, to make sure you're alright even though she's facing the Hound of all people.
"OUT!" he barks, a single angry word. It's dripping with violent disappointment.
The maid doesn't need to be told twice, fleeing and slamming the door behind her.
He turns to you, his expression sour, black eyes skimming over you from head to toe. The dusty sun from the tiny window catches the auburn strands in the fox's fur and the lighter strands escaping your braid. For a dizzying moment, they seem the same. A pretty little pelt-slayer, covered in red.
imagine Sandor and his lady standing at court of King's Landing together, attending some formal event and him whispering all sorts of obsceneties to her ear. to anyone it'd just look like he's taking a protective stance, shielding, or simply occupying space but in reality... cw: utter filth
You stand near one of the massive marble columns, your posture a perfect example of a highborn lady—serene, untouchable, beautiful, and sweet. The Hound is a shadow behind your back, as he always is in public, the word spreading that the Lannisters have their attack dog guarding the pretty ones now.
The court drones on as some minor lord petitions the throne, and Joffrey waves his hand dismissively. You, of course, keep your eyes wide and forward, your face a mask of polite interest, tilting your head occasionally to imitate brain function. Then, just as you're about to doze off, you feel it—a gush of hot air licking the shell of your ear, the subtle shift of his weight as Sandor leans in. It's barely noticeable; he takes a small step, maybe half a step, but it's enough for you to feel his massive frame against your back.
"See that lord with the piggy eyes and the red doublet?" His voice is a gravel rasp against the tiny hairs on your nape.
"... What about him?" Your pulse quickens. What's he up to now, of all times?
"He's been looking at your tits for the past half-hour. The way he's sweating, he's probably thinking about putting his fat mouth on them."
The heat treacherously spreads all the way to your ears, hairline, and chest, and you pray for people to think it's the midday sun getting to you. Maybe if you faint, you'll be spared...
Your breath hitches audibly and your cheeks ignite. Another noble lady standing next to you gives you a questioning look while flapping her fan, and you shake your head with a tight smile. She turns away.
"He has no idea soft they are, does he? How they fit in one hand. How you gasp and moan when I suck on them instead."
Then again, lower, more insistent, "Aye, that's it. That pretty pink I love... Just like you go when I put my mouth on your sweet cunt."
You clench your jaw, willing the tremor that goes through you away, but it's no use. You're shivering, and he notices. He always does, like a dog that smells blood. You hear a silent groan of approval behind the droning buzz of the lordlings.
"Ah, yes, I'm sure that's very interesting, but the lord here is talking about—"
His gloved knuckle brushes over the small of your back and lower until it reaches the expanse of your rear under layers and layers of clothing. So fleeting that no one else can see, but it nearly makes you jump out of your lace slippers, his touch searing through your very bones.
You stomp on his foot. He doesn't even blink.
"What would they say if they knew? All those fine lords and ladies, if they knew how you scream up to the gods when I split your cunt open on my cock? Looking all prim and proper while my cum's still warm, trickling down your legs."
You notice Sansa Stark staring at you from across the hall, an unsure grin on her pale face. Her blue eyes shift elsewhere once they land on the Hound. You suck in a breath. Who else is looking?
"Sandor—" you let out a shaky breath, your voice a fine tremor now. Digging your manicured fingernails into the skin of your wet palms, you pray—you don't know for what.
"Shut up," he whispers into your ear, and his scarred lips nearly brush the side of your face as he shifts closer. "Last night you begged me not to stop, the little proper lady you are, bent over that oak table of yours. Bet you can still feel me inside. Bet you're wet just from that."
His words are filth, crude and obscene, and they send a bolt of pure, aching want straight to your core. You worry your lower lip between your teeth now as you feel his massive hand creep up your arse, right under the folds of your gown. He squeezes the sensitive flesh and tugs at the globe just like he does when he has you on hands and knees underneath him. Images of his calloused hands and mouth on you—grabbing your breasts, your belly, biting your bare thighs, licking your—they have your legs wobbling. Sandor grips your elbow as he continues.
"When this farce is done, you'll wait for me, door unlatched." He pauses, letting the instruction sink in. "Gonna fuck you every way I can think of. Hard and deep, the way you like it. On your feather bed. Against the window. On that soft fucking rug in front of the fire, from behind. Until you're crying on those furs and dripping with my—"
"My lady, are you unwell? You look flushed."
The voice is like a bucket of ice water over your head. Sandor's hand jerks back to his side, yanking your rumpled skirt over your behind. A young knight is looking at you with polite concern. You open your mouth, but only a dry whine comes out, so you nod vigorously like a fool. He mumbles an apology and retreats into the crowd.
"Fucking knights, always sniffing around."
When the king finally rises and the court begins to disperse, you simply walk away. You don't look back; your knees are shaking, madly so, your eyes don't leave your own feet on the stone floor. Sandor tracks the shape of your hips as you turn around the corner in the direction of the private chambers.
Description: New city, new hospital, new job. You give yourself one last day to be free before your first shift, and happy hour ends with a stranger on your bed. The real problem starts the next morning, when he shows up in the same ER answering to “Dr. Abbot.”
Tags/warnings: second year resident fem!reader, smut, sleeping with the boss (?), porn with plot, Jack talk ‘em through it Abbot, clit stim, oral m receiving, p in v, hotel sex. ER cameos, mentions of a minor head injury, and banter.
Note: New man who disss 🤭 This one’s dedicated to my dear @nexxen24, who got me into The Pitt, and also gave me the idea for this lol. Enjoy! 🤍
Masterlist
And I could see you being my addiction
You can see me as a secret mission
Jack Abbot needed something sweet.
That was the excuse he gave himself today, anyway. The truth was, he found himself at the hotel bar a few blocks from the hospital more often than not, because it was quite dark, even in daytime. Dark enough that he could sit at the corner of the long counter and just exist for a couple of hours.
Sometimes he came for a beer. Sometimes a sandwich. Sometimes just to swap stories with the bartender until it was time to go back to real life and drown himself in someone else’s blood.
Today, he came for a very specific thing: Chocolate cake. A slice of expensive, moist, and obscenely sweet cake. He was sure his imminent descent to madness was the root cause of these…cravings. Whatever.
He slid onto his usual stool at the far end of the bar, in a black shirt, and some joggers, badge and scrubs stuffed away in his backpack.
He looked up at the bartender, but it wasn’t his usual guy. Instead, a girl with the darkest hair in a ponytail, walked up to him with a tired expression. There was a small white pin that said ‘Lisa– TRAINEE’ clipped to her uniform.
“Evening, sir,” she greeted.
“Afternoon, and just Jack, please,” he corrected with a small smile, glancing at the fancy clock on the wall. 4:43 pm. He still had a few hours off duty.
“Oh yeah–sorry! I get a little lost in here sometimes. Ugh, the only thing getting me through this shift is knowing I’m off tomorrow for the PittFest,” she said, making him chuckle.
“Trust me, I get it. I’m also looking for something to help me get through mine,” he shrugged. “Festivals are not my thing, though. I’ll leave that to the ones with healthy knees.”
“Mm, that’s fair,” she said, chuckling back. “So what can I get for you, ‘just Jack’? Gin? Old fashioned?”
“No drinks, but can I get a slice of that infamous chocolate cake?”
The girl looked at him like she wasn’t necessarily expecting that, but you know what? Hell yes, old guy.
“Sure.”
She walked round the bar, to a discreet door that led toward the kitchen, and asked for the cake to be served before stepping back to the bar again.
“Thank you, Lisa,” Jack smiled, finally letting his shoulders loosen.
You needed a stress reliever.
You weren’t stressed now, but you knew that in less than 24 hours it would become your new normal…again. You are meant to start your first shift at PTMC as a second year resident tomorrow.
New city, new program, and still…no apartment. But at least your hotel room was nice and ready for you to make it an early night, slightly tipsy and relaxed for your last blissful hours of freedom. Which is why at four something, you decide you’re going to treat yourself to be first in line for the hotel’s happy hour like the responsible adult you are.
The hotel lounge is large and dimly lit. A couple takes one of the single couches, curled into each other with matching martinis. The rest of the space is almost empty, aside from–
Wait. That man is cute. Wait again. You have to do a double take.
An attractive–no, very attractive man is sitting at the far corner of the long bar, waiting for his order. Simple outfit, camo backpack resting by his feet. He looks a little worn to be honest, but then again, don’t we all?
Huh. Guess someone beat you to happy hour.
You take the opposite corner, leaving about six empty stools between you, when the bartender approaches you.
“Afternoon, Miss.”
“Hi, Lisa,” you smile. “I don’t really know what cocktail to get. Can I just get whatever your favorite is?”
“Oh–yeah I can do that,” she shrugs with a smile, turning back to her inner counter to mix the drink.
Your phone vibrates in your pocket so you pull it out, checking the payment notification from the guy who’s buying the festival tickets you’re selling. You text him to confirm he has to pick them up at the hospital tomorrow, hoping you get a spare minute to walk out the ER, when someone walks out a hidden kitchen door and slides a plate in front of you.
“Chocolate cake,” the guy announces politely, but before you could even say that’s not yours, he turned around and disappeared into the kitchen again. You shrug, turning to the bartender who’s handing a drink to the man you saw when you came in.
“I didn’t order this,” you both say at the same time.
His head snaps toward your voice, and your eyes meet across the row of empty stools. He sees the generous slice in front of you, and with a not so subtle up and down look at you, a smirk lifts the corner of his mouth. Something flutters in your chest, so you break eye contact first, dropping your gaze to your phone and pretending to read another message.
Come on, play it cool.
“No drinks for me, Lisa. Remember?” you hear him say playfully, turning back to the counter.
“Oh my god, I’m sorry,” she rushes out, reaching for the drink in front of him. “I’ll switch them right now, I–”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, stopping her by wrapping his hand around the glass. “I got it.”
Your thumbs froze over your phone. He got it?
From the corner of your eye, you see him stand up, and duck down to scoop up his backpack. Your heartbeat does something very stupid as you try very hard not to stare while he walks in your direction. Okay. Okay. This is fine. Silver fox is walking toward you. You are not freaking out. You are a doctor, you have seen actual organs on tables. You can handle an older guy with pretty eyes.
He slides easily onto the stool right next to you, setting the glass down with a soft clink. Fuck. Of course he smells good. You have no choice but to look at him properly this time, and up close, he’s even more handsome. Fluffy, wavy grey hair, with matching stubble (makes you wonder if the carpet matches too) and a glint of humor in his eyes that you know is trouble.
“I believe this is yours,” he says, nudging the cocktail close to where you’re still holding your phone for dear life.
“Then I believe this is yours,” you say, setting your phone with a smile and sliding the plate toward him.
He narrows his eyes playfully, looking between you and the cake. “Tell you what.” He leans in, and nudges it closer so it sits between the both of you. “I don’t mind sharing…do you?”
Oh. Okay. So that’s where this is going.
“I don’t mind a lot of things,” you tilt your head, leaning one elbow on the bar, deciding to match that dangerous glint in his eyes with your own. His smirk grows before turning to the bartender again.
“Can we get another spoon, please?”
“Oh, sure. Here,” she says, handing it over.
He takes it with a quiet ‘thank you’, then holds it up in front of you like an offering.
“I’m Jack, by the way. Don’t think I heard your name.”
You let out a small chuckle as you take the spoon, the tension in your shoulders loosening a little under his charming gaze. You tell him your name, his smile softening when he repeats it back to you.
“Nice to meet you, thanks for sharing my cake,” he says, finally digging his spoon into it.
“Thanks for bringing me my drink,” you reply, reaching for the glass. You definitely need some buzz if you intend to survive this interaction. “I guess we’re even now, Jack.”
“Not yet,” he says, getting the first bite of cake. He hums in delight, wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “But we’re getting there.”
You divert your gaze to your phone once again, heat blooming your cheeks. He smiles triumphantly at your reaction, deciding to push you a little more.
“Well, aren’t you going to try it?”
You bite back a smile, nodding as you dig your spoon into the cake. He watches your every move like a hawk as you lift it towards your mouth. You mirror his hum when you taste it, instinctively running your tongue over your lips to get the sugary remains off.
Jack shifts in his seat.
“Great, isn’t it?” He says, “tried it once and never was the same.”
“Would’ve never thought to try it, to be honest,” you chuckle.
“Me neither, guess I just needed something sweet today,” he shrugs, still too calm and too smug, still making your heart rate go crazy without even trying. “Looks like I came to the right place, though,” he winks, digging his spoon again for another bite.
Yeah, no. He’s definitely trying.
“So, what brings you here to the land of cake instead of…I don’t know, a whiskey?” You ask, playing with the straw of your drink.
“No drinks for me,” he shrugs.
“Designated driver?”
“Designated something, I have to leave at seven,” he glances at the clock again. You follow his gaze, and see it’s just after five.
“What, you gotta catch a flight or something?”
“Yeah, something like that,” he grins.
His answers are vague, intentionally so. You recognize it instantly because you use that tone too about your own job, when you don’t feel like opening that door with a stranger.
“What about you? Are you celebrating something?” He asks, and you swear with every question he shifts a little closer to you.
“I’m making it an early night, tomorrow’s a big day,” you nod with a smile.
“Oh yeah? Festival?” he asks, you can feel the genuine curiosity under the smug tone.
“I wish,” you shrug. “I got tickets but something important came up, so…here I am, first in line for happy hour instead. Making the most of that hotel lifestyle,” you lift your glass, he lifts his spoon with a chuckle.
“You’re staying here?”
“Mmhm. It’s actually pretty great. Nice room, silk bed sheets, the works.”
“Decent cake, too,” he adds mocking seriousness. “Too bad someone stole it.”
“Excuse me,” you protest playfully, “If it wasn’t for me you’d still be looking sad and lonely at the end of the bar.”
He laughs, catching the attention of Lisa who’s clearly not trying to eavesdrop. “Yeah. I’m glad I’m not, then,” he says quietly. “Company’s good.”
From there, the conversation just flows.
At some point, you realize you’ve barely touched your cocktail, or the cake between you. You can feel the tension building with every shared look. The way his gaze dips to your mouth when you bring the spoon to your lips. The way your knee kept drifting closer to his, the faintest brush when either of you shifts on your stool.
And that warm, electric buzz in your veins has very little to do with sugar or alcohol.
Your eyes flick instinctively toward the clock on the wall when you laugh about something he said, and see it’s a few minutes past six already.
This is the moment where you could let him go, say goodnight and head upstairs alone. But you feel like you haven’t gotten your fix yet. That good moment of pure bliss before you go back into charts and monitors and reminding yourself you love the career you chose.
Some people do drugs or caffeine, or apparently, sugar as a stress reliever. The poison you chose today was supposed to be alcohol, but maybe you have something better sitting right next to you.
Huh. Sometimes dick does the trick too.
You turn your gaze back to him, lashes half lowered and innocent, catching him watching you already.
“It’s getting late,” you say casually, “but I think you still have time to walk me to my room.”
For a split second, the words just hang in the air. Clear and irreversible. His expression doesn’t change much, because he’s already been giving you bedroom eyes this whole time, but you notice the way his jaw tightens slightly, before that unmistakable smirk reappears.
“Yeah, I think I do,” he rasps.
Cake be damned. He’s got a sweeter dessert right in front of him.
He straightens on his stool and lifts a hand, catching Lisa's attention with a small wave, then reaches for his wallet. You press the button to pay with your phone, but he puts his hand over yours to stop you.
“Don’t worry, I got it,” he says, sliding his card over the counter before you can protest.
You’re not sure what exactly made your heart almost jump out of your chest again, the gesture or his electric touch on your skin. Maybe both.
You distract yourself by looking at your glass, still more than half full.
“Thank you. I didn’t even finish it…”
“I don’t think we’re going to miss it,” he looks at it, then back at you amused.
Your face warms–again–at the implication.
The girl gives him the receipt, and the way his arm flexes on the counter when he signs it with a quiet ‘thank you’, makes your thighs rub in anticipation. He slips a final twenty over the receipt as a tip, before turning fully toward you. He stands up first, grabbing his backpack with one hand, and helping you out of your stool with the other. His hand finds its way to your lower back, settling there as you walk.
“Lead the way, sweetheart.”
By 6:10 pm the door of your room clicks shut.
Jack drops his backpack somewhere to the side, one hand finds your waist, the other cups the back of your head before he pins you against the wall, and his mouth finds yours in an instant.
You gasp into the kiss, immediately grabbing him by his white shirt, dragging him impossibly closer. His gray stubble scrapes your skin in the best possible way, burning along your jaw as he tilts his head, deepening the kiss. You slide one hand up to his hair, it’s softer than it looks, and he makes a low sound when you tug it just enough to angle his mouth where you want it.
His hands slip under the hem of your shirt, rough palms spreading over your back. You can’t keep your hands to yourself either when you get past his shirt, running them through firm muscle and chest hair. Your hands can’t help but wander around his strong back, nails scraping against his skin when he starts kissing down the line of your jaw, scraping his beard along your throat in a delicious burn.
“Jack…” you breathe, tightening your grip in his hair.
He smiles against your skin, dragging his lips and stubble slowly across your neck, sending sparks all the way down to between your legs. When he sucks a particularly sensitive spot, the sound that slips out of you is embarrassingly close to a whimper.
“I got you,” he whispers, pulling back just enough to tug the hem of your shirt. “Is this okay?”
You nod quickly, and soon enough both of your shirts end up somewhere on the floor. You’re left in your bra, chest rising and falling as you try to catch your breath, but it’s hard when his gaze drops to your chest and lingers there.
So you ogle him too.
He’s built like a brick wall. Solid, toned chest dusted with hair, and framed by broad shoulders. And those arms? Oof. God, you can’t wait to feel all that strength he hides under those tired eyes and easy smiles.
He nudges you away from the wall steering you backwards, mouth never leaving yours, until the back of your legs bumps into the base of the bed. He gently guides you to sit on the edge of the mattress. You look up at him, already dazed. His hair is a mess from your fingers, chest rising and falling quickly, that cheeky smile of his still on his face. He reaches for your jeans next, and you lift your hips to help him slide them off. The cool air of the room kisses your skin as he throws them somewhere in the room.
“You’re still too dressed,” you chuckle, left only in your underwear.
“You’re still too desperate,” he jokes, laughing when you gasp and slap his chest weakly. “Hmm. Harder next time, sweetheart.”
You probably shouldn’t have liked that as much as you did, but he seems satisfied with your silence. His hands go to the waistband of his joggers, barely grabbing the elastic when his hands suddenly stop. If you weren’t watching his face, you would've probably missed the way his confident smile faltered for a second.
“Are you okay?,” you ask, straightening up on the bed.
“Yes,” he says quickly, but his hands are still frozen on his hips. “Yeah, I am. I just–”
You notice the way he shifts as if to step away from you, but your body reacts before you can think. “Hey, wait–”
You hook your feet around his calves to stop him from pulling away, but your left foot feels something different than you expected. It’s not the familiar firmness of muscle, but the unmistakable sensation of metal where skin should be. You don’t really need to see it to know what it is.
His camo backpack and the vagueness of his answers suddenly click to you, but Jack is frozen in place, trying to read the expression on your face.
“I’m sorry,” he starts, you figure it’s the script he probably hates having to say but feels obligated to in situations like this. “I should’ve told you before we came up, it’s okay if you don’t want to–”
“Jack,” you cut him off, quickly standing up so you’re pressed against him, before he decides to step back again. You tilt your head back a little, pressing a hand to his chest. “You don’t owe me anything, okay? If I didn’t want this, you’d already be standing shirtless in the hallway,” you chuckle, trying to lighten the mood.
“You don’t…mind?” His hazel eyes scan your face, still trying to find the desertion you’re not giving him.
You can feel his heart racing under your palm, and it almost makes you laugh how the doctor in you wants to inject him with something to fix his tachycardia. Opting for a less aggressive approach, you slide your arms over his shoulders to play with the hair on the back of his neck.
“I don’t mind,” you say, as reassuring as you can. You liked him the second he shared his stupid cake. This? This just adds more to it. “But if you do, we can stop,” you add, slowly pulling away from him but he slides his arm behind your back.
“I don’t want to stop,” he rasps, pressing you tighter to him. The bulge digging against your skin agrees with him.
“Hmm. Then you better hurry, we’re running out of time…” you sing-song, grinding yourself against him.
He breathes out a laugh. Oh, how I love this girl. He halts the movement of your hips, his hands become sure and steady once again as they settle on your waist. He forgets about his pants for a moment, innstead, he decides to focus on you.
“Turn around,” he says, but you don’t move an inch, just blink at the sudden change in his voice. He chuckles, loosening his grip just a little. “Turn around, sweetheart.”
Now you’re the one who needs help stabilizing their heartbeat.
You nod, then do as he says, shifting so your back is to him. He closes the gap immediately, one arm around your shoulder to hold you while the other settles just above the hem of your panties, but he doesn’t slip inside. His hand drifts lower and lower, stopping right over the slick leaking through the fabric, making you gasp.
“There she is,” his pleased voice while he drags teasing circles around your clit–but not really there–makes a chill run down your body. “Thought I lost you for a second there.”
You let your head tip back onto his shoulder, prompting him to apply more pressure, or find the right spot, but he keeps you pinned right where he wants you. He keeps rubbing slowly, still over the fabric, still teasing, coaxing the smallest sounds from you.
“I know you said to hurry, but I gotta take care of you first,” he whispers right in your ear. “Think I can do it this way? Without really touching you?” He barely grazes the base of your clit, dragging his finger back down immediately just to hear you whine again.
“Jack I–fuck.”
He chuckles when the faintest additional pressure makes you squirm, but that's no issue to him, he easily shifts you into the angle he wants. His fingers finally skim higher, now properly rubbing your clit. A moan escapes your lips, the friction of the cotton against your most sensitive spot has you feeling embarrassingly needy, moving your hips to chase more.
“That’s it, right there,” he coos, encouraging you. “How does that feel?”
You make another sound that’s not even close to a word. He chuckles onto your hair, shaking his head but still moving his fingers quicker.
“Talk to me, sweetheart. Feeling good?”
“Yes,” you manage to say between ragged breaths. “Really good.”
“Yeah?” He helps you move just a bit more, pressing his whole palm over your clit, before letting you take over. You start grinding his hand, clinging to his arm for support. “That’s it, just like that. You’re doing great.”
The praise lands harder than it should. You’re used to being talked at, ordered around on chaotic shifts, and occasionally complimented for a good job…but this is different.
You feel the pressure building in your stomach quickly with every buck of your hips, but what makes you see stars is feeling the outline of his hard cock rubbing against your ass with every grind.
“Shitshitshit I’m gonna–” you cry out mid sentence.
“It’s okay, sweetheart let go,” he coaxes, moving his hand faster.
When you finally break in a strangled moan, he stays wrapped around you, his firm body braced behind you so you can learn all your weight back, holding you together while you fall apart. He places a kiss on your shoulder when you shake under his grip, whispering praises you can’t make out as you ride your orgasm out. Jack finally takes his hand away when your clit twitches violently under him, squeezing your ass playfully.
“Breathe,” he reminds you, immediately inhaling and exhaling louder to show you just how. You instinctively match him, effectively grounding yourself. “Good girl.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuck–
“Easy,” he says when he feels you tense again. “It’s okay, you were doing so well. Just breathe.”
Still panting, you tap his arm so he lets you turn around to face him. You meet those devilish eyes again, hazel overtaken by dark pupils, a smirk on his lips as he takes in your flustered appearance.
“You’re really…really bossy, you know that?” You chuckle despite yourself.
“I’ve been told,” he smiles, bringing you in for a peck on your lips. “And I’m about to get more bossy so why don’t you turn around for me again?”
There it is. That fucking tone again. Your mouth falls open, but you can’t bring yourself to say no. If anything, you turn around before he even tells you twice, slapping his arm behind you when you hear him mutter “eager.”
He stirs you toward the bed again, until your knees bump the mattress. You hear the shuffle of his joggers, but it doesn’t sound like he’s taking the leg off, instead letting the fabric fall and pool at his feet. You don’t turn to look, giving him the moment.
The whole thing only makes him feel more devastatingly real.
He leans closer to you, his palm traveling up your spine to gently bend you forward. You follow his guidance, hands sinking into the mattress, ass on full display. You feel his foot nudge your left leg, parting you open for him.
“There,” he says, giving you another playful slap.
Heat rushes to your face again, feeling completely exposed to him even if you’re still covered in your underwear. So, Jack takes this as his chance to finally drag your soaked panties down, slowly, and lets them sit at your feet just like his pants, leaving you just in your bra. He groans at the sight, your soft, glistening pussy dripping and ready just for him.
“God, look at you,” he mutters under his breath, more to himself than to you.
The next thing to land over his pants are his boxers, freeing his heavy, swollen cock into his hand. He lines himself up, dragging just the tip across your wet folds, his pre cum mixing with your slick as he drags it up and down. After more whimpers from you, he pushes only the tip in, and you let out another moan that makes him groan.
“Deep breath for me,” he says, and at this point, you’d do anything he wants.
He makes sure to move with you, timing himself to your inhale. The first roll of his hips makes his cock slowly stretch you open, inch by inch. You gasp, fingers clutching the silk bed sheets. He groans as he watches himself disappear inside you, gripping your ass to help you find the angle he knows will have you seeing stars.
“Fuck me,” he hisses, skin meeting skin when he bottoms out.
“Please…” is all you whisper, he’s thick, hard, buried deep, and the stretch burns in the best way.
And you can’t wait for him to fuck all the stress out of you.
“Shhh, pretty girl. You’re okay,” he coos, slowly dragging out.
You clench around him before he leaves you completely empty, and he curses again, his hips jerking forward as yours slam back to meet him. He huffs a strangled laugh, stopping you by digging his fingers on your waist to take back control.
“There you go. Let me do the work, sweet girl,” he rasps.
The rhythm finds itself, fast and deep, skin slapping against skin, your moans echoing off your hotel room walls. You’re still too sensitive from your previous orgasm, and you can’t stop moaning every time his hips snap against your ass. The bed creaks under you, and the sound of his cock dragging in and out is loud and filthy.
“Relax–fuck, sweetheart. You’re doing so well.”
You try to “relax.” You really do. But the angle, the rough rhythm he coaxes you into, the praises, are a lot. Your legs start to tremble, the effort of holding yourself up becomes a harder task with the pleasure building inside you.
He notices, of course he does. He tightens his grip to hold you better, barely slowing his pace. “Hey, hey, talk to me.”
“My legs…” you choke out in a breathless laugh.
“Yeah, I can see that,” he huffs out a chuckle. “Hold onto the bed, for me,” he instructs. You obey brainlessly, fingers fisting in the covers.
His hand wraps around your right leg first, just behind your knee to lift it, throwing away your panties in the process to make it easier. He places that leg up on the bed, then does the same with the other. The new position pulls another weak sound from you, both knees now on the bed, opening you up to him in a way that makes you miss him inside you. He presses you back into the mattress, not wasting time in pushing himself back in with a harsh thrust.
“There you go, that’s better,” he says, setting his rhythm again. The new angle is more comfortable for him as well, leaning his legs on the bed for support while he pounds into you.
You let the sounds spill out of you, choked off gasps and desperate little sighs. Every one of them seems to go straight to his cock. You can hear it in the quiet curses he mumbles, the way his hands find all the familiar places, your hips, your waist, slipping under your stomach to push down the fabric of your bra so he can watch your boobs bounce with every thrust.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he groans when you start pushing back, chasing more and more. “There you go. Take what you need, sweetheart.”
When your legs start to shake again, this time it’s not from strain, it’s from how fucking close you are.
“Jack–” You squeeze your eyes shut, fingers clawing the sheets, little sounds spilling out of you that you can’t control. It’s too much and not enough at the same time, and your body is about to snap.
“I know,” he says, quickly sensing your overwhelm. “Come here.”
You barely have time to think before his arm loops around your waist, pulling you up from your forearms. You gasp as he lifts you, slamming you back against his chest so you’re half kneeling, half suspended in his hold.
And then…his free hand comes up to cover your eyes. You gasp when your world goes pitch black, narrowing only to the sound of his voice and the feeling of his body behind yours.
“Shh,” he coos near your ear, placing delicate kisses all over your jaw. “Just feel, sweetheart. That’s all you have to do.”
Without sight, everything else slams into focus, the heat of his chest behind you, the roughness of his stubble on your neck, the tight grip of his arm keeping you upright. He starts thrusting again, chasing that sweet spot that makes your head go dizzy.
It’s more than enough now. It’s too much. You feel undone and held together all at once.
And to top it off, he decides now is the time to reach for the clasp of your bra, unhooking it with his free hand to hold you up by cupping your bare breasts. Your fingers reach back blindly, to his hair, his thigh, wherever you can reach. Jack just keeps his sweaty palm over your eyes, shielding you from everything but him.
“Fuck, you’re clenching,” he groans, knowing you’re almost there. “Let go for me, don’t think…just feel.”
You come with a shaky cry, your entire body shuddering in his hold. He keeps fucking you through every helpless little sound, feeling his own release building up.
After a few moments, when he considers your breathing has sort of stabilized, his hand finally slips away from your eyes, caressing the hair sticking to your face as he keeps pounding you from behind, still fast, still deep, but sloppier. You can tell he’s close by the way his cock twitches inside you.
“There you go,” he praises you, even if his breathing is ragged now. “That’s it. You did so good for me–shit–”
As your eyes adjust again, the post nut clarity hits you.
Your fucked out doctor brain freaks out. No protection, you’re very irresponsible, don’t let him. He seems to make the same calculation–pretty strange for a man–because he starts to pull back.
Fuck it.
Before he can deal with it himself, you wriggle out of his grasp to free yourself, and get off the bed. Your jelly legs barely hold you up before you sink to your knees in front of him. From there you get a clear view of all of him, the fact that the carpet does match the drapes, and even the leg he’d been hiding. He instinctively steps back, almost stumbling over the pants pooled over his feet.
“Hey, careful,” you coo, placing one hand on his thigh to nudge him forward, the other wraps around his glistening cock, making him curse. “Let me? Please?”
“Jesus,” he breathes. His hand holds the back of your head, managing a weak smile. “Atta girl, be good to me.”
Jack doesn’t have to tell you twice.
You don’t even have to do much, just a quick pump at the base of his length as you lean forward to place a teasing kiss on his leaking tip, almost sending him right over the edge. The sight alone makes him twitch, he was going to have to cover his own eyes if you kept looking at him like that with his cock on your mouth.
You wrap your lips fully around him with no warning, letting his cock stretch your mouth as you swallow every inch. Every strangled sound he makes encourages you to be as devoted to him as he was with you. Your head bobs up and down, guided by his firm grip on your hair.
“Fuck–you’re gonna kill me–” he chokes out, you take that as your cue to nod at him, mouth too full to tell him to let go. “Okay, that’s…I’m–”
He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because he’s already finishing inside you. He groans as he spills strings of hot cum on your tongue, fingers tangling in your hair a bit rougher, pushing his hips forward to fuck the last of his orgasm out. You choke just a little, holding onto his thighs, trying to swallow every drop he sends down your throat.
Jack pulls out with a groan when the adrenaline of it passes, dragging his thumb over your lips to wipe the remnants off.
“Pretty girl…” He praises, as you look up at him with swollen lips and glassy eyes.
“Atta boy, you did good for me,” you rasp, making him laugh.
“Come here.” He helps you get on your feet, then back to the bed.
“Thank you,” you mutter, tugging the duvet off to cover your body when you sit down.
He stays quiet as he hauls his joggers back up and finds his shirt somewhere by the door, until he can’t avoid looking at his watch anymore.
“Shit.”
“So…no cuddling?” You chuckle.
“Sorry,” he mutters, even though you both knew this is how your little hotel affair was going to end. He slings his backpack over one shoulder, and walks over to you.
He takes a moment to cup your cheeks, memorizing every feature, and you try to do the same. Your eyes trace every line of his face, the glint that never left his hazel eyes, the gray dust adorning his jaw.
God, he’s so handsome. How are you supposed to forget him?
Jack starts leaning forward, but you meet him halfway, closing the space between you. The goodbye kiss is not rushed like you expected, no, he still takes his time even if he’s gonna be late to wherever he’s headed. He pulls back with a smile, and a small, disbelieving huff of laughter as he licks his lips.
“What?” you ask.
“You taste like cake,” he says, clearly amused, then adds with a little tilt of his head, “and…something else I probably shouldn’t think about on my way out.”
“Oh, just go!” you laugh, shoving him away. “Before you’re late and whoever’s waiting for you files a missing persons report.”
“Yes, ma’am. They will,” he says, lifting his arms up innocently as he walks toward the door. “Good luck tomorrow with your…big day.”
“You too, with your…something,” you smile. God, you’re definitely going to need a good night's sleep after all of this.
He nods, and with a devilish wink, he’s finally gone.
You wake up feeling like you can take on the world.
With a pep on your step, you walk out of the hotel with clear scrubs and an even clearer conscience. Good sex? Check. Good sleep? Check. Daydreaming about the silver fox stranger you’ll never see again? Check check check.
You’re ready to kick ass and save lives.
Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center is just a short walk away, but it gives you enough time to self regulate your emotions before you walk through those doors. You get there early, greet everyone politely and exchange a few words with some nurses before your shift actually starts. For a moment, you almost forget you’re the new kid, and you feel like you’re right where you belong.
You make your way through triage, mentally rehearsing how you’re going to introduce yourself to your attending, when your sneaker slips on something. You don’t know if it’s saline, or water, or spit, all you know is that one second you were walking and the other you’re losing your balance. Your hands desperately find the wall with a smack, saving yourself from landing flat on your ass, but your forehead still hits the edge of a door frame with a sharp little crack.
You see stars for a second there, the same kind you saw yesterday.
“Whoa, hey! Are you okay?” Someone calls.
You groan, but straighten immediately, because what else are you going to do? Sit down and let the tears from your eyes spill? Absolutely not. Not on your first day. You swipe your fingers over your forehead, hissing at the sting, and when you look at your hand there’s the smallest smear of blood.
Perfect.
“I’m fine,” you say quickly. “I’m–”
“Absolutely not, come here.” A woman in black scrubs and a ponytail approaches you, holding your jaw to assess the wound. “I’m Dr. McKay, and you are?”
“I’m okay,” you say, trying to shrug her off. “Really, it was just a slip, it didn’t even hurt. I really need to go meet Dr. Robinavitch–”
“You slammed your head into a door frame, Robby can wait,” McKay says flatly.
You try to protest but she steers you toward one of the small triage rooms right off the ER entrance. You groan as she nudges you to sit on the bed. “I just need a band-aid, it’s just a scra–”
“A scratch, yeah, I heard you. You’ll get your band-aid after I make sure you’re not walking around with a concussion,” she says, then holds a finger up as if to say ‘wait’ and walks to the door, “Perfect learning opportunity, actually.”
Oh no.
“Hey! Santos, Whitaker, Javadi, come here,” she urges more people with scrubs. Great. “Consider this your first patient.”
You consider faking your own death.
All three of them clock your black scrubs and badge, and your bruised ego dies a little more when they realize you’re one of them. McKay just stands next to you like this is science class and you’re the classroom’s skeleton.
“We get all types of patients here. And today…” She pats your shoulder with the back of her hand. “It’s a colleague who discovered the floor is slippery on her very first day.”
Redacted.
“I’m fine,” you repeat. “Really. I just need a band-aid.”
“After we use you for educational purposes, now look up please,” she says, shining a light in your eyes to check your pupils. You resist the urge to slap her hand or lean away. “Headache?”
“No.”
“Any loss of consciousness?”
“You literally saw me since I hit my head,” you say, a little too aggressive, but McKay ignores your tone. “Sorry–no.”
“Nausea? Blurred vision?”
“No. I swear, I’m okay.”
“Alright. Whitaker, you’re up. What are your concerns when someone hits their head?”
“Um…we should ask what caused the fall?” He says, and McKay nods approvingly. He turns to you, “Did you feel dizzy before you slipped? Lightheaded?”
“No. There was just…something on the floor. I didn’t see it and unfortunately I slipped.”
“Good,” McKay says, more to them than to you. “No dizziness, no neuro complaints, no loss of consciousness, minor external injury that doesn’t need stitches.”
“And no reason for a CT,” one of the girls adds.
“Correct, Santos. So we’ll clean it, come on, you’re up.”
Your shoulders drop in the smallest relief. Now you have to survive the rest of the day after this humiliation, but adding unnecessary imaging on your first day would’ve ended you right there and then.
Mckay just smiles at you as Santos gloves on and prepares the stuff she’s gonna use. You look outside the door for a moment, trying to remember the confidence you’d walked in this morning, when a figure walking by catches your eye.
All you see is a flash of broad shoulders in a dark shirt, and a camo backpack slung over one arm. You make eye contact for a brief second as he glances inside casually, before doing a literal double take when he realizes who’s in there. He stops in his tracks, just as your heart stops inside your chest.
For a brief second you think you do need that CT, because there’s no way you’re not hallucinating talk-you-through-it Jack in front of you.
Here. In your ER. Wearing matching uniforms.
Jack, the man you let manhandle you last night–or afternoon?–whatever. The man who covered your eyes and told you to just feel. The man you sent you into orgasm oblivion and then kissed you goodbye tasting cake and himself on his tongue.
No. No way. Absolutely not.
You hiss when Santos presses something wet in your wound, and Jack decides that’s the best moment to step in and cause you a stroke on top of everything.
“Everything okay in here?” he asks casually, looking at you with the same glint in his eyes as yesterday.
You want to die.
“Abbot! Thought you were on your way out,” Mckay beams.
“I was, then I saw you tormenting the new blood. Didn’t want to miss the show,” he gives her a tired grin, shrugging, then looking around the room. “Morning, everyone.”
Javadi just smiles awkwardly, while Whitaker shifts on his feet and nods at him. At least Santos is having a blast enjoying the hell out of your tragic situation.
“Our colleague here decided to introduce her face to the wall,” she chuckles, shutting up when she realizes she only gets an unimpressed look from McKay.
“Hmm. Minor head trauma on the first day…that’s one way to make an entrance,” Jack jokes trying to lighten the mood, pulling on a fresh pair of gloves with a snap. “Mind if I take a look?” he asks you.
You hesitantly shake your head, and Santos barely steps back before he gets between your knees and you have to look up at him, and wow, that’s familiar. His fingers are gentle as he tilts your chin higher, focused on the small scrape by your hairline.
“It’s just a scratch,” you mumble under your breath.
He ignores it, and brings a penlight to your eyes, doing the same little routine Mckay did. Is this what your first day is supposed to be? A tortuous loop?
I might just fake a seizure right now.
“Any reason you might’ve tripped? Blurry vision? Sudden vertigo? Or…any specific memory that made you lose focus?”
It’s the way he drops his voice lower that makes you almost choke on your own spit. That exact same tone. That damn voice in your ear.
“We already asked those, Dr. Abbot. She said she slipped on a wet patch. No dizziness, no other symptoms,” Whitaker, bless his oblivious soul, chimes in.
Jack slowly turns his head to look at him, with an unimpressed stare that clearly says no one asked you to speak, white boy without using a single word.
Before anyone can torture you any further, a blue eyed doctor bursts in.
“McKay! We’re doing rounds.”
“Alright, meet us there once Dr. Abbot is done with you,” she says to you, ushering the others out. “Don’t forget to give her that band-aid she’s so desperate for.”
“I’ll take good care of her,” Jack replies, with an innocent smile.
The audience of your public execution finally leaves. And it’s great! Perfect. Exactly what you wanted: alone time. You don’t realize you’ve been holding onto the gurney for dear life until Jack–or should you call him Dr. Abbot now?–chuckles.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” He asks, amused.
“I don’t know, you’re the doctor here, apparently. So you tell me, how’s my head?” you snap, in a mix of nerves and residual embarrassment.
He grins. Oh he grins like fucking devil. “I don’t have any complaints.”
Heat rushes to your face instantly, and suddenly it’s like you’re back flirting in that bar again, sharing a chocolate cake. You shake those thoughts away, clearing your throat.
“So um…your flight was actually a night shift…in this hospital,” you say.
“Yeah. And your ‘big day’ was starting your first morning in this same ER. Nice upgrade from anonymous hotel guest, I guess.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny,” he chuckles, but you’re still looking at him skeptically. “Hey–it’s not that bad. People have done worse.”
“Worse than sleeping with an attending?” You say. “Like what–stealing medicine or secretly killing patients?”
“What? No–I hope no one’s doing that” he frowns.
This is the moment you start panicking for real.
“God, Dr. Robinavitch’s gonna kill me or worse,” you gasp. “He’s gonna fire me. Fuck–he’s gonna fire me and this is gonna be over before I even start my shift–“
“Whoa okay, no one’s getting killed or fired today. You just need to get out there, and focus on your work. Alright? Can you do that for me?”
That. Fucking. Tone.
“Stop talking like that!” You whisper shout, knowing nurses could be nearby. “This is my first day, and I already have to convince everyone I’m not a complete disaster. So yes, I can do that for you. Happy? I’d like my band-aid now, please.”
“Okay, okay. You’ll get your band-aid,” he says calmly. “You just have to be more patient.”
You shoot him a glare, but he just smiles, still unbothered. He walks to a cabinet, pulling out a bright pink box of band-aids with a huge “My little pony” printed on it.
“What is that?”
“Best we have in triage,” he shrugs, amused. He looks back inside into the cabinet, before smirking at you. “We got Spongebob too.”
“…My little pony is fine,” you mutter.
“Alright,” he nods, invading your space again. “Look up for me.”
You’re grateful you’re not hooked to a heart monitor. You close your eyes, take a deep breath, and tilt your head up.
“Almost done, you’re doing great,” he drawls, smoothing the stupid band-aid over your life threatening injury with ridiculous care. “There,” Jack says, finally stepping back. “All done. You did so good for m–”
You snap upright from the bed so fast you almost cause yourself another injury by bumping into his big ass head.
“I have to go,” you blurt, already making your way to the door. “Thank you, Dr. Abbot. I hope we never see each other again.”
He peels off his gloves with a laugh, tossing them into the bin. This is the most entertaining thing that’s happened to him all week.
“No promises, doc,” he winks, “PTMC is not that big.”
You don’t give him the satisfaction of a response or even to see the panic on your face. You practically launch yourself into the hallway, and start speed walking toward the ED with a My little pony bandaid on your forehead.
Best sex of your life.
Worst coincidence of your career.
And yet…you can’t wait till you see him again.
Thank you so much for reading 🤍 feedback is always appreciated ✨
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