ꕀ ❛ but i love that man (like nobody can) ❜ 𓂃 𝓳ack 𝓪bbot ꒱ ｡
• ⟮ 𝓳ack 𝓪bbot 𝒙 𝓯emale psychologist! reader ⟯
stalkerish!jack ◞ age gap ◞ angst ◞ manhandling ◞ rumours ◞ enemies to lovers ◞ jealousy ( in 'why not me?' way ) ◞ complicated relationships ◞ abbot is an asshole ◞ car sex ◞ toxic behaviour ◞ grumpy x sunshine dynamics ✶
✉️ written in inspiration from this request.
You had no idea where your job was being redirected.
Not really, not in a way that mattered to you.
All you knew, what you had clung to through years of schooling, sleepless nights, clinical hours that blurred into each other — was that you were going to be a psychologist. Not adjacent to it. A clinical psychologist.
You had earned that title. You had graduated at the top of the best doctoral program residing in your city.
And you had told yourself, with a kind of foolish, romantic certainty, that you would follow it wherever it led.
Even if that meant somewhere unfamiliar. Somewhere loud. Somewhere that did absolutely nothing for your sanity.
It didn’t care if you were tired. And, increasingly, neither did your job.
You had arrived prepared, actually over-prepared if anything.
You knew the diagnostic criteria of every major disorder like it was second nature to you. You had rehearsed patient interactions in your head like a mental patient, anticipated resistance when announcing disorders, regression, breakthroughs. You had memorized medication classes, side effects too. You knew every psychiatric facility in the county, even ZIP codes — like it was some necessary academic geography.
You were ready to treat, to listen, and to understand. To help.
Instead…you were assigned to Kiara Alfaro. A social worker. She was kind, warm, even. The woman who touched your arm when she spoke to patients and remembered small details about people’s lives even before recalling their names . She wasn’t dismissive at all, never daring to belittle.
She just…wasn’t what you were there for. At first, you told yourself it was temporary. Almost expected.
A month, maybe, and you’d be back upstairs in the brand new psychology wing. Where you belonged,
You could tolerate a month.
And suddenly, your days weren’t filled with the anticipated case studies and therapy sessions and carefully structured conversations you’d rehearsed so perfectly. They were filled with grief. You stood beside Kiara in rooms with sterile lighting and watched parents fall to their knees in real time. You learned how to say ‘there was nothing we could do’ whilst detaching from reality. Gaze always pointed slightly down when you did, however. When someone collapsed into themselves after hearing that their child wasn’t coming back, there was a sort of sound they made. A gasp. Much like a last breath…then an onslaught of tears.
You’d learned how to walk away from it even if no one had trained you for that. You weren’t supposed to be a truthbreaker. That wasn’t in your application. And yet- working double shifts you hadn’t agreed to.
You saw people, of course. But you were never familiar as the doctors were with eachother.
Shen would hand you coffee sometimes, wordless, like he didn’t quite know what to say but felt like he should do something. Coffee was somehow always the answer for him. Iced.
Robby gave you looks, sympathetic, and fleeting. Like he didn’t have the time to stop, even if he wanted to. He was valid in that at least.
You weren’t sure either of them knew your name, or anyone for that matter. Not your first name, at least.
But they knew something else. Everyone did.
It clung to you like a label you couldn’t peel off, even if you were only a few years Victoria’s senior, the nicknames came all the same.
It mde your skin prickle every time. You were not a kid, you were a grown fucking woman with a doctorate. You had earned your place here.
You thought about going to administration. Not about the stupid nickname but about the placement you’d been forced into. More than once, actually.
Reality surfaced itself behind your brow every single time you did.
You had landed this job straight out of your program. Do you know how rare that was? You’d chastise internally. How many people would’ve taken your place without hesitation?
Robby was drowning. That’s it. Dana…maybe. In another universe, maybe you would’ve gone to her. But your interactions never went beyond a passing smile, a quick wink in the hallway that never failed to make you flush. Nothing even relatively substantial enough to build a complaint on.
So that left one person. Naturally.
Trinity Santos, of course.
Your safest bet, or at least, the least dangerous one.
You leaned against her desk, trying to appear casual despite the tension churning in your gut. She didn’t even look up at first, fingers twirling lazily between a phone line and her keyboard like she had all the time in the world. Her charting lists were stacked. She did not.
“You know,” you started carefully, “I was told I was going to be partnered with Dr. Park when I got the job-“
“Shark?” She spat out almost instantly.
“Yeah, yeah. Park the Shark,” she cut in once again, easily, like it was obvious. Like you were the odd one for not knowing.
It threw you off just enough that you didn’t respond right away. A nickname, obviously. Maybe you were being slow?
“You can thank Jack for saving you from those jaws, yeah?”
That made you pause again. More throughly though. Jack?
Your brows pulled together slightly as you managed to straighten out your shoulders whilst leaning yourself even more forward to whisper, “What?”
Trinity finally looked up then, like she’d realized a second too late that she’d said something she maybe shouldn’t have. But it was already out, so what the fuck? Right?
“Jack Abbot,” she clarified, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. “He pulled some strings. Said you weren’t going anywhere near Park.”
“Well why would he?” You stopped yourself, trying to piece it together internally. “He’s not my attending.”
You didn’t even have an attending to be fair.
“He’s not even in my department.”
Trinity gave you a look then. Not dismissive, just measuring and arrogant in a way that was very much Trinity Santos. Like she was deciding how much to say but also letting you know she knew everything.
“Yeah,” she said slowly. “That’s kind of the point.” Pausing slightly to set down the landline to prop her elbows up. “You were supposed to go to Park,” Trinity continued, voice lower now. “Full psych track, the kind you trained for.”
A beat that made your stomach quake involuntarily.
“Why?” you asked again, softer this time, like he’d be lurking behind you when you spoke an octave too loud.
Her fingers stilled on the desk. The casual air around her slipping, just sliightly. Trinity leaned back in her chair, studying you now in a way that made something cold settle in your chest.
“Jack’s been flagging your assignments since you got here,” she said. “Not officially. But every time your name comes up for something…heavier, something in your schedule shifts.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” you retort, shaking your head. “He doesn’t even know me.”
Something in your chest tightened defiantly at that. Because no, you weren’t. Not really.
You thought of the way he looked at you sometimes. brief, passing glances that lingered just a second too long. The way he always seemed to notice when you were around, even if he didn’t speak.
The way your schedule, somehow, always overlapped with his shifts. Coincidence, of course you’d always told yourself.
“You didn’t hear this from me,” Trinity added, voice dropping again as she waved her hands in front of herself almost protectively. “He said you weren’t ready,” she continued. “That you’d get eaten alive up there.”
“That’s not his decision to make,” you said immediately, heat rising in your chest.
That conversation didn’t just linger in your head, it followed you through every single shift you took up in the weeks following. It wasn’t even the logistics of it that bothered you most at first, not the technicality of staffing or who had authority over what. It was the audacity, the unfiltered audacity of a man you had barely exchanged more than a glance with somehow reaching into your career and rearranging it like it belonged to him.
Again, he wasnt your attending, you didn’t even have a damned attending.
Rearranging you like you belonged to him without needing titled formalities. You didn’t even know the sound of his voice properly, and yet he knew where you worked, when you worked, who you worked with. And had the right to readjust it when he pleased?
By the time your shift ended, if it could even be called an ending, you were too exhausted to keep your thoughts from spiraling. Four deaths, four separate families four separate moments where you had to stand there, hold yourself together, and try to reassure heartbroken parents with the same reused words of ‘we did everything we could.’ Kiara had slipped out hours ago with a squeeze to your shoulder, leaving you to handle the rest of it alone, and you had.
By the time you were done, your body felt like it was lagging behind you, movements just a second too slow, thoughts just a little bit too delayed for how fast you wanted to move.
The second floor had become a blur of motion. In and out of the psych wing, back through the ER, papers exchanged, signatures gathered, questions answered with a professionalism you barely felt capable of maintaining anymore. But eventually, finally, there was nothing left to do. No one left to speak to. No more forms to chase down. The building quieted in that strange, late-night way hospitals did, where everything settled into sterile lighting but never fully slept.
And so you made your way to the elevator.
You didn’t even think about it. Just stepped in, exhaling a long, tired breath that came out a bit louder than you intended, the kind meant for empty spaces. For a moment where no one was watching. Which was what you assumed this was. Rightfully.
A quiet sound behind you, a throat clearing, low but unmistakable, snapped you out of it so quickly your shoulders tensed, your pulse jumping before you even turned.
You knew who it was before you fully faced him.
You had seen him enough in passing to recognize the outline alone. Broad shoulders filling the corner of the elevator like he belonged there, and arguably…he did. The space itself almost seemed to have been built around him. Just for him. His hair, slicked back but looser now than during the day, streaked and curledwith grey at the temples. His posture wasn’t relaxed, not really, just controlled, contained. Everything about him was contained.
Up close, he was…sharper than you expected. Much sharper than you could catch in those lingering, passing glances. His eyes were darker, much more focused. Even the faint scattering of freckles across his face that spread and dipped beneath the start of his scrub top felt at odds with the rest of him, like something softer that he’d forgotten to stiffen up too.
Your reaction was immediate and partly instinctive — you smiled, quick and awkward, and turned just as fast, placing your back toward him like that would somehow lessen the awkward nature of being in such a small space together. Side-by-side felt too close. Facing him felt worse. Much worse.
So you stood there, rigid, staring at the closed elevator doors as they slid shut with a quiet click.
Silence stretched even more awkwardly.
The soft hum of the elevator. The faint, almost mocking instrumental music overhead meant for patients, not staff. The steady awareness of him standing just behind you, not moving, not even speaking.
You told yourself to stay quiet. Internally, of course. You told yourself to let it pass.
But your mind wouldn’t stop — Trinity’s voice, her expression, that look — and before you could stop yourself, your mouth moved.
“Are-uh—I mean…” You winced slightly at yourself, forcing the words into something more coherent. “Hello, Dr. Abbot.”
It sounded rehearsed. And it very much was. Both wrong and too late.
There was a pause behind you. An audible one.
Then, when you turned, because you had to, because not looking felt worse somehow, he was already watching you. He didn’t smile. Just lifted a brow slightly, acknowledging you with a small tilt of his head like your presence had been noted and categorized. That was it. That was all you got.
And somehow, that was worse than being ignored.
You swallowed, pushing forward anyway, because now that you’d started, stopping felt impossible. And somehow even more humiliating.
“Just a-um—a quick question,” you continued, your voice betraying you despite your efforts to steady it. “As an attending such as yourself…” You trailed for half a second, aware of how stiff and formal and stupid you sounded, but you couldn’t seem to fix it fast enough. “Are you allowed to make shifts in staff placements? Or-uh—patient calendars?”
There it was. Out in the open. Were you really taking Trinity’s words for truth? Wasn’t she known to gossip? Sure, not as as much as Princess or Perlah but still-
You felt exposed the second the words left your mouth, like you’d just stripped fully naked in front of a crowd that held thousands. For a moment, he didn’t answer, he just looked at you in the way he did. Not surprised, not confused either.
Like he’d been expecting it.
“It’s my job,” he said finally.
Dismissive in a way that didn’t raise his voice but still managed to shut something down. But he didn’t look away after saying it, his gaze stayed on you, steady, measuring, and there was something faint beneath it — something that almost resembled amusement, but without any warmth to it. Like he actually enjoyed watching you falter over yourself just to form a sentence.
It made your chest tighten.
“That’s-“ You stopped, recalibrating, your exhaustion making it much harder to filter yourself. “That’s not exactly what I meant.”
The elevator hummed softly as it passed another floor, as if it was listening too. At least the machine had a nerve to move. He stood in place like a stone pillar.
“Then say what you meant,” he replied, almost cooly.
He wasn’t brushing you off anymore, he was engaging with you now. And that felt…awarding. Awarding?
Your fingers curled slightly at your sides, nails pressing faintly into your palms as you forced yourself to hold his gaze.
“I was supposed to be placed under Dr. Park,” you said, more evenly this time. “Full psych track. That’s what I was hired for.”
“But I’m not. And I was told that had something to do with you.”
There you go. No going back now. Shit…was that too bold? Were you being arrogant?
“M-Might have easily been a rumor…you know? Just— ah…curious?”
Much better. Now you sounded like a bootlicker.
The air in the elevator felt heavier suddenly, like the space had shrunk without physically changing.
Jack watched you for a long moment, long enough that you started to wonder if he was going to answer at all.
No denial. He was being bold. Just the truth, delivered plainly, your stomach dropped then cartwheeled.
“Why?” you asked immediately, more breathless from your own ramblings than his admission.
This time, he exhaled quietly through his nose — god that nose of his — his gaze flicking briefly toward the elevator doors before returning to you.
“You’re out of your depth up there,” he said declaratively. Still quiet enough to be passed off as stern over dismissive. But you knew better.
The words hit harder than you expected. Not because of what they meant exactly. Inexperienced. Out-worked. Young.
But because of how easily he said them.
“You don’t know that,” you shot back, heat rising despite your exhaustion. “You’ve never even spoken to me.”
“I’ve observed you,” he corrected. “Running yourself into the ground on cases you’re barely equipped to process,” he continued, his tone still maddeningly even. “Taking on double shifts you shouldn’t be agreeing to. Walking out of rooms looking like you’re about to fall apart but going right back in anyway.”
“You think that qualifies you for Park’s floor?” he added. “You can barely work a job I gave you. Spoonfed you.”
You opened your mouth…then closed it. Because part of you wanted to argue. And part of you…couldn’t. Because he was right. He was so fucking right.
“That’s not your decision to make,” you said finally, quieter now, but no less firm. You held a valid point at least.
And then, after a brief pause…
“But I made it anyway, right?”
The metal doors sliding open.
Now this conversation — if it could even be called that — had lodged itself so deeply into your consciousness that it felt less like a memory and more like a splinter under the skin. A splinter you’d tried endlessly to pick out but only got left with a gaping wound.
It sat there, impossible to ignore, impossible to remove, catching on every thought you tried to move past it.
You replayed it in fragments at first, your brain perhaps trying to save you from PTSD: the elevator doors closing, his voice cutting through your exhale, the calm certainty with which he spoke as if your future were a chart on his desk that he had already reviewed and signed off on.
But the more you replayed it, the less it felt like a confrontation and the more it felt like something worse. Or…something it was?
Because it had not been a conversation between equals. It had not even been an argument. It had been your frustration — spoken through partly incoherent rambles — thrown upward against something immovable, only to be met with a response so dismissive it made your effort feel childish in retrospect.
That was what stung most the ease he spoke with. As if he was choosing to indulge you personally.
And beneath all of it was the fact that he had admitted it.
He had admitted that he was the one shifting your assignments, redirecting your path, keeping you from the work you were hired to do.
Not because of protocol nor because of policy.
Because he decided to. Because, in his assessment, his observations, you were out of your depth.
That certainty had followed you long after he walked away.
In the way every new shift assignment now felt suspect the second it landed in your inbox. As if pre-read by some guarding entity.
Because once you knew someone had been quietly steering your career behind the scenes, you could no longer pretend your life in that hospital was unfolding naturally.
Now everything felt beyond intentional.
Every schedule adjustment felt intentional.
Every missed opportunity looked curated.
Every delay, every reroute, every unexplained change became evidence of a hand you coulld not see but could now feel. Undeniably.
How many choices had actually been yours? Had they ever been truly choices? Or just options waiting to be handed to you personally?
And you had been taking each obediently.
That night, after the confrontation, you sat alone in your apartment staring at your phone long after midnight, unable to settle into anything that partly resembled rest. Your mind was too active, too full of his words and Trinity’s near-mocking looks and your own delayed anger.
Then your phone buzzed. Just what you needed. A reminder you still existed.
One message. “This is a teaching hospital.”
It took you a second to even process who it was from.
As in Micheal Robinvitch, saved as: “Dr. Ribbit.”
A contact you had saved months ago for entirely practical reasons, forms, shift changes, occasional departmental clarifications. You had never texted casually, even if the contact name felt so. Never spoken outside work.
Certainly never enough to justify him messaging you after midnight with something that cryptic.
Because the sentence itself was harmless. Almost obvious.
Of course it was a goddamned teaching hospital, you knew that. Along with everyone else you worked beside.
So why the fuck did it feel like a warning?
Or some sort of regurgitated reminder?
As if he were telling you that what had happened in that elevator was not personal at all, that he knew every exchanged word you shared with Jack.
And of course that part could be expected, they called each other “brother” and mocked med-students together.
But it wasn’t that, it was the implication that being redirected, corrected, reshaped by those above you was part of the culture.
And that simple message slowly morphed your internal ramblings into: how did everyone suddenly know your business?
Your conversation with Trinity had lasted minutes. It was half sarcasm, half reluctant honesty she’d practically forced herself to speak after giving away too much. Barely enough to qualify as gossip.
And yet somehow, within hours after, Jack had confronted you.
Spoken the same line she did. And had they ever been audacity to throw in a fucking wink?
The implicaton was unavoidable.
Maybe not literally, not through hidden microphones or some hidden surveillance. Information traveled regardless. Someone clearly was!
And Jack — more than anyone — seemed to stand at the center of that sleep-deprived epiphany of yours.
You had once dismissed it as coincidence. Now coincidence felt like a lousy excuse you used for rejection of something too complicated to decipher whilst running on only iced coffee. And working night shifts you really shouldn’t agree to.
It had been a quiet shift since you’d shown up this morning, but your hair still ended up mussed and frizzy — eyes still lined by deep purple circles that may have made you seem more patient than doctor. Your scrubs gave you away. Luckily.
And your worse sin to commit this week? Not accidentally tossing a scalpel over your shoulder in place for a pen Garcia had requested. Not forgetting to wash your hands after tending to sobbing siblings and ending up with a mixture of snot and tears smearing over your phone screen.
Arriving atop bicycle. That’s what it was.
It was a good idea at first to be fair, you lived only minutes away, and biking was something you enjoyed. Partly.
Wind through your hair and a workout? It seemed like a great idea.
It worked fine this morning, but now? The idea of tossing your exhausted body onto a bicycle after a twelve hour double-shift? Yeah, no.
So there you sat. Next to your cream-colored bike, in a shamble of sticky lipgloss to hydrate cracked lips, and your hair — which you’ve now managed to force into some sort of abstract updo to keep out of your face.
Were you about to cry in a parking lot? Maybe.
The parking garage is nearly empty. The late night shadows and overhead fluorescents are doing their usual thing — that sickly amber wash that makes everything look darker and more ominous, turns concrete pillars and machine-painted lines into something out of a liminal space photograph.
Your shift ended nine minutes ago. You've been sitting in this lot for three of those minutes and you're no closer to leaving than you were when you got in.
Why couldn’t you allow a few tears to slip down your cheeks in protest?
Your eyes are already wet.
You blink. Hard. Twice. You sniff, once, sharp, and press the back of your wrist against your nose and stare at your little bike beside you and try internally to convince yourself that you are absolutely, categorically not falling apart in a parking garage. Over a bicycle.
A tear escapes down the side of your nose and you swipe it away with your knuckle so hard the skin stings in its own form of protest.
It all comes flooding right back to you. The way Jack cleared his throat in that elevator. Trinity’s correction on Park’s nickname that felt more like a punch to the jugular than a minor correction. The exchanged glances with Jack in the hallways where you attempt to avert your gaze but he simply just continues standing just inside your peripheral vision so that you can never fully forget he's watching.
Suddenly it feels like everything is watching you. The light reflecting off of your tears and turning them amber. The creak of sedentary cars nearby. The fucking wind shoving your loose hairs directly into your lip-gloss smeared mouth.
Headlights bloom across the concrete in front of you. Blinding you for about three seconds before you can register where you even are again.
The light stretches your shadow forward, elongates it across the front of your car, and for a second you’re just annoyed; someone pulling you right out of your very personal fit. Someone who got to have a very normal end to their shift and get in their very functioning car and leave.
And it doesn’t pass. It slows. It stops.
You don’t even look up because some self preserving corner of your brain already knows.
You keep staring at the reflection on your bike. Your vision has gone blurry, half tears, half pure exhaustion, half the flat refusal of your eyes to focus on anything that isn’t a human. You can feel him behind you, the shift in pressure and temperature that changes the quality of the air against the back of your neck.
He doesn’t say anything for five seconds. You count them individually.
His thick arm enters your field of vision from the left and he reaches for the handle of your bike, lifting it up with ease and simply carrying it off. You hear the familiar sound belonging to the bike mount attached to the back of his Jeep. The clicking of your bike being mounted.
You catch it then, his cologne, or whatever it is, something clean and woody and slightly warming that cuts through the garage smell of concrete and motor oil and settles into the space between your tightened throat and your shaking chest with a certain specificity that makes you want to bite down on something.
He smells offensively good. Offensively good for someone who’s been standing in recycled air for nearly eight hours.
“Come on. Get in.” His voice, smooth and firm as ever. He says it without looking up from the mount, one hand braced on the frame, shaking it and testing the stability — the other buried somewhere in the depths of his pocket.
Slowly — almost obediently — you stand up. Bones clicking back into place after sitting motionless for so long. Mind suddenly clear after being struck into the depths of overstimulation.
All because of a simple order. A stern voice.
He’s not looking at you when he enters his own vehicle. He’s looking at his own hands as he cleans them off on his under-shirt, like they’re the only thing worth his tim, like he has all the time in the world and you having an internal breakdown doesn’t exactly concern him in the moment.
“You’re smart with the patients. I’ve seen it.” He says flatly after a while of silence, without, a concession that clearly costs him nothing when it’s only you. “You’ve got some good words to say when they’re not shaking. Good instincts when you’re not waiting for Kiara to speak them before you do. Then you do this- ” He nods out of the open window, toward the spot you were previously crumpled up in.
“It makes me consider your baseline effort. Makes me have to observe you further. Make sure you’re not choking on your own thoughts.”
The word “choking” lands different coming from him. Like this. Not like an insult. A fact. A finality.
The inside of his car smells exactly like him, just like the whiff you’d managed to catch. That’s the first thing you register as you pull the door shut after you, an anchor back to reality. That whiff now multiplied and warmed by the closed space as he swiftly rolls up his open window.
Which was probably previously open so he could stare at you — huddled in the corner of this grimy parking garage — and consider if he should offer help. Or demand you accept it.
You put on your (his) seatbelt. You stare straight ahead. You give him your address in a mumbled voice that comes out smaller than you intended to speak with and you feel him register that with a simple nod.
Only about two minutes into the drive, your throat is doing that thing. Your throat is doing something. Tightening. The tightening your throat does when your nervous system is overloaded and your body’s natural response is release. Through tears.
You are not going to cry in this car. Is all you can think coherently. You are not going to give him the satisfaction of watching you cry in his car with his scent suffocating your lungs and his silence pressing against you from every direction like something with actual weight other than humiliation.
“You should have asked for a break during hour three.”
He’s informing you now, in his car, in the darkest hours of the morning, with nineteen minutes of road between you and your house. Informing you that you should’ve taken that break. That you were sloppy. That it’s your fault you crashed and were now burning helplessly.
Your left hand is trembling. You flatten it against your thigh and hold it there, fighting the urge not to reach out and slap him clean across his face.
You let that thought resister. Not his ten worded remark that almost sent you spiraling.
You want to hit him in his handsome, freshly-shaved face. You want to put your fist into the smooth hinge of his jaw and feel the impact travel back up your wrist and lock in your shoulder.
A tear escapes suddenly. It tracks down the bridge of your slightly scrunched nose and catches at the corner of your mouth and you taste salt and you don’t wipe it away because wiping it away would require moving your twitching hand and moving your hand would require admitting that you’re crying and currently shaking and you are not admitting that you’re crying or shaking.
You don’t hit him, however.
You turn your head and watery gaze and you look at him and he must feel the weight of it because he turns too, slow, very unhurried, and his sharp eyes find yours in the warm morning light filtering in the car and they’re steady. Completely steady as they take in your watery eyes and the moisture collecting around your nostrils.
He’s just looking at you.
And that undoes you completely.
“Why? So you can add that to your list of fuckin’ ‘observation?’” You be sure to add extra drama to the shaky words with air quotes and a deep furrow of your brow. Finally raising a hand to smear away the salt and hot and frustrated tears from your cheeks, rubbing the collection of liquids onto your jeans with a huff of air.
He says absolutely nothing to that. His gaze flipping from the empty morning roads to your mess of a face with ease. To him? He was probably expecting this little breakdown. Probably organized it away into his subconscious like he did with the rest of your career.
“You’re a real asshole, Abbot-“
You sit there with your hand on the seatbelt and the salt drying on your upper lip and you feel the sentence you’d pre-loaded settle into the shape of something far forgotten as his words branch out to possess the space of the car once again. I know, he says, so simply. Everything about him is just so simple. He knows just about it everything he wants to. He knows.
Your body is suddenly doing something that doesn’t align with the plan your brain is trying to execute, which is: insult, belittle, open door, leave. Very simple.
Because his gaze falls right to your lips as they quiver.
It’s fast. A quarter second. Maybe less.
But you catch it. And you react.
Your body has been running on nothing but pure cortisol and canned coffee and excess lip balm, how could you move with conscious thought now?
Your hand comes off the seatbelt — not even thinking twice about the fact you’re in a moving vehicle, on a open road — release and goes directly to the back of his neck and your fingers close in the short greying hair above his shirt collar and you pull, and your mouth finds his immediately.
It’s frantic at first. A kiss with absolutely zero structure.
Until his free hand comes off the wheel and cups the back of your mussed head, fingers closing around the nape and gripping, thumb pressing into the cavity beside your spine, the rest of his hand spanning the width of your neck, and he holds you there.
You wonder, mid-kiss, if his eyes are open.
You barely realize he’s already pulled over into an empty lot. Engine idling. Parking lights flashing. One hand on the wheel.
He let you be frantic for about a second before he’s back to controlling. Redirecting. Tilting your head where he wants it, adjusting the angle, his thumb pressing under your jaw until your chin lifts and your throat is exposed clearly in the light and the sound that comes out of you is something you’ll hear echoing in your own head for weeks to follow.
“You’re gonna take it out on me? Hm?” His voice is gruff and muffled as he forces his mouth back against yours, free hand now drifting from the wheel and tracing over the console before it meets the button of your seatbelt. The buckle snaps free. And suddenly you’re directly in his lap.
You try your best to lean off of his prosthetic, hoping you’re not making him uncomfortable — but simultaneously kissing him like you want to hurt him. All teeth clashing and tongues battling.
Saliva mingling and dripping collectively down your chins as you pull back for air.
Looking up at you. His hands grasping at your waist. His jaw set. The only thing moving is his chest, rising and falling with breaths that are surprisingly much faster than your own pants.
“I think you knew I was watching you,” he grunts out, a bit mockingly, hands suddenly grabbing greedy handfuls out of your hips and rolling you across his lap. You can’t help but move with his force. “Subconsciously n’ all.”
It’s a desperate move. You should be ashamed. But that’s exactly what’d he’d want.
“Y’want me to give you something proper to cry about? Other than a fuckin’ bike?”
Shit, you were drooling. How’d you get like this again? Ah, who cares.
“Jack,” You breathe out, ripping your eyes away from the growing tent in his scrubs just to look up at him.
He was almost panting, dark grey eyes pouring down into yours, face flushed with different shades of red and pink, his lips parted softly — hell, he looked like he was in heat or something.
Those stern, almost needy-looking eyes of his lower against your frame before he moves his hands in slow motion — the rough callouses of his fingers meeting your naked waist and making you whine as he carefully tugs you closer to him. Your hand loses its place against his clothed cock and you're promptly sat down on the same erection you'd been palming — forced to feel how he twitches wildly upon feeling your bare cunt press down on him instead.
“I know…I know…” He hums, as his hands travel up, mapping out every inch of your skin like he always does while muttering, "You really wanna ride me like this? I'm still wearing my work clothes," He’s mocking you now, he knows fully well he’s the one who set you in his lap. The one who made you grind back against him.
But it wasn’t like you were protesting.
“I’m in your lap. In a parking lot, Jack. I don’t care..” You huff in retort.
He scoffs at you before moving the thick of his thumb to your bottom lip and then tugging it down to watch how a sheeny slick of drool escapes you, "Needy little thing. Can I get a please out of that mouth? Hm?"
You take his thumb in between your lips for a moment to suck, almost obediently, your hips unconsciously rocking forward to feel more of him — more of his thickening cock that's busy jumping up against the fabric between you both. You longed to feel him fuck you full and kiss that spongey spot inside you that always makes you sob out when you press into it yourself.
You’re sure his cock would feel much better.
Batting your lashes pliantly, your lips wetly pop off of him as you pout a bit petulantly, "Please, Jack?"
Jack only shakes his head almost disappointedly at your lack of manners, "Please what, sweetheart? If you can beg, you can beg properly. Tell me exactly what it is you want from me, yeah?" He trails off as he presses his warm mouth to your throat, continuing his ministrations of biting and nipping and marking with a muffled: “kids these days…no manners.”
"I told you already," Your pout deepens despite yourself and he fights the urge to mock you. "I want you inside me. I want you to fuck me."
"Atta' girl, that's all I wanted to hear." He rolls his hips up slowly to grind up against your slobbering cunt once more, swallowing down a groan at how soft you feel even with all the layers of clothing between your bodies. "Go on then, take it.“
You don't waste another single second upon hearing that. Your hands fly down to tug at the loose knot holding up his scrub bottoms, letting it roll down his sharp hips alongside his boxers — shuffling beneath your tangled limbs to adjust yourself, and then reaching a hand into the remnants of his boxers to finally pull his cock free.
The plump head flops out first, landing up against his clothed abdomen with that sinful left curve you’ve only now observed. The sight alone has you letting out an embarrassingly desperate moan before you lift yourself and let his hands guide you once again by your waist until you're hovering over him.
Then, you hesitate for a second and he raises an amused brow. Once, his amusement would’ve made you fantasize — ‘once’, being put very lightly, mere seconds ago may be a more accurate way of putting it — about your palm connecting with his jaw.
"Don't get shy on me now," he warns gruffly, voice cutting through your thoughts, tipping his head to the side and letting his grip travel down to your hips to ease your body where he needs it, "You said you wanted to ride me so, ride me. Show me how pretty you look taking my cock, c'mon."
Feeling a bit more encouraged, you finally let your hand wrap around his wiiide base and hold him in place as you sink down on him. His thick tip smears your pussylips apart and chokes a moan out of both of your throats. Your lashes flutter as you continue to travel down — inch by sprawling inch — and his eyes never leave your body.
"So gorgeous," Jack whispers softly before using one hand to push you further down and the other to come up and squeeze at your tits.
It's not long before both of you are getting into the rhythm of things. Your cunt stretching to adjust to his size. His fingers learning where you like them best. By the time your cunt swallows up every inch of him, left to clench and throb around his bulging base, Jacks’ got his lips latched to your perky nipples, sucking it into his mouth and letting his tongue waft around carefree.
The outside world fades into a blur as the streets beyond the lot begin to fill with cars rushing to work — traffic being a natural effect of a busy road, anyone parked in line of view with the empty lot and a rocking car is sure to know exactly what’s going on inside.
