wastingawayagain - Tumblr blog

wastingawayagain · 2 days ago

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Have you ever tried this one?

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Pairing: John Walker x reader. Word count: 5.2k

Note: Another one inspired by a Sabrina Carpenter song, this time it’s Juno. If you know, you know😉 enjoy 🫶🏼

Description: John had been away on a long mission. A month of nothing but his fist and filthy thoughts of you, edging himself to save it all for you. Every last drop. So when he catches you singing some dirty song about needing it deep? You get exactly what you asked for.

Tags/Warnings: Smut, fem!reader, John gets freaky with his super strength, oral f!rec, only the tip, piv sex, cum play, cum kink (srlsy a lot🙂‍↕️), overstimulation (he just keeps going), so much dirty talk, literally just 5k words of filth with plot.

Happens in the same universe as “Come right on me … I mean camaraderie” but can be read as a stand alone.

Masterlist / archive

It wasn't John's fault. Not really.

It wasn't his fault Bucky had sent him on a month long mission to a place so remote it didn't even show up on a map. It wasn't his fault the signal was garbage, barely enough to send a text, much less hear your voice to at least let you know just how badly he needed you.

By the second week, he was already losing his mind.

Because waking up soaked in sweat with a cock so hard it hurt wasn't the problem, it was waking up alone. Reaching out blindly for the soft heat of your body only to find cold sheets and a cruel reminder that you were only in his dreams. Nothing more than a fucking fantasy. That the version of you riding him, moaning his name in that perfect, ruined little voice of yours, was nothing but a sick joke his head kept playing on loop.

It was maddening.

So no, it wasn't his fault that the tension inside him just kept building up like he was some horny teenager. And no matter how many times his hand drifted down to try to relieve some, anything, he never let himself finish. Not once.

Because coming without you felt wrong.

He told himself the same thing every time, between gritted teeth and sweat dripping from his brow: save it for her.

Every. Single. Drop.

He wrapped up his assignment three days earlier. Fueled by the image of you on your knees, of your pretty little mouth open for him, of that wet heaven between your legs he hadn't tasted in weeks.

He barely acknowledged Yelena when she passed him in the hallway that night he arrived. She raised a brow, opening her mouth to speak.

"Not now," John snapped, already walking past her.

Yelena didn't press further, just raised an eyebrow at the direction John was headed to. Your room.

Yeah, not exactly a shock.

It wasn't a secret you two were having ... something. The compound's walls weren't that thick, and no one here was blind either. You'd both been caught sneaking out of each other's rooms enough times that it barely qualified as "sneaking" anymore.

The whole damn compound probably had a scorecard by now.

At this point, it was honestly ridiculous you still had separate rooms at all. Maybe you liked the thrill of it ... or maybe you were just idiots.

Either way, Yelena knew one thing for sure, she'd probably end up crashing in the living room with the others from that floor, if they wanted to get some sleep that night.

But when John finally reached your door, you weren't there.

He groaned in frustration, eyes narrowing. Maybe you were in the kitchen. Maybe you'd just stepped out, the warm lamp illuminating your messed bedsheets told him so.

Fine. He could wait ... barely.

He dropped his duffel and shield in the his room and headed straight for your shower, too tense to sit still. He scrubbed off the mission, the restraint, all while ignoring the throbbing between his legs he'd been carrying for weeks now. He told himself just a little longer, just a few more minutes and he could finally bury himself in you again, where he belonged.

He was mid drying his body when he heard the door of the room open. He tracked the sound of your footsteps across the room, the gentle bounce of the mattress as you hummed a song.

"Wanna try out some freaky positions ... have you ever tried this one?"

He paused with the towel in hand, half grinning to himself. What on earth were you singing now?

It wasn't the first time he'd caught you in your room with headphones on, humming to yourself like no one else existed. He loved it, loved the way you sang so freely when you thought you were alone. It was always cute. Except this time the lyrics were far away from being “cute”.

He opened the bathroom door with anticipation, hoping to catch your surprised face when you saw him standing in your bathroom with just a towel covering his lower half. But you couldn't see him.

You were sitting cross legged on the bed, facing the headboard. Wearing nothing but one of his huge old shirts, the hem barely covering your thighs, and those noise canceling headphones Yelena and Bob gave you for your birthday.

You were swaying softly, completely oblivious to his presence. The music was loud enough that he could hear the faint echo of a girl's voice through the headphones. Your head bobbed to the beat, eyes glued to your phone.

"One of me is cute, but two though?

Give it to me, baby

You make me wanna make you fall in love," you sang softly, scrolling absentmindedly.

John leaned against the doorframe, one hand holding the towel around his hips, tilted head and a smirk on his face. He lost interest on the music you were humming for a moment, his gaze dropped lower.

Was there anything under that shirt?

He needed to know. He had to.

The hem of the shirt shifted with your movement, offering teasing little flashes of your bare thighs. He tried, really tried to shake those thoughts away. It was a sweet moment. He could hear the playfulness in your voice, maybe you were even thinking about him.

But then the lyrics hit again.

"Adore me, hold me and explore me

Mark your territory

Tell me I'm the only, only, only, one"

He didn't know why the words hit him like that. Maybe it was the anticipation of it all. Maybe it was because they echoed every filthy thought he'd tried to bottle up over the past month. Maybe because he barely held himself together anymore.

He hadn't even touched himself in the last few days ... hadn't dared. Just drowned in the pent up need to be inside you, so thoroughly you'd be dripping with him for days.

"Adore me, hold me and explore me

I'm so fucking horny."

The words came out of your mouth in that same casual, airy tone, like you didn't even realize you were saying them. It was almost innocent. But he shook his head, because he knew you.

Always that mouth. That filthy, sweet, open mouth.

"Jesus Christ..." he muttered to himself.

"Tell me I'm the only, only, only one"

You sighed this time, flopping back on the bed with a dramatic groan, closing your eyes while you held your phone against your chest. The movement of your legs caused the hem of his shirt to ride up your thighs just enough to answer his question.

No panties.

That was it.

He crossed the room in three strides, eyes locked on the picture of you laid out beneath him, upside down from his angle, completely unaware of his gaze fixed on you.

What a treat.

He reached for your headphones, but your eyes flew open before he could pull them off. You yelped, gasping at the sight of him looming over you.

"John?!" you gasped, scrambling upright so fast your phone bounced off the bed, headphones following.

You weren't expecting to see him there at all, at least not yet, he was supposed to arrive by the end of the week. Not that you could ever complain though, the image in front of you was something you'd been dreaming all those weeks he was gone.

His body still damp from the shower, towel barely hanging onto his hips, wet blond hair dripping all over his shoulders … and that devilishly charming grin on his face.

"Hey, sweetheart," he greeted, nonchalantly, like he didnt almost give you a heart attack.

You blinked a few times, with a breath caught on your throat. "Did you ... did you just come out of my bathroom?"

But you didn't even wait for an answer. Your body just launched forward, wrapping around him like you needed to prove he was real. He caught you instantly with a faint laugh, one arm curling tight around your waist, the other gripping his towel.

His nose brushed your temple as he whispered, "Got back early, couldn't wait to see you."

You smiled, and couldn't wait any longer either, so you crashed your lips against his. There was no hesitation from him, his hands gripped your waist hard, like he needed to anchor himself. Your fingers clawed his chest, his shoulders, dragging him closer by the back of his neck, needing more.

Needing everything.

His body pressed into yours with no space left between, large hands roaming all over your waist, your back, you ass. It wasn't slow, it wasn't sweet. It was tongues and fingers digging into skin. His rough beard scratching against your soft skin.

You pulled back just long enough to breathe, but he chased your mouth, biting at your bottom lip, not letting you go far.

"Fuck, I missed you," you muttered against his mouth, chest heaving. "Why didn't you say anything?"

He chuckled, raising his brow, his chest vibrating against yours. "Didn't want to interrupt the show."

Your face burned. You tried to hide in his chest, but he grabbed your chin so you wouldn't.

"You gonna tell me the rest of those lyrics?" he asked, looking down at you.

You just cursed lowly, because of course he heard all that.

In one smooth motion, he spun you around so your knees hit the bed and your was back pressed to his damp chest. His arm hooked across your shoulders, keeping you upright as his mouth dragged slow, wet kisses along the side of your neck.

"Don’t be shy … I liked that little song of yours," he mumbled against your skin. "But I think I misheard the best part honey ... you said you were what?"

Your breath hitched, you knew he heard you damn right the first time. And he knew you knew. His arm gripped your hip, guiding your ass to grind against him, and that's when you felt it. Felt him. The thick press of his bulge through the towel, hot and painfully hard, in a way that made you drool in anticipation.

"I said ... you were fucking what baby? What was it again?" he growled, pressing your hip harder when you didn't reply.

Your knees suddenly felt weak. God, you had missed him so much, even if he was about to fuck every single line out of you.

"So fucking h-horny," you blurted out the lyrics, dropping your head back to rest on his shoulder.

He hummed, satisfied, slipping a hand down your shirt until he reached the mess between your thighs.

"Jesus, baby..." he rasped, your body jolting when his fingers barely brushed the slick already pooling there. "You're soaking just from that? tsk tsk tsk.”

"You were gone for so long John," you whined, instinctively pushing back against him, "can you really blame me?"

He laughed, lowly, like you've just told him something absurd.

"You think you’re horny?" he groaned, shaking his head. "I've been jerking off like some goddamn teenager for weeks, and the worst part? I couldn't even finish honey … thinking how you should be the one wringing it out of me."

You bit your lip, whimpering at the image.

"You know how fucking hard that was?" he continued. "Sleeping in a cold bed, not even being able to hear your voice while I had my cock in my hand, trying not to cum 'cause I wanted it all to be yours. Wanted to fill you up the second I got back."

He loosened his grip on you only enough to let go of the towel covering his body. He dragged your shirt higher and then he pressed his bare cock against your ass.

"Feel that, baby?" he growled in your ear. "This is what I've been carrying ... just for you."

"Then give it to me," you begged, squirming in his hold. "John, please, it's been too long..."

"Oh, I will." He chuckled darkly. “But you gotta run that dirty mouth a little bit longer.”

You whined, this is exactly where he wanted you.

"Imagine the first thing I hear when I come back is that filthy little mouth of yours ... what was it you were singin' about? some freaky positions?"

Shit.

"Hold on to me."

Before you could even process it, his arms were under your thighs. You let out a squeal as he took you off the bed, carrying you to the wall. He turned you around midair, and without even a sign of discomfort, lifted your body up until your legs instinctively wrapped around his neck.

Your back hit the wall with a soft thud, and your breath caught in your throat as you realized what was happening.

He was standing, fully upright. Holding you high in the air with your legs hooked over his shoulders, his hands locked under your ass. His face aligned perfectly with your dripping pussy.

"John," you gasped, gripping his wet hair when you realized your head was close to the ceiling now. "What the fuck ..."

He looked up grinning like a devil.

"What?" he asked innocently, smug as hell. "Have you ever tried this one?"

You nervously laughed, shaking your head incredulously.

"Don't worry, baby," he winked, bunching the shirt around your waist, exposing you completely to his greedy eyes. "I got you."

You gasped when his mouth latched on your pussy like he'd been dying of thirst. Obscene sounds filled the room, from your wetness, from the mess he was painting all over his beard, from your pleads. His grip was unshakable, anchoring you in place while his mouth worked like he was trying to make up for every second he'd been gone.

Your chest began rising up and down quickly, one hand desperately tugging his hair while the other traveled up for some sort of leverage, slapping blindly at the ceiling above you as your body trembled.

"John ... fuck–yes," you panted, vision blurring from the intensity.

He groaned against your pussy, the vibration shooting up your spine. It was too much. The strength in his arms, the way he held you there without even faltering, while dragging his tongue through every slick inch of you.

It felt worshipful.

"You're doing it so good, baby," You praised, tugging his hair harder.

He hummed against your pussy, sucking your clit into his mouth in a way only he knew how to make you see stars, and then looked up at you with those unfair baby blue eyes.

You almost came at the sight of him under you, beard all soaked, looking at you like he was getting drunk from your taste alone.

It wasn't long until your whole body began shaking, legs trembling where they were draped over his shoulders, the heels of your feet digging into his back like it would somehow ground you. But nothing could.

You were so high up the wall, so completely suspended by him, only your back touching anything solid, that your vision started to white out.

"J-John I can't ... I'm gonna–“

"Yeah?" he grunted. "Go on then, sweetheart ... mark your territory."

His fingers dug deeper into your ass, holding you in place as he moaned against your cunt, the vibrations sent you crashing over the edge.

Your thighs clenched around his head, body trembling as you reached your high. He didn't stop, not when you came, not when your back arched off the wall, not even when you whimpered his name.

He kept eating, drinking down every twitch of your orgasm, tongue flicking your clit until your thighs shook violently and you tried to push him away.

Your hands ran all over his hair, desperate.

"Too much ... John, baby, please–"

That's when he finally pulled back.

You blinked a few times at him, your juices glistening on his lips, running down his bearded chin. He looked wrecked. His wet hair all wild, jaw flexing, chest rising and falling like he'd been the one coming.

You twitched one more time, and he grinned satisfied.

"You taste even better than I remembered." His voice was raspy, so fucking sexy.

You barely had time to recover before he lowered you just enough to cradle you in his arms, still against the wall, but now your legs wrapped around his waist, your arms locked behind his neck.

He was the one you kissed you this time, making sure you tasted every drop of yourself on his lips. You could feel his hard cock trapped between you, hot and slick, leaking against your stomach.

"Still singin' that song in your head, sweetheart?" he asked as soon as you came apart, in that devilishly teasing tone.

"Huh?" You blurted out, dizzy from the haze.

He shook his head amused, he was barely getting started with you.

He adjusted his grip on you, before taking you off the wall. Your arms tightened around his neck, eyes wide as he carried you through the room, toward the bed. He lowered you on the mattress, spreading your legs with his knees as he hovered over you.

He didn't have patience for you to be covered anymore, even if seeing you in his shirt drove him insane. But he just needed you naked when he came all over you. So he easily ripped his shirt off from you, throwing it somewhere in the room. His eyes dragged down your body, pausing at the mess between your thighs, at the way your chest heaved, at the way your eyes pleaded.

"You look like a fuckin' dream," he muttered, voice rough. This is all he'd been waiting for, all he’d been fantasizing about.

Before you could say anything, hell, before you could even breathe, he grabbed his cock in his hand, slapping the fat head of it against your soaked pussy.

Once. Twice. Again.

You jolt with each wet hit, little shocked gasps slipping from your lips as your sensitive clit twitched under the weight of his cock.

"Too much?" he asked, grinning as he slapped your folds again, harder this time. "You're twitching so pretty for me, sweetheart."

"John ... fuck–please," you whined, head rolling back on the mattress.

He just grinned, treating himself to a few more heavy wet slaps. You looked so pretty when you shivered, when you begged.

You gasped when you felt him pressing in your entrance with no warning. Head shooting up, eyes going wide just in time to see how he only pushed the tip in. Just that goddamn massive tip, splitting you open with a stretch that knocked the air right out of your lungs. You couldn’t help but throw your head back again.

"I know, baby," he groaned at the feeling of your pussy around him. "You're so tight and so full already … look at you, it's not even halfway in," he praised, breath coming short.

He didn't go deeper. Just pushed the head of his cock against your entrance, in and out. Driving you wild.

And my god, he was so vocal. The grunting, the low growling. The slow movement of his hips like he was holding himself back from slamming balls deep inside you. You knew he has.

You whimpered, clutching the sheets, your hips rolled up to chase more, deeper, but he pinned you down, his chest tensing as he held himself back with a growl.

"Just the tip for now, baby."

He wanted to take his time. Make you go as many rounds as he'd saved his cum for the time he was away. But when you clenched your pussy around the head of his cock, he almost almost bursted right there. He kept pressing in, just the swollen crown stretching you wide.

“God … John,” you whimper, grabbing the sheets. “I love the way you fit.”

“I know,” he hisses, eyes glued to where your bodies met. “Feels so fucking good like this.”

He didn’t thrust deep, just moved in short, devastating rolls of his hips that drove that thick tip over your sweetest spot again and again, attempting to drag another orgasm right back out of you.

“You gonna cum again, baby? tip’s too much for you already?”

That cockiness, that smug grin on his face, the way he keep pushing just a part of himself in that teasing pace, made you unravel, his name came out between gasps, body spasming with the pressure.

“Just like that baby, taking me so well, and I haven’t even fucked you properly yet.”

No he hadn’t, still made you see white as you rode your second high on the night. He groaned at the sight, feeling himself closer and closer.

"You want me to cum like this?" he gritted, hips grinding. "Been saving it, my sweet fucking cum ...all yours. You want it?"

You just nodded, eyes still seeing stars, breathless.

"Then sing it for me.”

Your brows furrowed. "W-What?"

"Sing the fuckin' lyric." He growled this time, leaning closer. "The part that got you all worked up. Let's hear it again sweetheart, just the good part"

Your cheeks flushed, brain fuzzing. "John—"

He slammed forward, just an inch deeper, but so hard it knocked a cry out of your throat. You swallowed hard, while he waited expectantly without moving, making you ache for the friction.

"...Adore me..." you mumbled, barely singing.

“Louder."

“Adore me... hold me... and explore me..."

You noticed the way he was becoming undone to your shaky voice, breathing caught in his throat as he began fucking you again his leaking tip, exploring your entire body with his hands. His eyes glistened with anticipation. He needed you to say it, he was so close.

"Go on, what’s next?” He growled between gritted teeth, hips dragging faster his tip in and out of your entrance, hands pinching your nipples.

"...Mark your territory..." you whispered, nearly choking on your words.

"Yeah," he breathed, voice feral. "That's the one."

He let out a guttural sound, hips slamming forward, his body locking up as he finally let himself spill into you, tip buried, grinding into your clenching pussy while his cum rushed out desperate, like it's been waiting to drip out of you.

"Fuck– ugh baby, fuck..."

You felt it before you even saw it. The first hot pulses inside you, so thick and warm. But he’d dreamed about you covered in him, so he pulled out, his cum leaking out behind him in thick drips as he poured the rest of himself on you. You felt it spill all over your body, one spurt. Then another. And another.

And another.

"Oh my –shit, baby," you gasped , eyes flying wide as he poured into you. "That's so much, John ... holy fuck–"

He kept going while he grunted, kept spilling, holding the base of his cock tight as he came all over you. Your clenching walls pushed what was left inside you out, dripping down your pussy, pooling on the sheets.

"Shit–can't stop," he panted, all flushed, watching with hooded eyes as his cum kept painting your body. "Fuck, look at you ... you're soaked."

You glanced down, and your jaw dropped.

It was everywhere. Your belly, your thighs, the curve of your hips. Sticky, thick white streaks all over your chest, a faint drop on your neck. And even more dripping out your pussy like he never pulled out.

And it had been just with the tip.

"John... it’s so much..." you panted, voice barely above a whisper.

"Told you I was saving it up, honey," he grinned, breathless yet still smug, proud ... asshole.

He leaned down, dragging two fingers through the mess on your belly, gathering a thick strand of it, and then smearing it right back onto your skin, lazier, messier, spreading it even more.

"You're not getting cleaned up," he mumbled, voice rough. "Not yet. I want you to feel it. I want you to lie here soaking in it."

You whimpered as his fingers trailed lower, collecting more where it was pooling between your thighs. He spread it around your folds, deliberately pushing it over your sensitive clit, and you jolted, hips twitching.

"Still twitchy," he smirked, loving the way you squirmed. "So damn pretty when you're sensitive."

Then he dragged his fingers back up and smeared more of it across your chest, rubbing his release into your skin like he wanted it to stay there.

His territory marked. Owned.

You were trying to catch your breath, your limbs heavy, skin flushed and sticky, brain barely holding onto thoughts.

But then, the weight of him moved over you again. His hand gripped your wet thigh hard, pushing it up and out. His cock, hard again, sliding right through the mess between your legs, thick and wet from your arousal and his white paint.

Your eyes flew open. "John ... just give me a minute–"

"It's okay baby, I got you."

He grabbed your limp body and flipped it over, chest against the mattress, ass low, while he crossed your arms behind your back so he could raise your back to him. His cock pressed against your ass, and you suddenly needed him more than before.

"Need you ... all of it … please"

This time he didn't say anything, he just thrusted. He buried himself deep, all the way this time, no more teasing with the tip. The sudden stretch made your whole body arch, back curling away from him but he tightened his grip on your arms, as a helpless cry ripped from your throat.

"Shit, you're so tight," he growled, voice rough with need.

He set a brutal rhythm instantly, hips snapping against your ass, the wet slap of skin on skin loud and filthy in the room. You were too sensitive, too full, too overstimulated, but you couldn't stop moaning. Your body could take it. Needed it.

One large hand gripped yours on your lower back, the other landing a smack in your ass as he fucked into you, panting, wild, relentless.

"You're so fucking perfect," he leaned down, teeth grazing your shoulder. "I'm gonna come inside this time. So deep you'll feel it for days."

Your mind was gone. Words were gone. You were just whimpering, relying on his grip to hold you up while he ruined you for the third time.

This is how he needed you. Overstimulated, a moaning mess, dragging orgasm after orgasm out of you. You clenched around his whole length this time, tighter, he looked down at you and smirked.

"Cum on my cock, baby. That's what it's for, all yours."

His deep voice sent you over the edge. Your walls fluttered around his cock, your back arched as you came again while he fucked you through it, clenching around him with a strangled cry. He slammed in deeper, his cock twitching for release.

"Take it, baby … so pretty how your take it."

He growled seeing you become undone again, losing his last thread of restraint.

"Oh fuck..."

"Come on John, I know you still have more for me.”

You felt it the moment he started to lose control, his rhythm stuttering, jaw almost snapping, breath hot and shaky against your skin.

"Gonna fill you up again," he growled, hips slamming into you one last time.

And then he crashed again, deep inside you, seed thick and hot, spilling into your pussy in those long, creamy strings. Your body jolted under him, back arching, but he didn't pull out this time.

He kept himself buried balls deep, cock twitching inside you, his hands tight still holding your arms behind your back.

"Jesus," he groaned, dazed. "You're fuckin' milking me."

You hummed, overstimulated and trembling, feeling every drop of him, filling you up until it began leaking back out.

A slow, thick stream of cum slipped out around his cock, trickling between your thighs, dripping down your leg as John just watched. Mesmerized. Smirking.

He let his grip on you go, gently letting your chest fall back on the mattress, cock still inside you. He looked down.

"Look at that," he mumbled. "Can't even hold it all." He pulled his cock back a little, just enough to make it spill faster. "Fucked you so full I can feel it spilling out of you."

You moaned, all weak, breathless. "Saved all that sweet cum just for me Johnny."

"It's all I thought about baby," he gritted, dragging his thumb to smear the mess around.

He finally pulled out, a gasp escaping your mouth when you felt all his love dripping out of you.

"Look how pretty you are when you're leaking my cum..."

You thought he would give you a minute this time. A little break to remember how to breathe again, when he helped you turn around so you laid your back on the bed, facing him now.

You could feel it against your leg, he was hardening again. Like your whole body wasn't already covered in all of him.

You felt the weight of his cock, thick, flushed, and heavy against your overstimulated pussy, you whimpered when he pressed the head back to your folds.

"John," you breathed, head rolling back. "You already ... fuck, you came so much baby."

"I know," he growled, pressing his forehead to yours. His breath was hot against your cheek. "I know. But look at me, baby."

He grabbed the base of his cock and rubbed the tip through the slick, tender mess between your legs, your whole body reacting. "Still fuckin' hard."

It wasn't his fault. The serum had enhanced everything. Every fucking thing. And he'd been gone, for too damn long.

You barely had time to recover. You were still twitching, body too sensitive, soaked and overstimulated. But your hands still reached to his back, to push him into you one more time.

"Greedy little thing." He chuckled, shaking his head. “Can’t even hold yourself up but you keep reaching for more.”

So he complied, slow at first, like he could still tease after all he’d done to you by now. His hips rolled forward, pushing his previous loads deeper. You gasped, legs trembling, nails digging into his back as you shook your head and whimpered, "John, I can't–"

"Yes, you can," he growled. "You're gonna take every drop. Again."

Then he snaps his hips forward, hard.

Your whole body bounces as he fucked it into you one more time, his cock slamming through the mess he already left inside, making it gush out in slick, tiny splashes with every thrust.

"Fuck, listen to that," he snarled, going feral at the obscene sounds. "So messy for me. You love this."

And the worst part? He was right.

Because even through the overstimulation, the ache, the stretch, you were clenching around him again, your body greedy, desperate, obeying every filthy command he made without question.

He was relentless. Gripping your hips, fucked into you like he was trying to imprint himself into your core, cock pounding the mess deeper while more of it leaked out down your ass and thighs.

"Still sensitive, sweetheart?" He was smug as sin, one hand spreading you open while the other pressed your lower belly. "You can take it … just a little more."

You didn’t take long to come again, nearly sobbing, legs shaking uncontrollably, and he groaned as you cried out his name, squeezing him tight.

He was there, almost there. But he wanted this one somewhere else.

He pulled out of your shaking pussy, and climbed over your body on the bed, straddling your chest as he guided his cock to your face.

"Open for me, sweetheart ... yeah that's it"

He shoved his cock in your mouth, and you gladly took it, all of it. In twitches it spilled down your throat. Salty, thick warmth overflowed your mouth as he grunted, coming all over your tongue.

You hit his thigh when you couldn't breathe anymore from how much it was, so he put a hand behind your neck to lift your head, and raised you to sit on the bed as he panted beside you, mesmerized by the view of you choking in it.

His hand ran comforting strokes down your back, as you tried to swallow as much as you could. Like you always did.

Like the good fucking girl you were for him.

"Look at you," he whistled in a growl. "Covered in me. Stuffed full of me. Choking on me … and I still see some untouched parts."

His thumb found your chin, smearing what had leaked out your mouth down your neck, and tilted your face toward his.

"How many times is that, baby?" he taunted, pushing the hair out of your sweaty face. "Two, three loads? … doesn't even matter, you always take ‘em all.”

You just whimpered to his praise, couldn't trust your voice when you still felt his warmth going down your throat.

You both go quiet.

The kind of quiet that only happened after John was finally satisfied with how many times you came on his cock, with the way you twitched from the sheer exhaustion, when you didn’t even know how to speak anymore.

He pressed kiss to your temple, his lips soft, lingering. The sharp edge of his voice from earlier was gone, replaced by a low raspy whisper as his fingers brushed over your spine.

“Hey… you still with me, baby?”

You nod weakly.

“That’s my girl,” he grinned. “You did so good for me. So damn good.”

As you regained your breath, he just held you for a moment with his hand on your back, and stared. At you. At the mess all over your body. At what he did.

At what you let him do.

“C’mere” He whispered, while he pulled you into his lap, and settled you down on his wet cock.

You moan out, body going limp and stuffed beyond reason as he held you there, not moving, just filling you up for the last time. You clung to him with the last bits of strength you had left, while he wiped the sweat and hair out of your face.

“Just sit here sweetheart, you’re okay” he breathed against your hair, rubbing soothing circles on your body. “Keep me warm while you recover baby, don’t spill another drop.”

He wrapped his arms around you, possessive, smug but with tenderness now, he kissed your shoulder like it was the softest thing in the world. He could feel the stickiness of your body on him, a sweet reminder that you were in fact, the only only only one for him.

“We’ll cleanup later, baby” He cooed and you just nodded weakly, placing a kiss on his pec.

He leaned slightly to see your face, to catch a glimpse of that blissed out, weak smile on your lips. He smiled adoringly, with that softness that only came after he wrecked you.

But then, without even a doubt, a harsh chuckle left his throat.

“Have I marked my territory enough?”

━━━━━━━━━━━ ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ━━━━━━━━━━━

comments and reblogs are always appreciated, thank you so much for reading 🖤

#jesus christ #i need a shot of holy water #goddamn #rb #john walker x reader #john walker

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wastingawayagain · 2 days ago

Text

Spin this wheel first and then this wheel second to generate the title of a YA fantasy novel!

(If the second wheel lands on an option ending with a plus sign, spin it again)

Share what you got!

#warrior of shadow and darkness LMAO #rb

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wastingawayagain · 3 days ago

Text

Gravity Part Three

Part Two

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader

Notes: Welcome back to part three another accidental three-parter (which may be getting an explicit bonus chaptre in the near future). Not beta-read.

Rating: M

Length: 3.2K

Warnings: Yearning (a frickin lot); slow burn; coworkers to friends to lovers; angst; fluff; canon-typical (and likely inadequate) medical chat; fluff; Reader is roommates with Ellis; Jack 'Prolonged Eye Contact' Abbot

Summary: It had been a while since you’d found his lingering gazes intimidating, and you were almost ashamed to say that you’d begun to seek them out when the two of you were alone—but when you were around other people, there was still a fear there for you. Fear that someone (namely Ellis) might pick up on your behavior the way they had before. Call it your interest, your infatuation with Abbot—whatever it was, you had only sunk deeper over the last few weeks of slow day-off walks, and hours spent together on your couch, working your way through Frank Herbert’s first behemoth.

“I can’t believe you read ahead.”

“I can’t believe you’re still hung up on that.”

“I’m not hung up. Not pleased, but I’m not hung up.”

“If you weren’t hung up, you wouldn’t still be talking about it,” You teased in a sing-song tone, pulling Jack’s copy of Dune out of your backpack and holding it out. “You got something for me?”

“I’m still finishing up yours.”

“I told you this would happen.”

“You read ahead, I’m behind. The yin to my yang.”

“Uh-huh,” You chuckled, still poking through your locker. You weren’t looking for anything in particular, but Abbot’s teasing still felt a little too close at work. It was different outside of the Pitt—you could almost handle it at your apartment, at the bookstore, at Marshall’s. Your little reading hangouts (you refused to call them dates) and occasional walks on your off-days had nearly acclimated you to Abbot’s dry humor.

It had been a while since you’d found his lingering gazes intimidating, and you were almost ashamed to say that you’d begun to seek them out when the two of you were alone—but when you were around other people, there was still a fear there for you. Fear that someone (namely Ellis) might pick up on your behavior the way they had before. Call it your interest, your infatuation with Abbot—whatever it was, you had only sunk deeper over the last few weeks of slow day-off walks, and hours spent together on your couch, working your way through Frank Herbert’s first behemoth.

“If anything, it’s your fault, you know,” You added, “The fact that I read ahead, I mean.”

“Oh, is it?”

“Mhm.”

“How do you figure?”

“You’re the one who got me into the series—how many are there, anyway?”

“Herbert wrote six, but his son picked up the mantle after him.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“The hell are you two chatty Cathies doing?”

Ellis’ voice startled you, and you whirled around so fast that your elbow whacked into the locker. You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to hold eye contact with her, even as she and Abbot shared a glance.

“You okay?” Abbot asked.

“Mhm,” You gritted out. “Funny bone.”

“Doesn’t look like you found it funny.”

“Sounded hilarious, though,” Ellis grinned.

“Always the charmer, Parker,” You grumbled, straightening your arm out and rubbing over the throbbing joint.

"You're reading Dune?" Ellis asked, nodding to the book in Jack's hands. Your heart stuttered at the question, heat prickling at the back of your neck as a cold sweat popped up across your forehead. You hurriedly turned back to the locker, fishing into your backpack as your mind began to race. Shit shit shit.

"No—Well," Jack corrected, "We've been reading it, but someone finished without me."

"Crying out loud," You muttered. "You've read it before, so you’ve technically finished it without me a bunch of times."

“That’s different.”

"...We." It was half a question, half a realization as Ellis repeated it, and it hung heavy in the air. You yanked your water bottle out of your locker, shoving the door shut once, then again when the corner of your bag stuck out just a little, keeping it from closing fully.

"Were you gonna let anyone else in on your little book club?" Ellis pressed, and despite the teasing mirth in her voice, your stomach twisted with nerves.

"If you were interested in the books we've been reading, sure," You excused, keeping your gaze on the lid of your water bottle. "I'm gonna go fill up—'scuse me." You cut between the two of them, keeping your focus firmly forward as you headed for the staff room. Your palms were sweating where you clasped the water bottle, your heart pounding in your throat.

So you'd been reading with Jack—so what? Why were you so mortified?

Your little book club—god, it made you feel like a tween whose mom had just embarrassed them in front of their crush.

You opened the water bottle focusing on the sink, the soap, your hands as you washed it.

Maybe you shouldn't have left so fast. Was Jack going to tell Ellis that he'd been going over to yours for weeks now, reading on your nights off? That the two of you had spent so much time together off-shift that you almost began to expect to see him outside of the ED at least once a week? Well, Jack could never know that, probably didn't feel the same about it, but—What the hell did he feel about it, if he felt anything?

"...Kid."

You startled, looking up to find Dana watching you amusedly just a couple of feet away. You glanced between her, the empty coffee pot she was holding, and the running water.

"Shit, sorry," You scooched out of the way, pulling your water bottle out of the sink and grabbing a few paper towels to dry it.

"You okay?"

"Yeah! Yeah, no, yeah, I'm good. Fine. Just," You raised a hand, waving toward your head, "Zoned."

"Little early in the shift for you to be this off your game." Dana stepped in front of the sink, running the coffee pop under it and swishing out the dregs before filling it with water. "You need some of this?"

"Maybe a bit later. I should hydrate first."

Dana hummed sympathetically. "What's buggin' ya?"

"No, nothing."

You knew by her sidelong glance that she didn't buy your answer for a minute.

"If you say so."

"I'm good, honestly," You swore. "What's got you in here this late, anyway?"

"Lena called out."

"Were you on this morning?"

"Nope."

"That's good, at least."

"Little miracles."

You smiled, leaning against the counter and watching her make coffee. "Our days hinge on 'em, you know."

"What?"

"Little miracles."

Dana smiled, nodding as she reached out, pinching your cheek. "They sure do."

You were just a couple of steps away from the door before she called out to you again. You turned, twisting the cap more tightly on your water bottle as you waited. She gave you a once-over, a small wrinkle in her brow.

"You sure you're okay?"

You hesitated. Physically, sure, for the most part—though you had a brand new lump in your throat that you couldn't seem to swallow past, and the closer you got to the door, the more your stomach twisted with nerves.

But nothing about what had happened by the lockers left you unable to focus on the work, the job, the people that needed you. So you gave a smile, a firm nod, swore, "I'm fine," And forced yourself out to central.

“BP’s 70 over 40!”

“Son of a bitch,” You hissed, rounding the bed as you hurriedly pulled gloves on. You opened your mouth to run through an assessment, what you knew, what you needed to check, but—

“The hell happened?” Shen asked, following you in.

“Ah—Patient presented shortness of breath, minor chest pain, I thought bronchitis—”

“Physical tenderness?”

“None that he indicated during the examination. He’s been dealing with seasonal allergies, thought he had a cold or something, said he only came in because his wife made him, but—”

“Any falls?”

“Not that he told me.”

“The bruising would indicate otherwise,” Shen nodded to the man’s chest.

“He told me he was rough housing with his kid.”

“X-ray?”

“He didn’t want one, I couldn’t talk him into it.”

“Did you stress the importance?”

“What are we looking at?”

Your ear just barely caught on Abbot’s voice as you pushed back at Shen:

“Of course I stressed the importance, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”

“Well you obviously missed something here.”

“Yeah, no shit, Shenlock.”

“Hey!” Abbot snapped, and you glanced doggedly toward him, “Cut the bickering. Let’s get set up for an x-ray,” He insisted, rounding the bed and nudging you back. “You, go get some air.”

"But—"

"Go."

Flat, firm—faceless. Abbot issued the order without meeting your eye, still bent steadily over the patient. Your mouth worked wordless for a few seconds, eyes darting to Shen, Ellis, Perlah—and then you were turning away, yanking the PPE roughly from your body and cramming it in the bin as you shoved through the doors.

You didn't meet anyone's eyes as you rounded outside. You hadn't realized how short your breath was until you were outside, how tight and tense you were holding your body until you were hit with the cool night air, and the waft of cigarette smoke. You pulled in a breath through your nose, struggled to swallow, puffed out through your lips.

"You okay over there?"

Dana's voice didn't catch you as off-guard as it had just a couple of hours ago, but it wasn't as welcome in that moment as it had been the first time. You tucked your arms across your chest, slouching against the wall near the entrance as you nodded.��

"Want a cigarette?" She prodded.

"I don't smoke."

"Expression like that, maybe you should start."

And it made you laugh—but that laugh kickstarted a hiccuping, helpless sob that spilled out of your mouth before you could even register it had welled up in the first place. You slapped your hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking as your body was wracked by another, though you managed to keep it quiet this time.

"Whoa, hey—" Dana soothed, flicking her cigarette away as she hurried to close the gap between the two of you. "I was kidding. I'll keep the lung cancer to myself."

It made you laugh again, though you didn't want it to. She rested her hands on your shoulders, watching you closely as you scrubbed your hand over your face, clearing the few tears that were fighting to escape your eyes.

"What's going on with you, huh?" She pressed. "Somethin's been off all shift."

You shook your head, pulling a deep breath in through your nose. "I feel so fucking dumb."

"Dumb? Why?"

You shook your head again, forcing yourself to pull in another deep breath, hold it, push it out between your lips.

"I fucked up."

"The patient gonna be alright?" You shrugged, nodded, and Dana gave your shoulders a squeeze. "That's all that matters. So you fucked up, who hasn't? I know you. If you're this torn up, you won't make that mistake twice. Don't be so hard on yourself."

You nodded a little, lowering your gaze to the ground.

"Yeah," You reluctantly agreed. Dana smiled, patting your cheek.

"Don't stay out here too long, okay? Better to jump back in with both feet."

You gave another nod, forced a small smile, held it until Dana was inside and out of sight. You tipped your head back against the cool brick and peering up at the ceiling of the ambulance bay. No, you sure as hell wouldn't be making that mistake twice—not with another patient, and not with Abbot.

You tipped your head to the side as you heard footsteps, ready to straighten up, to be herded back inside by Dana—but the sight of Shen made regret well up in your stomach. You looked down at his hand as he held out a sugar-free can of Monster, and smiled in spite of yourself as you took it. You cracked it open, lightly cheers'd it against the can in his other hand before you both took sips.

"...What've we got in there?"

"Pneumothorax."

"Son of a bitch...I was out of line. Should've listened. Sorry."

"S'okay," He shook his head. "I shouldn't have dismissed your work-up so quickly."

"Even though it was wrong?"

"It wasn't wrong, just not complete. ‘Sides, I talked to Perlah—She confirmed the guy never mentioned a fall, tenderness, didn’t so much as flinch when you examined the area. Shortness of breath, minor chest pain, coupled with his seasonal allergies and the congestion—Bronchitis was a valid diagnosis. You didn’t have all the pieces."

You smiled, raising your hand and lightly punching him in the arm. "Ya big softie."

"Okay, watch it with that. I'm a very authoritative attending."

"Uh-huh."

"You good?"

"Fine." You glanced doggedly toward the door. "How is it in there?"

"He's stable."

"Good." You took another slug of the Monster, swallowed, sighed, and finally straightened. "I should get back inside."

"Yeah...Hey."

"Hm?"

"You good?"

You frowned, shaking your head. "Course."

"Dana gave me a look on the way out here.”

“Oh, that—Pff,” You waved him off. “No. That was nothing.”

“Didn’t seem like nothing.”

“Nothing,” You insisted firmly. You raised your Monster to him in a mock salute before forcing yourself back inside.

He hadn’t texted or called that he’d be coming over. You’d hardly spoken to him for the rest of your shift, had fallen back into your old routine—dodging his glance at every turn, avoiding his eye across central, glancing toward him but not at him when answering.

The closest you’d gotten to meeting his eye when he’d arrived was spotting him through the peephole. You’d known that you didn’t have to answer the door. It was your night off—maybe you had plans. He didn’t know you were in there.

But you drew in a deep breath, held it, pushed it back out, and unlocked the door. You stepped back as you opened it, gaze set on his chest, then dropping to your book as he held it out. You hesitated before reaching out, taking hold of the copy. You turned away, the door open, leaving it up to Jack whether he came in or not.

You heard the door click shut, heart leaping as it was followed by the soft thud of Jack’s shoes as he followed you into the kitchen. You unthinkingly got a mug down from the cabinet, busying your hands and focus as he stopped entirely too close to you at the counter. You didn’t ask what he thought of the book—you didn’t even ask if he wanted coffee. You just fixed it the way he liked it and set it down in front of him.

You knew you should look. You could feel him watching, waiting for you to turn.

“It was good.”

Your browns tipped up at his assertion, and you reached out, thumbing the book. He went on:

“I mean, opening with the murder caught me off-guard in the first place, but following them further and further down the rabbit hole was dizzying. I was almost hoping they wouldn’t do it, you know, I’d started to like the guy, but I knew what was coming.” His fingers rested on the side of the mug, tapping against the curve and smoothing over the handle. He had a sip, set the mug down, took a step closer. Then—

“Why didn’t you tell Ellis I was coming over?”

Your stomach churned, your clammy hands bracing on the counter as you shrugged.

“She doesn’t care that you come over. And I didn’t wanna make it seem like this is anything more than it was—is. You know.”

Jack let out a soft, “Hm,” taking another step closer, his chest lightly brushing your shoulder.

“Anything more than it is,” He repeated, and before you could nod again, he plied: “What is it?”

Your mouth opened before you abruptly closed it again, shaking your head.

“I don’t—”

“You don’t what.”

“I’m not—”

“You’re not what—”

“Oh my god, could you just stop talking for five seconds so I can think?” You snapped, raising your hand to scrubbed your hand across your forehead. Jack went blessedly quiet for a second, two, then—

“Last night—”

“Holy shit, you just can’t help yourself.”

“I wanted to ask—”

“Shen and I are fine.”

“Okay.”

You pulled in a deep breath again, pushed it out again. “Not that you were really worried about that.”

“Sure I was.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. It’s important that residents and attendings are all on the same page, gelling, you know.”

“Yeah.”

“...We’ve been gelling.”

“We all gel. I gel with Ellis, Ellis gels with Shen, Shen gels with me, Ellis gels with you—”

“Please stop saying ‘gel.’”

“You started it.”

“That one’s on me.”

“And last night was on me.”

“...You thought it was the right course of action. You won’t make that mistake twice.”

You scoffed a laugh, shaking your head. “Dana said the same damn thing.”

“She’s right.”

“Mm.”

“...Why didn’t you tell Ellis I was coming over.”

“I told you why.”

“Look at me and tell me again.”

“I can tell you just fine like this.”

“Jesus,” Abbot pushed off of the counter beside you, and you squeezed your eyes shut, slamming your hand on the counter before you forced yourself to turn around.

“Hang on—Please.”

Jack stopped just in the doorway, turning to face you. Your eyes dropped to his throat, flickered to his face, lowered again as your heart ticked up in your chest.

“...I didn’t tell her because I didn’t want her to make assumptions.”

“About?”

“Us.”

“What would she assume?”

“Don’t make me say it,” You pleaded, scrubbing your hand across your brow. Abbot took a step closer, dipping his head to try and catch your eye.

“Not like saying it would change anything,” He insisted, “We’re both thinking it.”

“Are we?”

“Sure.”

“But are we both wanting it?” It fell out of your mouth before you could stop it, your fingers flexing and curling around the edge of the counter as you eyed the floor, waiting for his answer with baited breath. Another pause, another step closer. His shoes entered your field of vision. You saw his hand lift, hesitate, stall—before he cupped your chin, fingers curling gently around your jaw. Your eyelids fluttered closed, lower lip pulling between your teeth as you held still, praying that your traitorously pounding heart didn’t sound as loud as it felt.

His breath swept lightly over your skin before you felt the warm pressure of his lips against your eye lid. Your lips parted in surprise, pulling in a stunned breath as he kissed one, and then the other. You felt his nose nudging against yours, his lips ghosting across yours—and leaned up to chase the heat of him as he began to pull away. Your mouth pressed softly, clumsily against his for just a moment before you drew back, eyes opening as though you’d just been shocked.

You expected an equally surprised look from Jack, but you found him watching you with a warm smile, and a twinkle in his eye that you’d never seen before. Your eyes lowered to his lips as he leaned in again, catching your lips in a warm, steady kiss. You tipped your chin up, mouth working tenderly against his as he crowded you back against the counter.

You curled your arms around his shoulders, fingers combing through the hair at the nape of his neck as his tongue teased along your bottom lip. You pouted what Jack leaned away just enough to break your kiss.

“Is this what you meant by ‘gelling’?” You finally teased, smile pulling wide to mirror Jack’s.

“Definitely not,” He chuckled. “Unless you’ve been doing this with Ellis and Shen and I don’t know about it.”

“Never pegged you as the jealous type, Dr. Abbot.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Oh?”

“Mm.” Jack dipped his head, catching your lips in another kiss. “By the way…”

“Mm?”

“Don’t think,” He turned his head, pressing a kiss to your cheek, “That this gets you out of trouble,” Along the curve of your jaw, “For finishing Dune without me.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “My curiosity got the better of me…I’m kinda glad I read on without you, though.”

Jack leaned back, brow furrowed, and you gave another small shake of your head.

“Leto and Jessica,” You clarified. Then, with a self-conscious chuckle: “I cried.”

Jack’s face softened, his knuckles gently skating over your cheek.

“I wish I had been here for that.”

“No, no. I would’ve been mortified.” You turned your head, pressing a kiss to his knuckles before you nodded down the hall. “Wanna come help me pick out the next book I give you?”

“Sure.”

You leaned up, pecking his lips again before sliding out from between him and the counter, taking his hand in yours. “C’mon…You bring me another book, by the way?”

“Course I did. You’ve gotta read Dune Messiah sometime.”

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; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; @artsymaddie

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#hey op 💞#im gonna cry #this is so good #rb #Jack Abbot x Reader #jack abbot #the pitt

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wastingawayagain · 3 days ago

Text

Gravity Part Two

Part One | Part Three

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader

Notes: Welcome back to another accidental three-parter. Not beta-read.

Rating: M

Length: 5K

Warnings: Yearning (a frickin lot); slow burn; coworkers to friends to lovers; angst; fluff; canon-typical medical chat; fluff; book sharing; Reader is roommates with Ellis; Jack 'Prolonged Eye Contact' Abbot

Summary: Now and again, you felt his eyes flit toward you, too, but they didn't seem to linger for nearly as long. It was new, and fun—you’d spent so much time avoiding his gaze, but now it felt like you were playing tag.

Little glances. That was all you allowed yourself at work for a while, just little glances. You limited it to certain areas—near the charge board, the staff room, by the lockers. Little glances, and little smiles.

He began to stick a little closer to you in the ER. And it was different than it had been when you were new to the Pitt. You were more steady, more sure of yourself, more used to the warmth and presence of him.

But where his attention had nearly sent you careening into the sandwich cart just a few weeks ago, you worked steadily with Jack keeping close.

You even managed to keep that girlish fluttering at bay until the two of you were shoulder to shoulder, taking off your PPE.

“Excellent work.”

“Very kind of you, Dr. Abbot.”

“Honesty and kindness are rarely the same thing. I said it was excellent work because you did excellent work.”

“Well, thank you.”

“Sure. You ever find those Triscuits?”

“You know what, I did. Right after Ellis pointed them out to me.”

Was the weather the nicest? No. It was gray, drizzly, and windier than usual.

But that didn’t stop you from taking a leisurely walk. It was your first day off after eight straight shifts (the last had been an unplanned double), and you needed to clear your head. You started with a late lunch at a cafe near your apartment before moseying over to your favorite bookstore.

You had already been there far longer than you’d planned, and were going to move on—but something stopped you in your tracks. You weren’t typically the type to stare, but for once, you leaned against one of the bookshelves and just let yourself look.

It was sort of strange to see Abbot out and about, and at your favorite bookstore no less—but it was also kind of…Hot.

You had never seen him so relaxed before: not in the staff room, not filling out a patient’s chart, not even when he was just taking his things out of his locker. It was as little odd to see him out of scrubs, too—but you weren’t taking issue with the sight of him in jeans and a henley that fitted very, very nicely over his thick biceps.

You could just pass by, you knew that. He hadn’t seen you, probably had no idea you were there. He would’ve made his presence known by now if he had, or you would’ve felt him looking at you.

You could always feel it when Abbot looked at you. It was what had sent you skittering the day before Ellis had asked if something was going on between the two of you. You’d been so focused on your conversation with Shen and then you’d just…Felt someone looking. And you’d known that it was Jack.

It had been a combination of factors. Some of it was vantage point, but so much of it had been the intensity. You’d made such a careful study of trying to avoid his attention for so long. When you felt it that day, you made the rare mistake of looking at him, and it kicked you into a panic, sending you down the hall muttering something about patient results.

It wasn’t as bad these days. You still felt when Jack was looking at you, but the fear that used to accompany it had ebbed. You’d gotten better with him in the ER, you could just…Say hello, see if it was any better outside.

You steeled yourself, crossing the aisle and speaking up: “Do my eyes deceive me, or is Dr. Abbot not working a night shift?”

He glanced up from the book in his hand, doing a double take as he reshelved a book. “I take days off now and again.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What brings you in here?”

“Just browsing,” You shrugged.

“Surprised you’re not holding anything. Ellis said 90% of the books in the living room are yours, even more back in your room.”

You pressed your lips together, fighting off a smile.

“They are—And yeah, usually I’d make a meal of being in here, but I’m on a book buying ban.”

“Really?” Jack leaned against the shelf, arms folding across his chest—and it took everything in you not to let your eyes drift over the bulge of his biceps. “How’s that going?”

“Surprisingly well.”

“How long’s the ban?”

“A year.”

Jack’s eyes widened, brows lifting. “A year?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“That seems a little extreme.”

“Honestly, it’s not. I could probably build an entire bookshelf with my to be read pile.”

“What are you doing in the meantime?”

“Trying to work my way through the books I already own—And taking pictures of book covers that I’m interested in when I’m browsing so I don’t forget.”

“So being in here isn’t torture for you?”

“No, not really. It’s like window shopping.”

“Anything in here catch your eye today?”

Just you.

“Oh, sure,” You fumbled looking around at the shelves, trying to push past your thoughts. “A couple. What about you?”

“Buddy’a mine recommended this to me,” He reached into the shelf, drawing out a copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.

“Oh yeah?” You reached out, taking it from it when he offered.

“You read it?”

“Nope,” You shook your head, turning it over and skimming the jacket copy. “It’s on my list, though.”

“Mm…Tell you what,” Jack plucked it from your hands again. “I’ll lend it to you when I’m done with it.”

“Yeah?” You smiled. “That’d be cool, thanks.”

“Unless…”

“What?”

“You don’t dogear pages, do you?”

You hesitated, pulling your lower lip guiltily between your teeth, and Jack let out a pained little hiss before tutting his tongue.

“I don’t do it when it’s someone else’s book,” You insisted. Jack just hmph’d softly, straightening up and turning away. You couldn’t help but follow, falling in a half-step behind him. “What’s so wrong with dogearing pages, anyway? Your own copies, I mean. It’s not like I’d do it to a library book or something.”

“Have you ever heard of a bookmark?”

“Have you ever heard of personal freedoms?”

Jack chuckled, setting the book on the counter and fishing into his pocket for his wallet.

“Rings a bell, sure.”

“You out on one of your walks?” Jack asked, stepping back and holding the door open for you.

“Oh, thanks—Yeah, I am. Needed to get some air.”

“This your last stop?”

“No, no,” You shook your head. “I usually take a leisurely stroll through Marshall’s. Poke things, think about how cute the mugs would look in the apartment, leave.”

“Could always get one.”

“In theory.”

Jack’s brows tipped up with intrigue, and your lips twisted into a bashful smile.

“I might also be on a mug buying ban,” You admitted.

“Jeez.”

“I know.”

“You’re a menace.”

“Shut up,” You chuckled. “I’m not that bad. Mostly doing it to prove to Ellis that I can control myself when it comes to cute drinkware.”

“What if you break one of the mugs you have now?”

“Well, that would be an exception. Not planning on breaking any mugs, though.”

“Does anyone ever plan on it?”

You shook your head, averting your eyes and looking around. You should let him get on his way—

“...Wow," He huffed.

“What?”

“You’re still doing it.”

“Doing what?”

“We’re the furthest we could be from work and you still can’t look at me.”

“I’ve been looking at you plenty,” You insisted, “And this is hardly the furthest we could get away from work.”

“Oh no?”

“Nope.” You took a couple of steps back, nodding over your shoulder. “I gotta go, I have a date with the mug aisle.”

“That a real hot spot?”

“At six pm on a Tuesday? Sure, it’s wild.”

“...Mind some company?”

The request seemed to surprise both of you—almost as much as your answer:

“Long as you don’t make any more cracks about me dogearing pages.”

“No promises.” Two strides, and then Jack fell into step with you. Your stomach flipped as his arm brushed yours, and you hastily shoved your hands in your pockets, putting a little distance between the two of you.

“How far’s the walk?” He asks.

“Not far—Ten minutes, maybe.”

“Been out long?”

“A couple hours. I stopped for lunch first.”

“Any other usual stops?”

“No,” You shake your head. “Not usual. Sometimes I switch up the order I go in, or stop in somewhere that I’ve walked by a hundred times but never gone into…What about you? Any other plans for the day?”

“A few errands—All things I’m happy to be distracted from.”

It caught you off-guard, and you couldn’t help your brow wrinkling. Was that what you were? A distraction?

“You said a friend of yours recommended the book?” You pushed on, determined not to let yourself or the conversation get bogged down by your contemplation.

“Yeah. And I made the mistake of mentioning it to my therapist, who seconded it.”

“Can’t get out of it now.”

“Exactly.”

You were just about to put the last of your things away when his arm entered your periphery, shoving the book into your locker beside your bag. You cast a glance back toward Jack as he drifted just a few feet away, unlocking his locker with fastidious focus. You took up the book, flipping through it—not a single dogeared page.

“How soon do you want it back?” You asked.

“Whenever you’ve finished. There isn’t a waitlist.”

“What’d you think of it?”

“I don’t want to spoil anything.”

“Mm.” You hesitated before you fished into your bag, drawing out the book that you'd finished most recently. “Here.”

You held it out, heard the pause in Abbot’s rustling before he took a step closer. You felt the book lift out of your hand before you forced yourself to fish through your things for another few moments—though you weren’t looking for anything in particular.

“...Why this one?”

“It’s on the list.”

“How long have you had it?”

“An embarrassingly long time,” You admitted.

“More than two years?”

“Pleading the fifth.”

“Yikes.”

“I know.” You hesitated, glancing over, “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Jack insisted. “Besides, if you fuck with some of my pages, I can fuck with some of yours.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “I will iron your pages, Abbot. They’ll be straighter than they were when you bought the book.”

It became a routine. You didn’t mean for it to, but it did. You’d always considered yourself a fast reader, and it seemed like Jack could get through a book at a similar clip. It usually kicked off at the top of your shifts—either you or Abbot would linger by the other’s locker, pass over the book that you’d just finished and wanted to return, the one you thought he other should read next. You felt like you’d never gone through more of your TBR pile in your life, or in such an orderly fashion. You found yourself selecting your next read based on what Jack may think, or how interested he may be in it.

Waiting by your locker shifted to lingering as you swapped books, commenting on thoughts, feelings, surprises, plot twists. You didn’t always meet his eye, secure in your ability to hold the book, to focus on it instead of him before you handed over your next reads. He always seemed to surprise you. Even when you were certain that you knew how he’d feel about his work, his opinions managed to catch you off-guard.

“Here.”

You didn’t dare glance back as he held your book out, biting your lip as you passed his copy of The Old Man and the Sea back to him.

“Thoughts?” He pried.

“I can’t tell you until you tell me what you thought.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s one of my favorites.” You glanced toward him doggedly. “No pressure, though.”

His silence made you want to squirm out of your skin, and the soft, “I liked it,” Made your shoulders drop away from your shoulders.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“...Hm.” You had no right to feel so relieved, but there the feeling was, nonetheless.

“Is it a newer favorite of yours?”

“Hm? Oh—No. I just had an itch to reread it recently.”

“Doesn’t that go against the spirit of the book ban?”

“Not technically.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t like it?”

“I wasn’t sure what you’d think. ‘Course, you could just be saying that you liked it to placate me.”

“...You think I’d do that?”

You shrugged, face heating as you felt his increased scrutiny. You fished into the locker for the next book you were planning on giving him.

“Here, this one is uh—” You twisted with it in your hands, “Well it’s on the newer end of my TBR list, and I honestly don’t know how I feel about it. I nearly DNF’d twice.” You held it out to Jack, frowning when he didn’t reach for it. Your eyes swept up to his face, and you stilled at the sight of him—the slight furrow of his brow, and almost disappointed press of his lips.

“...What is it?” You hedged.

“I liked the book.”

“I know, I—I believe you!”

He considered you for another moment before he took hold of the book with a grunt. You fidgeted, shifting from foot to foot as you tried to get a better handle on the conversation.

“Do you have one to, uh—”

“Yeah—Yeah, it’s in my bag.” Jack drifted a few steps away, and you watched him open his locker. You hesitated before you took a couple of steps closer, shoving your hands into your pockets.

“My thoughts on your pick, by the way: lots of sea, not enough old man,” You teased, and relaxed a touch as Jack’s lips quirked with a smile. “Kidding—but it was an interesting read. I’m not used to reading authors with a style like that. I mean it’s uh…There’s something about Hemingway’s writing that comes off as simple at first, I think, at first, but it’s so…Abrupt?” You floundered, shaking your head. “Maybe that’s not the right word—”

“No, I know what you mean.”

You watched Jack tuck your book into his locker before he propped his backpack up on his knee, unzipping it and drawing a thick book out. Your brows rose at the length, and you huffed out an affronted laugh.

“Uh…Okay. Intense choice. How long did this take you to read—?” You turned the book over in your hands, jaw-dropping at the pages. “Doctor Jack Whatever-the-Fuck-Your-Middle-Name-Is Abbot—”

“Alright—”

“Am I seeing dogeared pages?”

“Listen—”

“You hypocrite!”

“I was young and foolish and didn’t know how to treat my books well, alright? Or, I was what’d you call it? Exercising my personal freedoms?”

You couldn’t help but laugh as you turned the book over, smoothing your fingers over the word Dune is just barely legible along the worn spine. “I’m getting a feeling you’ve read this one a few times.”

“You’re not the only one that likes to revisit favorites.”

“Hm.”

“And if you hate it, it might break my heart, so.” Jack shut his locker, offering you an innocent smile. “No pressure.”

“...Are you kidding me?”

“Nope.”

“That’s not fair!”

“You gave me a favorite and I didn’t get a warning.”

“This is so not the same. I didn’t wanna tell you that it was a favorite and put the pressure on you. You, on the other hand, just poured it on me.”

“You can handle it.”

You stayed frozen in place as Jack turned away, heading for the charge board. You watched him go, book heavy in your hands as that turned over and over in your mind. You jumped at the sound of someone clearing their throat, and turned to see Ellis watching you expectantly.

“Oh—Uh,” You glanced over, realizing that you were standing in front of her locker. “Sorry.” You hurried over to where yours still was open. You gave the book another nervous look before tucking it away.

“What was that?”

“Dune."

“Didn’t you fall asleep watching that movie?”

“First of all, I fell asleep watching the tv spinoff,” You grumbled testily. “Second of all, it was a last-minute choice after we had those people come in from that elevator accident. I was all,” You waved your hand toward your head, “Hopped up on adrenaline, and then I crashed.”

“Really hard.”

“Maybe I just need a different angle of entry.”

“Maybe,” Ellis muttered, but you could tell that she didn’t buy it. “Thought you were on a book-buying ban.”

“I am.”

“You didn’t buy that?”

“No! No, I borrowed it from someone.”

“Shen?”

“No.”

“Lena?”

“Nn-nn,” You shook your head, hurriedly closing your locker. You glanced over, panic bubbling as you spotted Ellis watching you closely. You plastered on a bright smile, hurrying past her as you chirped, “Better get in there!”

You hadn’t been so scared of a book since you tried to read The Shining. You sat on your bed, legs crossed, staring down at the copy in your hands. How did long had Jack had this book for, anyway? He’d said he was young and foolish when he dogeared the pages.

You thumbed the spine, trying to refocus on the intro again. Bene Gesserit…How did you pronounce that? You could’ve sworn you’d heard that when you tried to watch that show, but you couldn’t remember.

You reached out, taking your phone off of your nightstand and opening Jack’s contact information. You’d had it for a long time for ‘work purposes,’ but you never actually used it. And this technically wasn’t a work purpose. Would he view it as an overstep?

You shook your head, putting the phone down. You could just ask him the next time you saw him. You leaned back against the headboard, doing your best to focus up again. Muad'Dib…That was it.

You took the phone up again, steeling yourself as you fired off a quick text: All sci-fi and fantasy novels should come with a pronunciation guide

You put your phone down, refocusing on the book. When you noticed that your eyes have strayed toward the phone screen multiple times, you reached out to flip it face-down. You were just about to let go of it when you felt it buzz once, then twice—and to your horror, you realized that he was calling you. Shit, you did overstep, didn’t you.

Fuck, okay, just buck up, apologize, and move on—

“Hello?” You asked as you answered.

“What are you hung up on?”

“I—” You floundered, brow furrowing. “Uh…Bene Gesserit?”

“You’ve got that one right. What else?”

“Mood—No. Mode dib?”

“Moh-ah-deeb.”

“Ah. See when you say it like that it sounds so simple.” You crossed your legs, cradling the book in it. “Well, thanks for clearing that up.”

“Sure.” And you expected that to be the end of it, but— “Can’t sleep?”

You frowned, pulling the phone away from your face and eyeing the time. Half past ten. You’d only been off of your shift for a couple of hours.

“Honestly?” You sighed, returning the phone to your ear, “No. Figured I’d do some reading to relax.”

“How’s that going?”

“I’m on page one.”

Jack grumbled, "Ouch," and you rolled your eyes, a smile pulling at your lips.

“I’m working on it,” You insisted. “Be easier if you could just read it to me so I wouldn’t spend so much time wondering if I’m thinking about these terms right.”

“...Hm.”

Your brow furrowed at the hum, but you forced yourself to move on: “Anyway, I hope I didn’t wake you up or pull you from anything. You should get some sleep.”

“I’ll get there. Give me a sec.”

“I—Okay?” You frowned. A second for what? But you almost didn’t care. You were just glad he wasn’t reading you the riot act for using his number for a personal reason.

“Page one?”

His return question only deepened your frown, and you pushed yourself to sit up a bit.

“Yeah?”

“Alright…A beginning is the time for taking the most delicate care that the balances are correct.”

Your eyes widened as you scrambled for the book in your lap. You were torn between following along and just listen to Jack reading to you. You waited for a pause in his reading before you spoke up:

“Jack?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t actually have to—You know, I mean I just meant, um—”

“I know.”

You bit your lip, sinking back against your pillows.

“Okay,” You murmured. Jack began to read again, and for a moment, you let your eyes slide shut to just listen.

“We should call it soon.” You hated to say it, but it was nearly noon. “You need your sleep.”

“You don’t?”

“I’m not on next shift.”

“Neither am I.”

“And I also feel like you don’t sleep as much as you should.”

“I’m starting to get the sense that you and I have that in common.”

You smiled, scrubbing your hand across your face. “Maybe. But I gotta say, thanks,” You swung your legs over the side of the bed. “You’re better than an audiobook.”

“You’re gonna make me blush.”

“I’d like to see that.” Oh—Fuck. You did need to go to bed, you were liable to say something even more out of order than that.

“Could always do this in person next time.”

“Hm?”

“I just mean,” He cleared his throat. “Could always be in the same room when we do this.”

You considered for a moment, smoothing your fingers over the pages as nerves kicked up in your stomach.

“If you’re worried about me looking at you,” He added, “You’d be in the clear. I’d be looking at the book.”

You laughed, nodding. “That is a very good point—but considering the condition of this copy, I’d believe you have it memorized.”

“The offer stands.”

“If I take all of your time up, you won’t read the book I gave you.”

“I’ll find the time.”

“When you’re supposed to be sleeping?”

“Maybe.”

You smiled, propping your head up on your hand. He’d offered—and you were beginning to learn that Jack Abbot had a habit of putting his money where his mouth was. “Alright. In-person next time.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Okay.”

“Could come here,” You added before you could stop yourself. “I mean—Parker’s on shift tonight, so we'd have the place to ourselves.” Shit. Did that sound like a sexual proposition? “Or I could come to you—Or we could go to the park or something—” God, shut up, shut up.

“I vote yours. I already know where the coffee machine is.”

“Is that all it takes to get you to go somewhere?”

“It helps.”

“You know what, just for that, I’m gonna move it…Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“If I dogear one of these pages—”

“I’m gonna know.”

“We’ll see.”

You weren’t sure who was more concerned about the fact that Jack was coming over: you or Parker. Of course, Parker didn’t actually know that it was Jack that you were expecting—she just knew that you had someone coming over. You hadn’t been as subtle as you should’ve been—about neatening the living room, going to the grocery store to get snacks, moving the coffee pot to the other side of the kitchen.

“I just wanna try it out over here,” You fibbed, “I think it might help the kitchen flow better.”

“Uh-huh…Who are you rolling out the red carpet for?” Ellis asked. You glanced toward the clock—6:24. You had told Jack that he could come by whenever he wanted after seven, but you wouldn’t be surprised if he kept regular working hours on his nights off, turned up on the dot.

“I, um—No one. Well not no one, but. Just a friend.”

“A friend like Shen is a friend? Or a friend like you steamed up the bathroom taking an everything shower kinda friend?”

“It was not an everything shower!”

“Then what the hell took you so long?”

“Don’t you have a shift to get to?”

“I’ve got time.”

“Not a lot.”

“Oh, you want me outta here bad-bad. Is he cute?”

…You could dish a little, right? Nothing was going to happen, anyway.

“Yeah,” You sighed resignedly. “He is.”

“Damn, so you have been holding out on me.”

“Not holding out! It’s just a friend…Hang.”

“Netflix and chill?”

More like Dune and not to try to embarrass the hell out of yourself.

“We’re not gonna fuck,” You insisted.

“Have a little faith in yourself. ‘Sides, you need to get some.”

“Parker!”

“You do! You’re backed up and this,” Ellis waggled a finger at you, “Is not good. ‘Sides, if you get some tonight, I won’t be here. You can do—You know. Whatever you’ve gotta do at whatever volume you wanna do it at.”

“I’m begging you to stop talking about this.”

“Okay,” Ellis held her hands up in surrender. “I’m going.”

“Don’t forget your water bottle.”

“MVP,” Parker sighed, “Whoever this guy is better wife you up before I do.”

“Shut up,” You cackled, whacking her arm as she passed you. “Have a good shift.”

“Have a good fuck.”

“Parker! Jesus christ!”

Having Jack over had seemed like a good idea earlier that day, but having him there with you, just inches away on the couch, was a little tortuous.

This was for a number of reasons. For one, Jack had opted for a shirt that gave you a maddeningly good view of his biceps. For another, when you’d been on the phone, you’d been able to just close your eyes from time to time and listen. You couldn't do that when he was right in front of you. Well—you could, but there was a chance he’d take it as boredom or disinterest.

But, now and again, you let your eyes stray from the copy of Dune to look at Jack—to watch his smile tick up and lower as he read the familiar words, to see his head tilt just so as he jumped from one character’s voice to another. And now and again, you felt his eyes flit toward you, too, but they didn't seem to linger for nearly as long. It was new, and fun—you’d spent so much time avoiding his gaze, but now it felt like you were playing tag.

When Jack made his second throat-clearing noise in the last half-hour, you sat up, lightly nudging his knee with yours.

“You want some coffee or something?”

“Uh—” Jack glanced from the book, back toward the kitchen, “Yeah. Coffee’d be nice.”

You swung your legs down from where they’d been tucked up on the couch, grabbing your bookmark from where you’d put it on the table, and biting back a smile when Jack whistled low.

“Hang on a second.”

“Don’t start with me, Abbot.”

“Where’d that come from?”

“May’ve grabbed it when I went to the bookstore earlier.” That was good, that sounded casual—not like you’d gone to the store specifically for the purposes of getting a nice bookmark.

“Really.”

“Mm. Caught my eye.”

You were only a couple of steps away, certain that Jack would stay behind and get a better look at said bookmark, but he was up, and behind you, and chuckling, “You actually moved the damn thing,” When he spotted the coffee pot.

“I like a clean follow-through. You hungry at all?” You asked, grabbing a mug from the cabinet. “I can see what we have around.” That was good, too—it made it sound like you hadn’t gone out of your way to make sure you had good food in the house.

“I’m okay for now.”

For now sounded nice—like he’d be there for a while and would need to reassess later.

“So—Thank you,” He took the mug as you offered it, “What do you think so far?”

You leaned back against the counter, mentally combing through the chapters, the bits that had stuck out to you when you weren’t focused so strongly on Jack’s voice.

“Jessica…”

“Mhm?”

“I can’t figure her out—which feels weird to say, because we’ve gotten her perspective, but she feels so…Guarded? Even to me as a reader. Also—Jessica?”

“Yeah?”

“Jessica.”

Jack didn’t answer, shook his head a touch, so you clarified:

“Huge sweeping sci-fi world and her name is fucking Jessica?”

Jack spluttered a laugh into his coffee, lowering the mug to swipe at a couple of spilled drops on his chin, and you beamed, going on, “And Paul? Did Herbert spend so much time making up, like—Thufir Hawat and Gurney Halleck and Leto Atreides and—”

“Duncan Idaho?”

“Well—No Duncan Idaho sounds like he passed a chain coffee shop on a road trip and said ‘sure.’ Like that was the beginning of the end for creative names in this book.”

Jack’s laugh tapered, and you were faced with his soft, warm smile again. Oh—geez. You turned away from him, reaching into the cabinet for a mug of your own.

“It’s clear that Leto cares about her…A lot,” You added, “Despite how basic her name is. But when he said ‘be thankful I never married you,’ it felt so…Cruel.”

“You think he meant it to be?”

“No? But…” You trailed off, shaking your head.

“He said in the next breath that he also thinks of her comforts.”

“Yeah, because in some respect, if she’s not comfortable, he won’t be.”

“So you think his intentions are selfish?’

“I think his intentions are sweet, but they don’t come across like that.”

“She won’t let him be—Because she knows they can’t afford it.”

You frowned, turning to lean against the counter. “How do you figure?”

“When she wants to raise another topic, but swaps her comment to what time he’ll be eating dinner.” Jack crossed the kitchen to stand beside you. “What does he think?”

“...That she wanted to ask him something different.”

“And that he wished they were somewhere else,” Jack murmured, “And alone.”

Your stomach flipped—at his closeness, his tone, and the gaze that you found yourself locked into. You gave a small nod as you considered it.

“But he knows better,” You realized. "They both do." Jack’s smile widened, and you finally let your gaze drop from him to your coffee. “I can understand why you’ve read it so many times. There’s…A lot in here.”

“Any predictions?”

“On what?”

“What happens next.”

“More bureaucracy? Some Harkonnen action? Sand?”

“What about Leto and Jessica?”

You thought for a moment, glancing toward Jack. “I don’t know. I hope it turns out well, but…”

“But?”

“...I’m not really an optimist.”

Last Part

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#SHUT UPPPPP #im giggling and kicking my feet #rolling around in my bed #rb #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot #the pitt

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wastingawayagain · 3 days ago

Text

Gravity Part One

Part Two

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader

Notes: Welcome back to another accidental three-parter. Not beta-read.

Rating: M

Length: 5.6K

Warnings: Yearning (a frickin lot); slow burn; coworkers to friends to lovers; angst; fluff; canon-typical medical chat; fluff; POV switches a couple of times; Reader is roommates with Ellis; Jack 'Prolonged Eye Contact' Abbot

Summary: Abbot didn’t make you uncomfortable, per se. But the nerves that had welled around him during your first few weeks at the Pitt had never really gone away. If you were hard-pressed to examine and classify your feelings, you would (grudgingly) sort them into the mild to moderately romantic category. You blamed him for that entirely.

It wasn't fair, of course. He was handsome, knowledgeable, charming when he wanted to be. He was an amazing physician, an excellent teacher. And it wasn't his fault you had a bit of competency kink. Abbot had never made you feel anything but valued—and nervous.

Besides, it was embarrassing to admit that you had a crush on a man that you’d hardly looked in the eye for the last few years.

It started when she was an intern.

Jack was fully aware of his tendency toward strong eye contact. It helped him make sure he was fully getting a point across when he was guiding residents in the ER—so long as their focus wasn't meant to be elsewhere.

He managed to meet her eye fully exactly twice—and maybe it was odd, but Jack could remember both times clear as day.

The first one was her first day at the Pitt, when she’d shook his hand, introduced herself with a nervous tremor in her voice. Her palm had been a little sweaty, and cold, but her eyes had held his.

The second had been a week or so later, the first time she’d lost a patient. He’d clapped her on the shoulder, reassured her that there was nothing more she could’ve done. He’d tacked on, “Don’t let it happen again,” and he’d been kidding—but she had balked, ducked her head, apologized, and hurried away.

She had rarely met his eye since then.

At first, he’d figured that she was shy, and that she’d grow out of it. Then, he’d thought that maybe she was more reserved at work—some people simply kept their personal and professional lives separate.

But those notions had been disproven time and time and time again: when she palled around with her fellow residents; when she watched and communicated with Walsh attentively; when the senior resident that was clearly hitting on her leaned just a little too close for Jack’s liking in the staff room.

She hadn’t backed down from a single one, hardly batted a damn eyelash.

But any time she spotted Jack, her eyes would lower or dart away—to the floor, to her hands, to a chart, to the sandwich cart, to a counter.

Now, Jack was not a man to take these things personally, but after all these years, it stuck in his craw. He didn’t think about it most days, had learned to take it in stride, found ways to work with it. It had never caused a hold up during a procedure, or in the event of an emergency. She was always active in communicating with him, she just…Never looked at him.

“You’re going to burn a hole through her head.”

Jack hadn’t realized he was staring until Lena said so. He glanced toward the nurse, eyed her knowing smile, and redirected his focus to the computer in front of him.

“No idea what you’re talking about.”

Lena snorted, turning back to the desk as someone approached to ask her a question.

Jack only half-listened, unable to help his eyes drifting toward her again. She was hunched over her own computer, and seemed to be fighting back a smile at something Shen was saying. Another comment or two from Shen, and then her chin was tipping up, a bright smile on her lips as she held Shen’s eye.

Jack huffed a soft laugh through his nose at the sound of Shen’s cackling laugh, and it was like watching ripples in a pond—her head tipped, her brow furrowed, and her eyes darted in Jack’s direction. The smile flattened when she caught him looking, her focus lowering to her keyboard as she hurriedly straightened. She seemed to point to the charge board, mutter something, and turned on her heel, striding away with purpose.

Jack couldn’t help a swell of petty disappointment. What the hell was that? There was no way she’d heard him laugh. It was like she’d sensed a disturbance in the force. Jack shook his head, trying to refocus on the chart.

Did she panic because he had been smiling? Had he been staring at her as long as Lena implied? Did he look like some dirty old man?

Jack pushed off of the desk, eyeing the charge board with purpose. Whatever it was that made her skitter away like that—well. He’d forget it by tomorrow.

“Hey. You headed in?”

You glanced back, doing a double-take at the site of Ellis standing in the kitchen doorway.

“Uh—Yeah, just packin’ a few snacks. You need anything?”

“I got something to ask you.”

“Sure, what’s up?” You turned to face her, folding your arms expectantly. In the entire time you and Ellis had been roommates, you’d never seen her look concerned like this—and she usually didn’t bother trying to be delicate when broaching a difficult subject.

“Parker, what is it?” You pressed.

“Is something going on between you and Abbot?”

Your brow furrowed, mouth falling open as if to answer—but what the hell kind of question was that?

“Excuse me?”

“You and Abbot, what’s going on?”

“There’s nothing going on.”

“You sure?”

“I think I’d know if something was happening between us, El. Where the hell did this come from, anyway?”

“Shen said the two of you were weird yesterday, that Abbot looked at you and you bolted. And—” She shrugged, “You kinda always seem like that. Did something happen?”

“Nothing happened yesterday! I realized I needed to go check on a patient, I’d just gotten their results back.”

“And all the other times?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Ellis gave you a long look before she relented, holding her hands up in surrender with a mutter of, “Alright.”

“Great.”

“If you insist—”

“I do insist.”

“But you know what they say about people who protest too much.”

“Cap it, Hamlet. You on tonight?”

“Yep,” Ellis nodded.

“See you in there.”

“If you wanna wait, I’ll drive you.”

“Nah, it’s okay,” You shifted your bag onto your shoulder. “The walk is good for me.”

“We’re gonna be on our feet for the next twelve hours.”

“I like a warm-up,” You insisted. “See you in there.”

Slow and steady, that was how you left the apartment—even steps, a measured pocket-pat-down at the door to make sure you had your phone, keys, wallet, ID badge…And then you were out the door.

Out the door, and down the stairs, and cursing under your breath as you stepped out onto the street. Where the hell did Ellis get off, asking something like that? Implying that something could be going on between you and Abbot? You hardly spoke to the guy. Hell—you felt like you barely said more than two words to the man that didn’t have anything to do with work. The implication that the two of you had something going on was categorically insane—and it twisted your gut up in a knot.

The closer you got to the Pitt, the worse the feeling got, until it was bordering on nausea. You stopped a block away, drawing in a deep breath and puffing it out between your lips, trying to shake yourself of the feeling. Damnit, why’d you let Ellis get in your head that way?

You drew in another steadying breath as you started forward again, trying to shake the nerves out of your hands. This shift was going to be fine—as seamless as the ones before it.

“You doin’ okay?”

It was a fair question asked by the last person you wanted to hear it from. The shift had been hell. Patient after patient seemed to have some hitch. You were slower to respond when Abbot asked you questions, prompted you. It was only made worse by the feeling of Ellis and Shen watching every goddamn interaction.

Now, the test results were back for the patient you were least looking forward to seeing. The patient herself was sweet, but you were getting nowhere with her overbearing husband answering nearly every question for her.

You pushed yourself to straighten up.

“Fine,” You insisted flatly. “Thanks.” You straightened fully, hesitating as you heard him take a step away. “Actually—”

It was out of your mouth before you could stop it. You saw Abbot go still in your periphery, and your hands flexed around the iPad in your hands.

“I’m having trouble getting answers from a patient—a woman with a head injury. She said she slipped and whacked it, but based on where the cut is...I don't think it's possible. And her husband’s an overbearing ass. I’ve got a bad feeling about him.”

“Abusive?”

“I think so. Could you run interference?”

“Sure. You have one of those pens, one of the—”

“I always keep a couple in my pocket.”

She steeled herself before she went into the examination bay. Jack had seen her do it time and time again when she could. He wondered how it steadied her, savored the way that she closed her eyes for a split-second, drew in a deep breath, and then slapped a smile on before pulling the curtain back.

"How are we doing in here?"

Her chipper tone did nothing to reveal the concern that she'd shared with him moments ago. Abbot followed close behind, taking in the young woman laying in a hospital gown on the bed, and the man standing just beside her at the head. Abbot took another step toward the bed, then stopped as the woman seemed seemed to shrink back, attempting to make herself smaller.

"She's fine." The man's voice was gruff in his insistence, his hand curled into a fist just by his wife's head. Abbot's eyes skated across the bruises and scrapes to the knuckles there, his own hands wringing behind his back as he took another step closer.

Jack saw her glance back toward him before she gestured, "Dr. Abbot, this is Nick and Amanda Alpers. Mr. and Mrs. Alpers, this is Dr. Abbot. He's the ER's foremost expert on head injuries." An easy fib, and it seemed to be a necessary one.

"Aren't you all trained on the same shit?" Nick grumbled. Abbot took a couple of steps closer, taking in the slight matting of hair on the wife's head, the dark clotting of blood.

"We all have our own experiences that inform how we practice," Abbot passed easily, taking one more step. "Mrs. Alpers, would it be alright if I examined the—"

"It's just a scrape, really!" The insistence was hurried, and left the poor woman in a squeak. Abbot forced a small smile, giving a conceding nod.

"May I examine the scrape?" He conceded.

Amanda's eyes seemed to dart to Nick for permission, and only after a hefty sigh did Nick wave Abbot closer.

He couldn't help but note the way his fellow doctor rounded the bed, caught on the slight flurry of her questions as he gloved up.

"Are you feeling any pressure?" He asked, gently parting the hair to get a better look at the bloody, raised bump on her head.

"N-no. No more than usual—I mean! No more than anyone ever usually feels," Amanda hurried to answer. Abbot's eyes lifted to the doctor on the opposite side of the bed just in time to see her fingers tightening around her iPad.

"Any sensitivity to light, sound...?" Abbot went on, drawing his penlight out of his pocket and shining it from one eye to the next.

"Nn-nn."

"Hm."

"If that's all, can we go?" Nick groused. "Already been a waste of a night."

Abbot straightened, sizing Nick up. He waited for his fellow physician to say something, but—Nothing. He looked at her, certain she was eyeing the chart, but realized immediately that it was a mistake. Her eyes were right on his, widening pointedly as they darted to the creep beside her. Abbot cleared his throat, doing his best to focus on the patient—though he knew he'd be tucking that look away for himself.

"Nick, can I have a word?" He asked, gesturing toward the nurse's station.

"What for?"

Abbot pushed a short breath out through his nose as he rounded the bed, taking even steps so as not to raise the brute's hackles.

"There are some things that I'd like to discuss with you. Things that, you know," He nodded, "Women shouldn't hear."

Watching understanding wash over Nick's face made his stomach turn. It was a wonder the man had brought his wife to the ER at all if that was the attitude he held.

"We won't go far?" Nick pressed, though he was already moving.

"No, no," Jack insisted, following him out, "Just a few feet." He gave her one last look, and a quick nod before tugging the observation curtain closed behind them.

The knot that had formed in your stomach only tightened, but it wasn’t for your own nerves or panic anymore. You didn't like letting her go, hated seeing her leave with him. Abbot came to a stop beside you, and for a moment, the two of you just watched Nick steer Amanda out of the ER.

"What'd you say to him?" You asked.

"Distracted him with football."

"I didn't know you watched."

“Sometimes. She take the pen?” He asked.

“...Yeah.”

“It’s a start.”

“Might be too little, too late.”

“She’s got a good head on her shoulders.”

“You think so?”

“Sure.”

“...I gave her my number, too.”

You saw Abbot’s head turn toward you, and you froze, biting the inside of your cheek.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” It should’ve been more of a scold, but you could’ve sworn his tone was tinged with admiration.

“I know.”

“What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t.” You turned away from Abbot. “Thanks again for distracting him.”

“...No problem. Will you tell me if she calls?”

“Yeah,” You nodded, turning to look at the board. “Hope she does—and soon.”

“Was that all that was bothering you?”

“What?”

“You seemed a little off earlier. Just making sure everything’s okay.”

Well, Abbot always was the observant type. It was one of the things that made him such a good doctor. You shouldn’t have been offended by his question, but in that moment, his concern was as unwelcome as Ellis probing had been just a few hours before.

“Just one of those days—nights,” You corrected, “You know.”

“Take a couple minutes, get some air.”

“I’m alright.” And before you could stop yourself, you gave him a grateful smile before turning away. In truth, you weren't entirely sure where you were headed to—you’re more distracted by the fact that you’d met the guy’s eye more in the last twenty minutes than you probably had in the last two years.

“Here.”

“Thanks,” You took your beer as Ellis set it down and settled into the seat across from you. “John on his way?”

“Yeah,” She nodded, “And uh…Don’t kill me, but he’s bringing someone.”

You frowned, shaking your head as you waited for her to explain. Ellis didn’t elaborate, merely tipped her brows up. It only took a second for you to put the pieces together, and you groaned, sliding down in your chair as nerves flooded your stomach.

“Parker—”

“It’s just a coincidence!” She took in your unimpressed glare, corrected, “Mostly a coincidence. We always ask, he almost never says yes. It’s as hard to talk him into coming out as it is to talk you into it. Besides, it’ll help!”

“There’s nothing here that needs helping.”

“It’s slowing things down—”

“When has it ever slowed anything down?”

“Last few shifts, he’s waited for you to look at him when you answer and nothing. It’s making shit weird. We leave that messy personal bull for the day shift.”

“I’m not—This isn’t messy, it’s just—”

“You barely look at the guy. We all notice it.”

“He’s so big on frickin’ eye contact, like,” You glanced around the bar, “It’s intimidating.”

“Intimidating?”

“Yeah.”

“Intimidating.”

“Yes! I barely even like making eye contact with you, but I live with you, so it’s mostly unavoidable.”

“You love it.”

“Sure. Who wouldn’t want to be adopted by the meanest lesbian in the ER?”

“I thought that was Garcia.”

“No, she’s the meanest lesbian in surgery.”

Ellis’ smile widened before she perked up, waving at someone behind you before she leaned in just a touch.

“Just be yourself, be cool.”

“Pick one.”

“You know, I bet he thinks you hate him.”

“What?” You hissed, “Why would he think that? And—Why would he give a shit, plenty of people hate their boss. Not that I hate him, I don’t, just—”

“Hey!” Shen’s voice cut over your nervous chatter, and you couldn’t stop your knee-jerk reaction of turning to look at him—and spotting Abbot just a couple of steps behind. Shen patted you on the shoulder, settling down beside you as Abbot rounded the table. Your eyes glued to your beer instinctively as he shrugged out of his jacket, sitting down beside Ellis. And you thought you’d just managed to be subtle enough—until both Shen and Ellis kicked you lightly under the table. It took everything in you not to kick back, instead lifting your head to meet Abbot’s eye, plastering a small smile on your lips.

“Hi.”

“Hello.” There was a little lean to his lo, a friendly tease that you felt like you hadn’t earned. And there was eye contact—heavy, steady eye contact as he folded his arms on the table. You tried to ignore the traitorous little flip in your stomach as you hurriedly lowered your eyes to the table, picking your beer up and taking a swig to try and drown the flurrying butterflies.

“We miss anything good?” Shen plied. Ellis shook her head.

“We were just talking about renewing our lease.”

“I forgot you two were roommates,” Abbot commented. Ellis must’ve told him, and you couldn’t fathom why he’d remember.

“What’s the verdict?” Shen asked.

“We’re gonna stick,” You reported as you looked at him. “Rent is going up, but, like, barely…Barely.”

“And the location is too good,” Ellis tacked on. “Half an hour to the Pitt walking, fifteen minutes by car—utilities don’t suck, either.”

“Decent space,” You added, “And allows dogs—if this one goes through with getting a dog.”

“I’m still in research and development.”

“Aren’t you allergic?” Shen nudged your arm.

“Yeah, but not deathly. And if she picks a breed that doesn’t shed much and has a low can f 1 gene—”

“I want to adopt from a shelter—”

“So I’ll probably be moving out as soon as that happens,” You teased, “Because god knows she’ll wind up with a mutt.”

“And sublet?”

“Sure, John. You can move into my room, I’ll move into your place. Even trade.”

“I don’t know about that—”

“Better rent, better location.”

“You won’t mind being further from the Pitt?”

“Nah,” You shrugged, “I like a long walk.”

“Sure does,” Ellis rolled her eyes, “I don’t know anyone that spends more time just wandering around on their days off.”

“Is it a crime to enjoy being outside when the sun is up?”

“You ever think of switching to day shift?”

Abbot’s question caught you off-guard—it was like you’d fallen into such an easy rhythm with Ellis and Shen that you'd almost managed to forget that he was there. Your fingers tightened around your beer as you forced yourself to meet Abbot’s eye again.

“Not once.”

It was the truth, and it made Abbot’s smile widen in a way that felt dangerously vindicating. Unnerving quiet wrapped around your shared gaze, and Ellis clearing her throat was what finally snapped you out of looking at him.

“So, hey,” Shen jumped in, “Did I tell you guys about my latest acquisition?”

“Jesus fucking christ,” You muttered over Ellis’ low whistle.

“Another ebay war?” She asked.

“Not a war, an easy buy,” Shen insisted, “You know, for—”

“Yeah, your shank bank, we remember,” You insisted, smile pulling wide as both Abbot and Ellis’ laughter catches from that side of the table. “That weird-ass collection of antique medical equipment—fucking medical history nerd.”

“I keep them as a display!”

“Must really get ‘em going on a date night. Nothing hotter to a woman than rusty scalpels,” You batted back, nudging Shen’s shoulder with yours. You didn’t mean to catch Abbot’s eye on your way back to looking at Ellis again. And this look didn’t hold for as long as the one before it—but it was just long enough to reawaken the butterflies, even as Shen insisted,

“This one isn’t even rusty!”

As you turned in for the night, Ellis teased you, insisted, “See, it wasn’t that bad.”

You didn’t argue, because she wasn't wrong—it wasn’t the worst way to spend an afternoon out. But it was…Different.

Your aversion to Dr. Abbot’s attention had started your first week at the Pitt, when he’d stuck close during an intubation. He hadn’t been breathing down your neck, but his steady focus had made you so damn nervous. You were used to your attendings being just a little scattered, torn in six different directions. And other matters had vied for Abbot’s attention, sure, but he hadn’t heeded them until the patient was in the clear.

You’d started to avoid his gaze after that, and it had just become second nature. Avoiding eye contact turned into avoiding him during the quiet moments of your shifts, which turned into a patient-treatment-only conversational focus. Abbot consulted on your cases, made recommendations, listened to your rationalizations.

When he did insist on meeting your eye, you gave him just a long enough look to show that you’d heard him, but never anything more. You’d avoided palling around with him, even though you palled around with your fellow residents, and with other attendings—but you were comfortable with them.

And Abbot didn’t make you uncomfortable, per se. But the nerves that had welled around him during your first few weeks at the Pitt had never really gone away. If you were hard-pressed to examine and classify your feelings, you would (grudgingly) sort them into the mild to moderately romantic category. You blamed him for that entirely.

Besides, it was embarrassing to admit that you had a crush on a man that you’d hardly looked in the eye for the last few years.

You could understand how Abbot may’ve thought you didn’t like him—if he really thought that. But he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who needed everyone to like him. It probably helped, sure, but you were positive that your countenance had never caused a slow-down or a hitch in the ER, no matter what Ellis said. You were just focused—and since when was that a bad thing?

Either way, today had been kinda…okay. You’d made nice with Abbot, made eye contact multiple times without Ellis or Shen kicking you in the shins again. Whatever wound up happening, you’d tried, and they couldn’t take that away from you, right?

You settled in bed, letting your eyes slip closed, drawing in a deep breath to relax yourself.

For all your initial irritation, Ellis was right—it wasn’t that bad.

But it didn’t stop Abbot’s warm gaze from lingering behind your eyelids when you closed them, and it couldn’t keep the mirthful roll of his chuckle from playing through your mind as you tried to drift off.

You decided to make it a little experiment, approach it as something that you could train yourself out of. Seeing him over drinks had laid the groundwork—and you had managed to look at him twice a few shifts ago, hadn’t you?

You went into your next shift determined to look Abbot in the eye three times.

You only managed it once when you passed him by the board—a glance and a small wave.

The smile that he returned flustered you so much that you nearly walked into the sandwich cart, and it scared you out of looking at him for the rest of the night. As a matter of fact, it scared you out of it the next shift, and the one after that.

You talked yourself out of the whole foolish endeavor. You’d managed to work with Abbot perfectly well before, why change things now? Especially when looking at him seemed to awaken something girlish and fluttering inside of you—and you couldn’t afford to be girlish and fluttering at work.

She was doing it again.

Jack had thought they had turned a corner after Shen and Ellis had invited them all out together, but things seemed to be moving in reverse. It had gone beyond sticking in his craw—it was almost nagging at him now, and worse now that he knew what the full force of her focus was like. It was easy to brush off before, but these days Jack was hard-pressed to admit that he felt something in him wilt whenever she avoided his eye.

She was making a meal of it now, focused stalwartly as she instructed Javadi on setting a bone. He’d seen her head tip in his direction a couple of times, but she’d always given her head a little shake before refocusing. Was the shake for Javadi? For him?

“...You didn’t hear me, did you,” Ellis asked, forcing him to refocus. He had heard her—and he could feign that his silence had been fueled by contemplation. He turned away from the treatment bay, arms folded across his chest.

“See if the OR can take Mr. Tosches yet," He instructed. "I don’t want him down here too long. You follow up with the raccoon kid?”

“That’s my next stop.”

“Perfect, thanks.”

“Sure—Hey, are you coming by this weekend?”

That weekend. He’d been dodging giving Ellis an answer for the last couple of weeks. She’d invited him to the last four get-togethers at the apartment, but he’d never made it to one, either because he was working, or because he just wasn’t in the mood to socialize.

He wasn’t sure he was in the mood now, but…A fleeting smile flashed through his mind. They’d seemed to come easier to her when they were away from the hospital. And his therapist had been nagging him about leaving the house more…

“Yeah,” He nodded. “Yeah, I can make it.”

Ellis didn’t cover her surprise well, but her, “kay, sweet. I’ll text you the address," Told him that she was just as surprised by his answer as he was.

Abbot nodded, casting another glance toward the treatment bay before turning away fully. It was just an experiment, he told himself. He would see if her smiles for him came easier outside of work, or not at all.

If it was not at all, he’d let it go, once and for all.

“Is there any coffee?”

The question made you freeze in front of your cabinet. Your eyes darted through its contents, but you didn’t take in a damn thing. He was in your kitchen. He never came to these things, why the hell did he come to this one?

“Uh—” You turned, looking around your kitchen as though you’d never been there before. “It’s um—Yeah. Right there. It might not be hot, though. I can turn the pot back on.”

“I’ve got it.”

“You're on shift tonight?”

“Mhm.”

You nodded, turning back to the cabinet. Hell, what did you open it for? Goddamn, but you came in here looking for something—You huffed, shoving the cabinet door closed as you scrubbed your hand across your forehead. He wasn’t allowed to do this, he wasn’t allowed to make you feel this out of sorts in your own damn kitchen.

“Everything alright?”

“You know, I feel like half the time you talk to me, you’re asking if I’m okay.” It was out of your mouth before you could stop it, and embarrassment sprang up the second it did. “I should, um—You need a mug, don’t you,” You muttered, turning to the other cabinet, and glancing back toward the living room when you heard a swell of laughter. Damnit, but Ellis sent you into the kitchen for what? Napkins? Napkins would be in the cabinet.

“Well forgive me for being concerned when one of my best residents seems to spend half of her shifts avoiding me.”

You whirled around, too stunned to do anything but meet Jack’s eye. The steady contact seemed to catch the both of you off-guard. Your mouth worked wordlessly for a moment as your mind reeled. What the hell could you say to that? Well—what would you say if you were talking to Ellis or Shen?

“...Just one of your best residents?”

Abbot’s brows lifted, his lips quirk with a smile, and your stomach filled with that girlish fluttering again.

“You’re certainly not avoiding me now.”

You press your mouth together, gaze instinctively dropping to the floor.

“I don’t avoid you at work, either. I’m just—” You turned back to the cabinet, reaching into it for a mug. “I’m focused when I'm at the Pitt.”

“Seem to be focused right now, too.”

“Do you want a mug for your coffee or not?”

“Oh, that old excuse.”

“Fine, drink it from the pot. That’s Parker’s machine, anyway. She’ll kill you.”

“She wouldn’t. We’re short-staffed as it is.”

“Well, that’s true.” You crossed the kitchen, holding the mug out. And, though you knew the answer, you asked, “Do you need milk or sugar?”

“No.”

“Alright.” You turned, reaching for the cabinet by the coffee machine. Maybe it was something in there.

“...You don’t really think I avoid you," You plied, unable to stop yourself.

“Certainly avoid looking at me.”

“Focused.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re fine to look at.”

“Oh?”

“Good—Good to—” No, nothing in that cabinet. Check the next one. At least, you needed to get a few feet away from Abbot before you said anything else stupid. “You’re fine.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure.”

“...Look at me.”

It was so firm that you went still in front of your cabinet again, hands on the knobs, doors half-open as your heart leaps into your throat.

“Excuse me?”

“We’re not at work, you can’t need to be that focused. If I’m so fine to look at, look at me.”

Your fingers flexed around the knobs, palms growing sweaty.

“Ellis asked me to grab something for her and you’ve already distracted me enough.”

“Is that so.”

“You can be very distracting sometimes.” For fucksake. What was it about being alone with this man that had your head so horribly scrambled?

“I suddenly feel like I oughta apologize,” He commented.

“I feel like you’re making fun of me.”

“A little.”

You scoffed out a laugh, your nerves only worsening when you heard Jack take a few steps closer, saw him lower his coffee onto the counter beside you.

“It won’t take long,” He reassured, raising his hand to close one of the cabinet doors. “One quick look.”

You drew in a deep breath, planting your hand on the counter and turning to face Jack with wide eyes. You were prepared to stare at him pointedly—but you faltered at the look on his face. His eyes were softer than they had any right being. They searched your expression, sweeping over your nose, across your cheeks, to your lips, and up again—as if he was seeing you for the first time.

“...See?” He murmured. “This isn’t so bad.”

You struggled to swallow, throat dry; your face was flooding with heat. If this was a cartoon, you were certain that your heart would be beating out of your chest.

“No,” You finally managed, shaking your head a little, unable to tear your eyes from his, “No, it isn’t.”

Jack’s smile widened as he leaned against the counter a touch, fingers skimming against yours. And you knew that you ought to look away, go ask Ellis what she sent you into the damn kitchen for in the first place, but you couldn't bring yourself to move.

“You just gonna keep staring at me, Jack?” You murmured. His brows jumped slightly at the use of his first name, lips quirking with a smirk.

“You’re staring, too.”

“Making up for apparently avoiding you.”

“Very kind of you.”

“Do what I can.”

Maybe it was better that he was looking at your face, anyway—if he looked down, he might see the goosebumps sweeping up your arm from the gentle sweep of his fingertips against yours. It felt pathetic to get so worked up from such a simple touch. Goddamn, did he look at everyone like this? Did everyone feel like this when he looked at them? There was no way—if it was, nothing would ever get done at the Pitt.

“Hey, did you find the Triscuits?”

Ellis bottle snapped you out of the trance-like stare, and you whirled away from Jack like he was trying to set you on fire. The Triscuits, son of a bitch, that was what you were sent to look for.

“I just—I just saw them,” You fumbled, pulling the cabinet open again.

“My fault,” Abbot spoke up. “I asked for some coffee.”

“You’re on tonight?” Ellis frowned, and you were relieved to hear her come deeper into the kitchen. “I thought you were taking the day.”

“We had two call outs. Matter of fact, I should get going.”

You glanced doggedly back toward Jack, watching him pick his mug up and take a deep swig. You busied yourself with poking through the drawer beneath the cupboard, vaguely catching Abbot saying his goodbyes to Ellis in the background. Jeez, did the Trisuits fucking evaporate?

You glanced toward the mug as Jack set it down in the sink, and, against your better judgement, met Jack’s eye when he turned to look at you.

“Thanks for the coffee.”

“Sure,” You nodded. “Have a good shift.”

“Good luck finding those, uh…” He glanced toward Ellis. “Triscuits?”

“Uh-huh,” She nodded. “Thanks for coming, man.”

“Have a good night.”

You listened to his retreating footsteps, marked the opening and closing of the door…And tried not to die from complete mortification when Ellis tapped your shoulder, then pointed out the box of Triscuits where it was sitting on the counter.

Next Part

Tag list:

@missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @amneris21 ;

@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage ; @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ;

@millllenniawrites ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices ; @missswriter ;

@thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @realwhoreforfictionalmen

; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; @artsymaddie

@winchestershiresauce ; @lorecraft ; @kmc1989

#huge thanks to the person that recommended this #kissing you on the mouth #beautiful #rb #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot #the pitt

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wastingawayagain · 3 days ago

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This is just to reiterate, his shield is not vibranium. It is just a metal disc that you can see him wind up his whole arm and shoulder to launch as hard as possible. When you see Sam or Steve throw the official shield it’s so much easier to flick out, not much power required. John’s launching what is essentially a manhole cover at people with super soldier strength.

#i want him #freaky ass white boy #need #throw it at me next #rb #john walker #john walker x reader #thunderbolts*

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wastingawayagain · 3 days ago

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so what if I sucked his dick. his knuckles were split and bloody from defending my safety and my honour what else was I supposed to do

#this guy gets it #rb

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wastingawayagain · 3 days ago

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Ok guys I've seen Materialists now where are the fics

I cannot wait for the new slew of Chris Evans fics that are gonna come out in the wake of Materialists

#materialists #chris evans #john materialists

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wastingawayagain · 3 days ago

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You guys please I so desperately need to know how Jack "Staring Problem" Abbot would react to a partner who can't do eye contact because lemme tell you The Instant someone tries to look me in the eyes I perish on the spot

#Jack Abbot #the pitt #jack abbot x reader #shawn hatosy #jack abbott #jack abbott x reader

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wastingawayagain · 3 days ago

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Need to sit on Abbots dick when I'm on my period, have me keep him warm while he massages my sore tits while I'm all whiny and soft over him

Jack never minded the mess. He’d encouraged it.

His strong arms cradled your form against his, pressing, and firm. You’d rock steadily and rhythmically on his cock, not rushed in the slightest, feeling how you stretched around his width, how your cunt swallowed him and was still left pulsing for more. Needy girl.

One of his soft, cotton sheets jumbled around the close-knit pair of tangled limbs, Abbot’s forehead rested upon yours as hot, puffs of breath fanned over your face. A broad, weighty palm crept up your side, squeezing and molding the skin as he tickled upwards. Your hips would wriggle against his, involuntarily twitching at the tentative touching.

“Jack…” You’d moan, lashes fluttering against your cheeks.

“I know, baby.” He hummed.

It hadn’t been the first time his name left your lips in no less of an impatient lamentation that fateful night. Jack’s cock twitched once, still nestled comfortably inside your tender walls, that just moments ago had been fluttering out and in with an orgasm. He was already missing that.

Clinically.

He shifted, just the teeniest of amounts against his soft, cushy pillows. One of those massive palms you just loved so dearly cupped the underside of your breast, and squeezed. The one symptom of your menstrual cycle that’d never fall short of getting Jack off is those tits. Suddenly, almost too tender, so full and ripe.

On his second squeeze, you’d whine, your body squeamish. And you’d let out a long, strangled,

“Jaaaaaaaaackkkkk…”

Jack, then would only add to the stimulation with a second hand to your untouched breast.

The warmth of his palms only made matters worse, your lazy body arched towards those meaty fists that gripped onto the mounds of hearty fat. A calloused, cruel thumb brushed over your hardened nipple. It was almost unkind of him to do so. Ultimately forcing the return of a throbbing ache in your clit. The same little, sensitive pearl that had been being beat by his fingertips for the last couple of hours.

Jack’s nosed brushed against yours, nibbling on your top lip.

“I know, honey,” He cooed, too soft, too abate to be lulling, “So sore…So heavy too…”

He’d kiss the top of your bust before licking a long, hot stripe over your collar bone, as his fingers sunk deeper into your tits. Adjusting his thighs, pressing you close, tummy to tummy. Shaky, your palms went to brace on his firm pectorals, every moan wavering out of your throat.

Jack had just continued on worshiping those two, pretty things he got to call ‘his.’ Something he had finally gotten used to, now it came easy for him to chant ‘Mine mine mine mine mine…’ While fucking you deep and slow, filling you up with hot, thick spend and pecking your shoulders. Something urgently pulled the corners of his lips upwards the more you tussled on his dick. Only egging on his relentless ministrations.

“Just relax, pretty girl,” He’d punctuate the gentle, breathy words with an open-mouthed kiss to your nipple. “Daddy’s here…Daddy’s got you.”

#need this so fucking bad #rb #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot #the pitt

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wastingawayagain · 7 days ago

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So I just got my nails done and all I can imagine is Hotch taking his girl to get her nails done because he likes her leaving scratches on his back when they have sex and he noticed her nails were getting short and so he has her get her nails done and then comments on how pretty she looks when stroking him or playing with herself and...I'm a freak. Please tell me you see the vision.

you art thou visionary

i thick hotch definitely notices when your nails start getting shorter. not in a judgy way, just in a “i keep track of you” way. like he sees you chewing them or filing them down and he’s like hmm. files that away in his internal girlfriend spreadsheet.

it’s not even fully sexual at first — he just likes seeing your hands. the way you hold a pen, the way you adjust his tie, the way you trace your fingers over his chest when you think he’s asleep. he notices everything. and he likes when they’re done. likes the color. the shine. the shape. even if you don’t say anything, he notices when you change them.

but then you’re having sex and you rake your nails down his back and he feels it. that first real scratch. and he just pauses. breathes through it. not because it hurts or doesn’t hurt, but because he really really likes it. because he wants more.

after that, he doesn’t say anything directly. he just puts his credit card down the next time you say “i think i need a fill-in.”

says, “get what you want.”

when they’re fresh, he’s impossible. hands on your hips. grabbing your hands to look at them. telling you you look beautiful when you run them through his hair or wrap them around his cock or spread open your own folds.

and yes mhm, he gets a little possessive. might say things like “you’re not going anywhere until i feel those again” when he’s got you spread out under him. might pull your hand up to his mouth and kiss your fingertips.

he definitely calls you pretty when you’re touching yourself. slow and soft in your ear, “that’s it, sweetheart. you look so fucking pretty like that. being so gentle with yourself.”

and when you scratch his back and leave real, visible marks … he notices. in the shower. getting dressed. in the mirror before work. runs his fingers over the lines and feels his knees go a little weak.

he says, “you should keep that length”

and you say “why?”

and he just smiles. you know why.

#love to see this as someone who only recently started keeping her nails done!#rb #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #criminal minds

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wastingawayagain · 7 days ago

Text

Backshots... Back Pain, Sorry

Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: SMUTTY smut kind of smut. Fluff if you're a freak. Summary: It starts with a back massage, ends with your face in a pillow and Hotch scolding you mid-thrust for arching your back incorrectly. You’d argue, but it’s hard to speak when he’s fixing your posture with his [REDACTED] Warnings: MDNI (established... whatever this is, oral [f!receiving, brief mentions of m!receiving], unprotected p-in-v bc we live on the edge [♫ of glory ♫]), age gap, casual oopsie choking, accidental-but-not-really voyeurism, Hotch is pussy-whipped af but somehow still is a patronizing piece of shit, mentions of Jack (sorry Jack) Word Count: 6.6k Dado's Corner: Phi attempting the “Don’t write Hotch like a pathetic bottom after humiliating him in 30 Seconds” challenge: lasted a strong 30.5 seconds. Proofreading brought to u by Dr. Bin @hotchology PhD

masterlist

The first thought you had when you saw how big Aaron’s hands were was not, (un)surprisingly, that they’d be perfect for back massages.

That was probably your second thought.

Because your first was… well, that those thick fingers looked suspiciously well-suited for another kind of activity involving a lot more curling and a lot more work from his middle and ring finger.

Still.

Now – naked (just the top half, because he insisted. Something about how deep tissue massage works better on bare skin and some other pseudoscientific bullshit you’re trying very hard not to sexualize)- lying face down and completely at his mercy, you have to admit:

He’s freakishly good at the massage thing too.

Also, the noises coming out of your mouth are quite similar anyway.

Same pitch. Same breathlessness. Same “Yes, that’s the spot, sweetheart - like that?” murmured behind you in that pompous gravelly chuckle that does absolutely nothing to help you separate the two scenarios.

At least this time, it’s his thumbs digging into the knot just under your shoulder blades and not… well. Other places.

You don’t know how he does it.

It’s awful. It’s amazing. It makes you want to cry, make out, confess every fear you’ve ever had since the third grade, and tell him about the time you got lost in a supermarket when you were six and never fully recovered.

(Stepping stone of your abandonment issues, actually. Very formative stuff.)

But instead, you just hum.

And before he can tease you (because you know he will, the moment he realizes you’ve melted into a limp, worshipful little puddle over a shoulder rub), you manage to mumble:

“Can you keep doing this forever?”

Also because - small detail, minor point - he’s pinning you to the mattress with his hips. Like, fully. Whole FBI-agent body weight centered right over the curve of your ass.

And every time he shifts - reaching up to get a better angle, dragging his hands (those large, beautiful hands) up the sides of your spine - his hips roll just slightly forward.

And- yeah. He sort of… rocks against you.

Not on purpose.

(Probably?)

(…Definitely.)

Which would be fine. Totally manageable. Not at all a problem - if it weren’t for the fact that he’s wearing the least fuckable pajamas on Earth… which, of course, makes them ten times more fuckable.

Plain, boring navy bottoms. A matching buttoned top. (Aaron Hotchner cannot survive without buttons. He needs order. He needs structure. Even in REM sleep.)

Classic grandpa cut. V-neck just deep enough to show a scandalous sliver of collarbone you might, unironically, faint over.

(Thankfully, your current view is limited to his bedside table: a vintage old-man lamp that costs more than your phone, and a framed photo of him and his son.)

(Hi, Jack. Sorry for having thoughts about your father.)

Back to the pajamas - the most crucial detail is the fabric.

It’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched. High-thread-count sorcery. Probably imported. Definitely overpriced. Breathable, which is just a fancy way of saying stupidly thin.

Thin enough that when he leans in - presses down - you can feel the shape of his-

…Anyway. You’re getting ideas. (Again, sorry, framed Jack.)

“Not to be paternalistic,” he starts. (It is to be paternalistic. Entirely so. But you’ll allow it. You’ll allow anything, frankly, because for some reason it’s insanely hot when he talks like this.)

“-but you shouldn’t have a back like this at your age.”

“Well, thankfully I’ve got your magic hands to fix it, don’t I?” You smile, turning your head to look back at him, because you’re an idiot who still thinks eye contact might save you.

It doesn’t.

What you get instead is one of his signature sighs - the special not-to-be-paternalistic-but-very-much-is variety that sounds like he’s aging ten years just trying to keep you alive - and then a gently condescending lecture about cervical strain and spinal alignment and how you “can’t just twist your neck around if you actually want this to help,” yada yada-

“I know it doesn’t feel like a big deal now, but these things add up,” yada yada-

“I just-can you please take this seriously? I know you joke, but I’d like you to still be able to stand up straight in ten years.” yada yada, (okay, long-term vision, wow, didn’t know we were doing that now) yada yada-

“Sweetheart”.

All of it delivered in that deeply patronizing, annoyingly hot concerned-professional voice he’s perfected.

The one that should be irritating. Would be irritating, If it weren’t currently paired with both his hands kneading down your back, thumbs sinking into that dangerously tender spot just above your hips.

(You would roll your eyes, but you’ve just been told that’s a cervical risk. So you moan into the pillow instead. Respectfully.)

“Breathe through it,” he says. And you do. Immediately. Obediently.

Because he says it so kindly that you have to keep reminding yourself – repeatedly - that he actually cares about your spinal health, and is not, in fact, secretly calculating how many ways you could arch your hips to grind back against his very conveniently located crotch.

(You are. You’re calculating. You’re the problem.)

“Yeah, that’s a good one. Keep doing this,” he says, as his thumbs keep moving - maybe in circles, maybe up and down - you honestly couldn’t say. You’ve lost all grip on spatial awareness.

All you know is there’s a pulsing, needy little bundle of nerves between your legs now demanding attention.

Especially when he comments, right as his fingers glide just above your ass-

“You’re really tight here.” Sir (GN). Be serious. “You should start being a bit more mindful about your posture.”

And with just those few words, your clit - tired, neglected, and frankly done with being emotionally sidelined - decides it’s going to take what it can get.

If a proper orgasm isn’t on the table, a slightly patronizing lecture from Aaron Hotchner about spinal health will have to do.

It politely raises a hand. Submits a request to speak. The brain, overwhelmed and half-fried from continuous exposure to his voice, approves it immediately.

So you ask, way too casually for what it actually means:

“Could you go lower?”

“Lower?” he repeats, taunting, as his hands pause their tantric little routine before gliding under your waist and flipping you over onto his orthopedic mattress.

Now you’re face-to-face with him.

Arms crossed. Brows furrowed. That specific, sharpened brand of exasperation he reserves only for you - his favorite little headache (how romantic of him) - comes today with a bonus layer of disbelief.

Because Best-Profiler-Or-Whatever-Goddamn-Award-He-Just-Won-Again 2012 (the year's not over, but if the Bureau doesn’t give him another brass plaque to add to the terrifying shrine of ego and martyrdom he keeps in his office, he might actually cry) has officially clocked that the look in your – probably very dilated - eyes says one thing and one thing only:

Fuck me. (So Shakespearian.)

Still, since profiling is such a complex job –

(Or so he claims, usually while humblebragging about how he reads murderers for a living, yet somehow still can’t figure out the real reason you keep staring at his hands-)

so many factors, so many nuances, every twitch, every blink, every micro expression a breadcrumb-

So, you, being the considerate, emotionally generous person that you are, decide to spare him the effort. You remove all ambiguity, wrap your legs around his waist, and pull him in.

(Also: your boobs are out. The top of your pajama set’s currently sitting neatly folded on the far bedside table, placed there with care by none other than the Sexy Masseuse Extraordinaire himself.)

(You can’t turn to look at it. If you twist your neck, he’ll scold you. But you know it’s there.)

(So yes. #FreeTheNipple could easily be Exhibit B. Another little clue in the ever-growing case file of She Wants Me. Please, Aaron. Be thorough. File it under Intent.)

And apparently, he does.

Because without you saying a single word, he exhales - through his cutest, slightly uneven nostrils (and probably a deviated septum he refuses to get checked out) - and mutters, incredulous:

“Again?!”

Ah. Yes. Again.

Because to be fair, it is technically true that the second Aaron walked through the door - still suited up, still rumpled from the flight, fresh off a three-day case on the West Coast - the only greeting he got was a breathless “I missed you,” right before you yanked him down by the tie and onto his own couch to physically demonstrate that you (unlike him, [sometimes]) actually mean what you say.

So moved were you by his presence that you completely forgot to do the one basic thing required of anyone with even a shred of shame or social awareness:

Close. The. Curtains.

(You keep forgetting there’s an entire wing of Aaron’s apartment complex that has a front-row seat to his living room. Practically panoramic… oh- hi, Linda from 154.)

But it’s fine. It’s fine.

You fixed it.

You skipped the full nudity part and went for the most logistically respectful option: unzipping just his fly, just enough to free what you needed. Nothing more.

Just the essentials.

Just a fully dressed woman bouncing on a fully dressed man’s lap.

You’re pretty sure that doesn’t count as public indecency. (It’s basically PG-12. Glee’s airing worse on national television every Tuesday at 8/7c and that show’s somehow still going. So really, you’re fine. This is fine. Society has seen worse.)

…You also really, really hope no one saw it in the first place. You tell yourself no one saw it.

You keep telling yourself that, even as your brain starts tallying how many windows overlook this very couch. (Six. There are six. Possibly seven. And that woman on the third floor with the poodle - she definitely saw something. She always does.)

Those people didn’t see that your panties were still on - just pushed to the side, soaked through, clinging to your thigh.

Didn’t see the way your mouth fell open when you sank down onto his cock, gasping from the stretch, from the fuck yes finally of being full again.

Didn’t see his head fall back against the couch, eyes shut, the half-muttered “Jesus Christ” he left when your hips started rolling.

They didn’t see the way your thighs trembled when he grabbed your hips, then your waist, then your thighs again like he couldn’t decide where to hold you hardest, just knew he needed to keep you going.

Didn’t hear the noise he made when you grabbed a fistful of his tie for leverage, just to stay upright while he hit so fucking deep.

And they definitely didn’t hear the way your moan cracked when his mouth brushed your ear and he muttered: “Been thinking about this the whole damn flight.”

Three hours. He sat in a government plane, in slacks, probably surrounded by spreadsheets and murder, and still somewhere over Colorado, he was hard and thinking about you.

“I missed you,” you really mean it. (Yes, you want to fuck him. Obviously. But it’s also starting to feel like the reason you’re so desperate for his body is because being without him hurts a little more than it should.)

“That’s what you said in the shower,” he reminds you. (Oh. Right. The shower. The one that happened immediately after the couch.) “And on the bathroom sink.” Ah. Yes. You’d offered to blowdry his hair, but something else got blown first. (Priorities.) “Don’t you think that’s enough for tonight?”

He basically looks at you like you’re the most beloved disaster he’s ever encountered.

Fond - yes.

Amused - definetely.

Also very much trying not to laugh. He even bites his lip to hold it back.

Veeeery humbling experience.

And still, he leans in over you and locks his lips with yours - sweet enough to excuse how annoyingly chaste it feels. You start to pull him back in but he detours to your cheek instead, lingering there.

“You’re adorable,” he pities you. “Now please could you turn back over?”

Choking yourself with the pillow suddenly sounds like a fantastic plan. You eye it. You consider the logistics. You’re halfway to asphyxiating yourself into emotional amnesia when he leans in and kisses your shoulder.

Then the other. (Symmetry. He’s disgusting.)

You brace for his hands on your back, but it’s his mouth instead.

Starting at the nape of your neck, he works his way down your spine, lips dragging wet and slow. Every kiss sinks into your skin like he’s trying to rewrite your nervous system from the top down, rearranging your fucked-up muscles better than his actual massage ever could.

And he doesn’t stop.

Not even when his fingers hook into the waistband of your pajama pants and start easing them down - his mouth just keeps going, picking up exactly where the fabric leaves off.

You still get butterflies at the stupidly familiar feel of his calloused palms skimming down your thighs, knuckles brushing bare skin as he peels your bottoms away.

Could be excitement. Could be the fact that he’s been edging you for what feels like a fiscal quarter. Could be because you’re head over heels for him and refusing to deal with it. (Unclear. Not investigating.)

Anyways, Aaron - sweet, disciplined Aaron - folds your PJ pants, sets them neatly on top of your already-abandoned top on the bedside table (it was only a matter of time, that poor top’s been waiting for backup all night), and then immediately dives back in mouth-first (correction: teeth-first) sinking a bite right into the peak of your ass.

One side, then the other. (The man really loves symmetry.)

Groaning into your skin as you gasp his name - only for him to shut it down halfway through (fuck him, really) - he slides one arm beneath your hips, the other draping heavy across your thighs, and manhandles you into place in one smooth (hot) motion on all fours.

Ass up, panties still on (and very much soaked through).

It’s… a moment.

You crane your neck, scrambling for words - something clever, something linguistically adult - but what fries every functioning synapse isn’t just the way he’s staring at the soaked spot on your underwear;

It’s the way his pupils visibly dilate when he catches the barest glint of your cunt beneath it.

And still, he manages to outdo himself.

Because Aaron Hotchner’s greatest talent - aside from his intellect, that weirdly specific dry humor only you laugh at, and, of course, the mouthwatering, life-altering, holy-shit-that-thing-has-weight dick he’s somehow just casually lugging around - it’s his uncanny ability to always state the obvious.

“You’re soaked…” he murmurs. “You already fucked me and you’re still soaked.”

(There’s just something in Aaron saying that you fucked him…Call it power-hungry. Call it praise kink. Call it whatever.)

“Shit, say it again.” You just want his voice. More of it. Inside you, around you, anywhere.

You gasp as he hums straight into the damp fabric of your panties “Smug little thing… Let’s see how long it lasts.”

Then he drags his face down, nuzzling his nose along your glistening slit – catching every slick ridge through the soaked cotton, barely giving you any pressure, just enough to make you momentarily twitch.

He doesn’t bother teasing – just goes straight for your clit, flushed and throbbing, and latches on.

Mouth open. Tongue flat.

You start cursing everything.

Cursing the fabric of your panties he still hasn’t moved aside.

Cursing the way the soaked cotton catches every flick of his tongue – turning each pass into friction and making everything worse.

Cursing yourself for the sound you make when he moans into you – mouth hot and hungry – and yanks your hips closer like he can’t fucking help himself.

Grips your ass, fills both palms, pulls you tighter to his face until there’s nowhere for you to go – nowhere for you to run – nothing you can do but take it.

He’s drinking you. He sucks your slick through the fabric, letting it saturate his tongue, then releases your nub with a wet, obscene pop just to do it again.

Then again. And again.

Clicks his tongue just to hear the sound it makes against your cunt.

Right when you think you might actually die from how deliberately he’s taking his sweet time, he finally peels the fabric to the side.

(Thank God.)

“Fuck, Aaron-” you choke, fisting the sheets as he dives into your into your hole.

You were so fucking wrong.

His real talent isn’t stating the obvious.

It’s the way he makes out with your cunt, making you clench against him, and that molten heat already begins to gather low in your stomach.

“You taste better every fucking time. God, I missed you,” he mutters, one hand pressing into the small of your back to hold you down, the other spreading your ass so his tongue has more room to work and can slide deeper.

He fucks you with it.

Pushes in, pulls back, then he drags himself back up to your clit and just… goes feral. A combination you’re 100% sure he makes up on the spot, yet it’s somehow the exact cheat code to your nervous system.

You start grinding against his face, chasing friction like it’s oxygen, needy for whatever the hell that is until your thighs are trembling and your brain has officially vacated the premises.

The only word(s) you manage to hold onto is-

“Aaron- Aaron, please-”

Not your best work. Not ideal.

You should specify - to Mr. Old Man™ - that after please, there was going to be don’t stop.

But instead, it comes out half-strangled, choked off by the groan you let loose as he pulls away too fast, too soon, leaving you gasping face-first into a very wet, very real patch of drool on the mattress.

(It’s cooling against your chin now. Disgusting.)

You writhe, still aching, still pulsing, your body practically begging for his mouth, his nose, his fucking tongue - anything to fill the hot, miserable emptiness between your legs - until his hand wraps around the back of your neck (shit. fuck. shit), lifting you way too easily.

(Maybe because he’s strong. Maybe because you’re fully limp with desperation. Maybe because you don’t resist even a little bit. Hard to say.)

He pulls your spine upright, presses you back against his chest and crashes his mouth to yours.

And as he groans into your mouth, his whole face glistening with your arousal, smearing messily against your cheek, his cock presses between your folds, dragging through the soaked disaster he made of you.

The thick, swollen head - already leaking with precum - bumps against your clit as he grinds forward, dragging through your slick with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, a choked moan catching halfway in your throat…

…Right as his fingers start to curl around it.

Soft. Careful. Too careful. Like his hand landed there on instinct and now he’s realizing it, hesitating, trying not to make it a thing (which, joke’s on him, it already is).

(Also, if he could go ahead and press those thick, possessive, chubby-ass fingers a little deeper into your neck- yeah. That’d be ideal. Five stars.)

So, probably in a noble act of distraction (or self-preservation), Aaron starts to push in.

That first stretch.

That toe-curling burn you never fully prepare for. The one that drags your body open inch by inch like he’s carving a space only he gets to fill. And you adore it. You crave it like a sickness.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, mouth grazing your jaw. “I couldn’t resist.” And another kiss, “I need to fuck you properly so you don’t wake me up begging for it again.”

(If he keeps holding your neck like that while saying shit like that, you’re definitely waking him up again. With your mouth. Or your thighs.)

You decide to clench around him in reply (how generous of you - really, public service) - tight enough that you know he’s furrowing his brows right now, trying so hard not to let out one of those high-pitched, desperate little whimpers that would completely shatter the illusion of his usual Important Serious Man™ composure.

“Mmm, sweetheart,” he groans, dragging in deeper until he’s finally fully seated inside of you, buried to the hilt. “You’re not even trying to hide it, are you? Squeezing me like that…”

He should really be speaking for himself, considering the thing twitching inside you just because it’s lucky enough to be nestled inside you is his cock, not yours.

And sure, he starts rocking into you all slow and deliberate, hips rolling against the swell of your ass like he thinks he can distract you with rhythm alone, but it’s textbook deflection.

(Hotchner: 1 – You: 0. For now.)

“Aaron-” you gasp, barely coherent, because fuck, you’re full. Like - can’t think, can’t breathe, forgot-Aaron’s-home-wifi-password kind of full.

(Which is annoying, because you were just about to remember it. It was something long and unnecessarily specific, like JHotchnerILoveAmerica65 or JackRules2012.)

(AHotchnerNet_3G_guest_home_office?)

(QuanticoSecure_LinkV2?) Nope. That’s the Bureau one. (You may or may not have shamelessly stolen their bandwidth to watch YouTube videos in his office the first time you visited - sitting on that black leather guest chair, legs swinging, waiting for him to come out of some high-stakes consult.)

(Ugh, come on, you almost had it. It’s the one with the weird numbers… Jack’s birthday? No, that was the old one, the one you used to mooch off before he got weird about network security after that article in The Atlantic.)

(Was it Hotchner_Home_8347_SECURE_VPNLOCKED? Or was that the printer? What was it?)

(Wait - is he 7.5 inches? 8? 8.5?! Feels like that but you’re way too biased.)

“Oh fuck-” Your nails bite into the solid curve of his bicep, your back arches on instinct - no thought involved, just muscle memory screaming yes, like that, and your body goes soft over his, melting like heat’s finally overtaken every vertebrae you’ve got.

Boneless. Useless. Yours now comes with a floppy warranty.

He notices, so he wraps his other arm tight around your waist, keeping you upright. “Yes, honey? You like that? Is that what you’re trying to say? Or-.” A sharper thrust. “Do you need me to go harder already?”

Not accepting your whimper as an answer, he goes harder anyway.

White-hot static floods your brain, sparking behind your eyes. You lose track of sound, of sense, of everything but the slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, that becomes even louder than the creaky-ass wooden antique bedframe Aaron refuses to replace.

(Yes, it was expensive. Yes, he insists it’s historical. Yes, it’s probably haunted. No, you do not care. Louis XIV himself could rise from the dead and tell you it’s a collector’s piece, you’re still letting Aaron split you in half on it.)

“Do you feel it?” he asks.

You know what he means. Doesn’t even need to say it.

Especially when his hand tightens just that little bit more around your throat - enough to blur the edges, enough to make your cunt flutter in a grateful little thank you because that was literally what you were about to beg for and this man just read your goddamn mind and saved you the humiliation-

“Well- it’s- fuck yes, right th- it’s kind of impossible not to, isn’t it?”

Wrong answer, apparently.

Because it earns you exactly zero gold stars and a one-way ticket to being shoved face-first into the mattress, his palm flat on your back.

(Or maybe he’s just decided he won’t be satisfied until you’re properly, thoroughly, professionally fucked dumb, until the only thing your brain can process, let alone say, is his name.)

“Lift your hips,” he instructs.

“What-”

“Just do it.”

You do. Of course you do. Because you are weak and unprincipled and you like it when he uses his dad voice.

(Sorry, framed Jack. Not your dad dad. Like- authority figure dad. Weird to explain. Just- sorry Jack.)

He reaches for the pillow from his side of the bed (naughty… part of you hopes he doesn’t bother changing the case afterward, just so he can fall asleep every night wrapped in the scent of your sex… but then again, you’re talking about Aaron, so he'll probably sanitize it twice and iron it back into place) and slides it beneath your stomach.

“There. Better angle for your back,” he mutters.

“Are you fucking kidding me… oh fuck- my back?” You try to mock him, but all you can think is that this stupid orthopedic pillow just shoved him even deeper.

He’s drilling into you so hard, so fucking perfectly, that all you can focus on is how thick he is - how every goddamn ridge, every pulsing vein, every inch of him is dragging against your walls and hitting your spot every single time.

Somehow, you’re still not used to how deep he gets. Still not over the fact that he fits like this, that he fucks like this. That he’s that deep. That much.

You start thinking you should give him a little plaque.

A nice, shiny, brassy “Deepest Stroke Award: Best Dick 2012” kind of thing. Stick it right next to his Bureau commendations so everyone that steps into his office knows he’s that good.

So good that as he angles himself even better (you didn’t even know that was possible), you don’t even hear the bedframe anymore.

(Which is convenient, because next time he wakes you up at 3 a.m. - all apologetic and sleepy and sweet, muttering “sorry, sweetheart, I just need to turn over, please go back to sleep” while trying not to make it creak - you’re gonna tell him to just flip you over and fuck you like this until you both go deaf. Sleep like babies. Problem solved.)

You’re gasping, whimpering, face buried in the mattress, fingers curled so tight in the sheets they might tear, and Aaron has the audacity -the actual fucking balls (which, by the way, are slapping against your clit with every thrust and fuck, they feel incredible… justice for balls, truly) - to tut at you.

“Sweetheart, you’re collapsing your shoulders again, try to pull them back. Keep the neck long.”

You try to lift yourself. You really do. But your arms are jelly, your spine’s gone to hell, and your entire body is preoccupied with coming apart on his cock.

Still, his big, warm hand spreads flat over the center of your back as he straightens you out. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t make me correct your posture and fuck you… engage here.”

(Which is ironic. Because right now? He’s doing both flawlessly.)

“Trying,” you pant.

“Oh, I can see you’re trying,” he mutters, and somehow it’s affectionate and condescending and it should make you furious but instead your cunt clenches yet again like it wants to say thank you, sir.

He shifts his hips and pushes in deeper, angling just right and you see white.

Just white. No thoughts. No gods. No laws. Just the smug chuckle he lets out as your mouth drops open and a sound escapes that isn’t even a word anymore.

“Poor thing,” he coos as his pretentious mouth brushes your spine. “Clenching around me like that and still trying to impress me with your form. You can’t even hold yourself up, sweetheart. That’s adorable.”

“Why do you have to be such an asshole? Can’t you just say one of those stupid cheesy things you tell me all the other times?”

He kisses your shoulder. “Because for some reason,” he murmurs, lazy and devastating, “we both know why this turns you on more.”

It’s because you watch too much porn when he’s away. That’s what it is. That’s the problem. You look for the perfect video, scrolling through every possible variation of "older man, authoritative voice, hairy chest, forehead lines, kind of sad but knows how to eat pussy."

Trying to find a man with his exact nose. His exact voice. His exact cock.

But you never find it. You never find him.

And you’re too chickenshit to ask him to just send you a video of himself fucking his fist - because he’s probably doing something more important, like saving Gotham or shooting an active shooter - and you don’t want to be the reason he gets sidetracked while stroking his lenght in a government office. (…Though, the idea is… not bad.)

So instead, you settle. Again.

You open one of those copy-paste porn videos made for men who think women are doormats with vocal fry, and let it play. Same limp dialogue. Same dead-eyed expressions. Same choreographed humiliation kink that somehow makes you feel like the one being punished.

And still, it doesn’t work. Because Aaron Hotchner has fucked up your brain chemistry to such a degree that other men just don’t do it anymore. You slap the laptop shut to end up staring at that blurry pic you took of him coaching Jack’s football game. (Sorry, Jack.)

He’s just in a bland T-shirt. Biceps hulking under cotton. Arms crossed. Whistle hanging from his neck like he’s about to say something inspirational and slightly disappointed.

That’s the reason.

(...Or maybe it’s just that nothing on this godforsaken Earth turns you on more than when he tells you what to do - precisely how to take it, exactly how to behave - even though you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of mental energy convincing yourself that enjoying that somehow makes you less of a feminist, like Simone de Beauvoir’s going to rise from the grave and revoke your womanhood because you like being manhandled by a man in overpriced pajamas.)

(Yeah… it’s definitely because you watch way too much porn.)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hand sliding back up to your throat, palm pressing lightly, thumb stroking under your jaw as you try to mumble something broken and vowel-heavy that you’re pretty sure started as his name. “Oh…” Aaron chuckles, putting two and two together. “So this is what you want?”

“Hnngh…” you try, but he slaps your ass. (You swear to God, the next time he walks in front of you on a staircase, you’re smacking him. Right there. Mid-step. He will be humbled. You will have your revenge.) “Yes. Yes. Just- just stay there.”

“Here where?”

“Shut up.”

Another slap.

Another involuntary moan. (Still. Stairs, Hotchner.)

“No, but seriously - your back. You sit like shit. You fuck like a dream, but Jesus, I’m gonna send you to physical therapy myself if you keep collapsing your shoulders like that.”

You whimper into the pillow. Your clit’s caught between the pillow and your cunt clenches hard, slick dripping down your thighs, and you don’t know if you’re closer because of the way he’s choking you or the fact that he just corrected your posture.

“Could you – fuck – could you just talk more?” (There it is. Your final shred of dignity. Cashed. Spent. Gone.)

He hums behind you. “Oh, now you want feedback?” Then he leans down, and suddenly you’re wearing him – coarse salt-and-pepper chest hair scraping your slick back, the full weight of him pushing you down as his cock punches so deep into you, you have to roll your eyes back.

“You want me to tell you how fucking good you feel?” he grits, hips picking up pace, snapping harder now.

You’re not really in the conditions to answer.

Your mouth is open but your brain has blue-screened, locked in a loop of oh my God oh my God oh my fuc-

“God, look at you,” he groans, almost in disbelief, hand splaying across your upper back to keep you down, to stop your writhing. “Making a mess all over my cock. You’re dripping. Absolutely soaking me.”

And oh… you feel it.

The soaked patch you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he didn’t even bother taking off - just shoved down far enough to fuck you properly - slapping wetly against your skin every time he drives in.

(You’re naked. He’s half-dressed. Fully dressed, actually…)

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he huffs, and oh - his voice cracks. He’s close. Good. (That’s so hot.) “Taking me so well. Still gripping me like it’s the first time. Letting me fuck you this- this deep- Jesus Christ-“ (Amen.) “I can feel every goddamn pulse-”

His hand slides from your spine to your throat - tightens just enough to send your body into full siren-mode panic, only to twist it into white-hot bliss a second later.

And then the other sneaks between your thighs, fingers already soaked in you, finding your clit like he’s done it a thousand times (you’re still in the double digits) and starts circling. . Fast. Messy. Precise.

The kind of perfect that short-circuits thought. That makes your jaw go slack. That makes your breath catch on the edge of something that isn’t quite a moan, or a cry, or-

It almost slips out.

That thing.

The three-word, soul-ruining thing people only say when they’re either very brave or very stupid. And right now, with his fingers rubbing you and his cock still buried so deep it feels like belonging, you’re dangerously close to being both.

“F-fuck, Aaron-”

“I’ve got you. Let go, sweetheart.”

And you do.

You break. Your thighs tremble, your back arches involuntarily (and Aaron’s too far gone to lecture you about spinal integrity now), and your moan turns guttural and ugly as your orgasm crashes through you - pulling his name from your throat

You clamp down so hard around him he curses, jaw clenched, hips jerking once, twice, then he’s there too.

Hot, deep, choking on his breath as he thrusts into the tight clutch of your pulsing cunt, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in rough, thick spurts that have your body jolting again from the aftershocks.

He groans into your shoulder, mouth open, teeth grazing skin, hips still twitching through the aftershocks - every helpless pulse of him inside you dragging another ripple of heat down your spine, through your thighs, and eventually, shamefully, down onto the sheets.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move, really, except to press his chest tighter against your back, as if he’s trying to stay in your skin. Like if he lets go, something might slip - out of him, out of you, out of whatever the hell this is.

His breathing is still a bit ragged, hot and damp against your shoulder, and you feel his lips brush there, once, then again - barely a kiss, just contact.

Just reassurance. Just him not knowing how else to say I needed that. Instead it’s just words not meant to be heard - just soft, scattered nothings that don’t quite form sentences, all of them pressed into your skin.

"You're okay,"

"Got you,"

"So good, baby..."

Over and over. Sweet. Ruined. Honest.

Your chest hurts.

Because he means it.

He’s not thinking about it, he’s just being. And it’s the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he’s ever done to you. You need to ruin it.

“FUCK, that was incredible. Where did you keep all of that?!”

He pauses. You can feel him trying not to laugh.

You roll onto your side, gasping. “No, like, WOW. Wow wow wow, Aaron. Wow. Who are you? What was that? Have you been holding out? Were you possessed? Should I call someone? Is there a hotline?”

You watch the faint blush creep across his cheek as he pushes up onto his elbows, runs a hand through his post-sex hair (sexier than pre-sex hair, somehow), and exhales the most exasperatedly fond sound you’ve ever heard.

“Please don’t call anyone.”

These moments - when he completely misses a joke that any normal adult would clock instantly - really do make you want to climb him like a tree all over again.

But what really gets you? What sets your neurons on fire and your soul on its knees?

The phenomenon - still unstudied, tragically overlooked by science - in which post-sex Aaron becomes the most meticulous, terrifyingly competent man alive.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just materializes a warm cloth from nowhere (possibly interdimensional?), cleans you up with it, straightens the sheets, fluffs the pillows, and tucks you in.

You don’t even know when he grabbed his glasses, but suddenly they’re on his face and you’re on his chest, half-sitting, draped over him.

You might feel shame for being so clingy if he ever said anything about it. But he never does. Not even a snide little quip. Just those small, fond huffs that suggest he’s mostly annoyed at himself for enjoying this so much.

Or, like now, he reaches calmly into his go-bag and pulls out what is undeniably the driest, dustiest, most textbook-looking book you've ever seen in your life.

“Sorry,” he says, settling back against the headboard. “I’ve just got a few chapters left… do you want to pretend to be reading with me?”

Wise choice of words, Agent Hotchner.

Because what you really want is to drown yourself in his pheromones and rub your cheek on his chest hair until your responsibilities disintegrate.

“Wearing those,” you sigh dreamily, eyeing the glasses, the page, the stupid peaceful look on his face, “you can do anything you’d like.”

He shakes his head - fond. Touched.

Probably regretting all his life choices, but not enough to stop.

He flips open the tome, rests it against one bent knee, and starts reading. His finger glides up to his lips every time he turns a page, like he’s savoring each one. Every now and then, he adjusts his glasses.

You watch in awe.

Reverence.

…Horniness.

So you just keep kissing him. Aimless, endless little things - his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, the back of his ear - any patch of skin within a lazy head-turn radius gets worshipped.

“Wow. Wow wow. Aaron. Wow. Wowowowowow.”

He doesn’t even flinch.

Just keeps reading, completely unbothered.

Occasionally hums.

If you’re lucky, he presses a kiss into your hair or the side of your temple - never rushed, always lingering, like he’s sealing something in.

Or if he just does that because he’s an old fuck and that’s how they taught knights to kiss their trembling maidens back in the 1500s.

He looks so… peaceful. Way too peaceful.

Which is immediately suspicious.

You open your mouth, just about to ask, “Can we do it again?” when, without even glancing up from the page, he slides the hand resting on your waist down.

Dips straight into your PJ pants, then your underwear.

Your mouth falls open. Nothing comes out.

Not even the question. He’s already answered it.

He exhales through his nose - completely unbothered - as his index finger starts stroking your clit in the slowest lazy little patterns.

Like fingering you under a blanket mid-biography is just his evening chore before tea and chapter seven. Like he’s got all night. (He probably does.)

(You can’t even moan yet. You’re too busy trying to process the fact that he’s still reading.)

And then, instead of simply licking a finger to turn the page like a normal person, he brings two of those thick fingers to his mouth.

He sucks on them, eyes still fixed on the text, lips closed around his fingers as he coats them in spit. And without ever lifting his gaze, he sinks them deep into you - curling just enough to make your thighs tense around him.

“You think I don’t know the real reason you’re always staring at my hands?”

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

#dude this is so good #abaolutely baller smut #and also such funny narration #i loved it :)#rb #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #criminal minds

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wastingawayagain · 9 days ago

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I cannot wait for the new slew of Chris Evans fics that are gonna come out in the wake of Materialists

#chris evans #chris evans x reader #the materialists #so hyped i love when he has scruff #my heart is beating fast just thinking about it

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wastingawayagain · 10 days ago

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It growled at me 🫣

#GIRL PUT THAT THING AWAY #rb #shawn hatosy #i want that old man so fucking bad

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wastingawayagain · 13 days ago

Text

𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠

summary: jack abbot really needs to stop overhearing conversations that he's not a part of.

author's note: here it is!! my first ever jack abbot fic ♡ thank you to everyone who has been reading the little paragraphs so far! hope you all like it!

word count: 9.7k

warnings/tags: virgin, fourth year med student reader and attending jack. age gap relationship. loss of virginity, oral sex, lots and lots of praise kink <3 normal hospital lingo and descriptions of procedures.

jack abbot knows better than to listen to the nurses gossiping. he does—because listening to them never leads to anything good. if he’s caught eavesdropping, he gets dragged in. loses money that was never meant to be spent on the bets—and seriously, the employees of this hospital have a gambling problem.

other times he hears things he really wish he hadn’t heard. it’s just not relevant to him, he doesn’t want to know things about people that he’s not meant to know. maybe it’s a military thing, but he can’t really explain it. maybe jack is just used to keeping secrets and minding his own business.

and the last thing that jack really doesn’t like about overhearing gossip is that sometimes, rarely and reserved only for special information, it gets trapped in his brain and becomes the only thing he thinks about for the rest of the shift.

this is one of those times.

he knows better—that’s what keeps coursing through his mind when he stands on the opposite side of the nurse’s station at central. keep his ears shut, eyes down, because the last time he was standing here unarmed, he learned about a pregnant technician upstairs and the married surgeon who was the father. information that he did not, does not, want to know. nor did he want to learn about the surgeon’s wife who was a nurse in the pediatric ward, or the technician’s boyfriend who is on a work trip in florida.

he thinks that was child’s play compared to this conversation.

when jack glances up, he sees you on the other side of the desk, leaning forward on your elbows, smiling and laughing with the nurses.

you’re a fourth year—he should let you smile and laugh while you can. you’re in that perfect, peaceful transition period between your audition rotations ending and finding out where you’re going for residency. it’s supposed to be an enjoyable time—there’s no exam prep waiting for you at home, no stressful surgery rotation coming up next week.

jack didn’t know too much about you—you’d mostly been on the day shift for the duration of your rotation. that was normal, keeping all the students together when the majority of the doctors were there too. made it a little easier to manage.

you were a little different though. just a little. you’d specially asked to try out the night shift for the rest of the time you’d be at the hospital. it’s not the weirdest request they’d ever heard, but just unusual. fourth years cherish sleeping and spending time with family and boyfriends and organizing their life before being thrown head-first into intern year.

(at least, that’s what jack thinks you’d cherish. the little he knows about you has been transferred from robby and a comment from the residents every now and then. all good things, and when he’d told you the night shift was your chance to prove all the good things he’d heard about you, you had beamed at him.

a smile so bright he had lost his train of thought and had to walk back to what he’d even said to begin with. he tries not to think about it when he sees you smiling like that to your patients or the nurses, like you are now. but it’s not the same one, he can tell. the one you smiled at him had been a little different, something in your eyes had lit up too, you had stood up straighter, like a current had made its way through you at the compliment. or something like that.)

and you had definitely been proving yourself. jack had learned maybe last week that you had applied emergency medicine. it made sense then, why you wanted to try out night shift, since first year interns eventually do night float. it was just practice for the future. which was great, and very exciting for you, but just not what he had expected.

you were just so… happy. patient. you had seemed disappointed on your first day to learn that most of the emergency docs only wore black scrubs. you made up for it in other ways—a pink stethoscope, colored pens, a badge reel with a little cartoon on it.

even looking at you now, fiddling with the pulley on your badge, listening intently to whatever the nurse was telling you, and then smiling in that reassuring way that he’s seen you do, you look like you shouldn’t be here. he briefly considers finding that surgeon’s wife, the pediatric nurse, to take you up there for a couple of hours. jack doesn’t think you would want to come back down, but, well, what does he know about you?

certainly not much. even if he had noticed the way you are with your patients—filled with an abundance of caring, a melodic tune to your voice, trying your hardest to comfort, repair, heal. he had seen you fetch cups of water and sandwiches yourself, not wanting to bother nurses. every sentence had a please and thank you attached. it didn’t take long for you to win over the patients. then the nurses. then the residents, and the attendings.

it seemed that your goal was to win over all the attendings.

jack is still staring at you. but you’re so focused on your conversation with the nurse that you don’t even notice. and he has to stop before someone else notices, forcing himself to look down at the chart in front of him, trying to remember why he’d even come over here in the first place.

and that’s when he hears it.

“-but i would have never guessed. you’re so pretty!” the nurse says, and he knows she is talking about you, because, well, who else would she be talking about?

you are pretty, as unprofessional as the thought feels even entering his head. you’re very pretty, and the way you talk to everyone like they’re the most important person in the world to you only makes you prettier.

jack almost clears his throat, before realizing that he is, in fact, eavesdropping. he can’t interrupt a conversation he’s not even a part of. and much to his chagrin, realizing that he is terrible at this, he tunes back into your conversation.

“yeah, but it’s not about that,” you say, and you sound a little different. like you’re flushed. the words come out hesitantly, quietly. “it’s about... finding the right guy, right? i didn’t want to rush it and then regret it.”

he hears the nurse laugh, and you laugh a little too, followed by a little groan. “i guess it is embarrassing,” you continue, before stopping, interrupted by the nurse. jack looks up briefly—you’ve got your head resting on your forearms, leaning down against the counter. he keeps looking until you bring it back up.

“no, it’s a good thing. especially in hospitals. keep your legs closed otherwise you’ll end up like that pregnant tech upstairs-”

“but that’s so horrible. his poor wife works here. and she has a boyfriend, how do you do that-”

he keeps listening, his own face a little flushed. he both wants to and absolutely does not want to hear the rest of your conversation, but even through the fog, he thinks about how your only reaction to that bit of circulating gossip was how bad you feel for the wife. his heart beats a little faster.

“well don’t worry about that, you won’t have to deal with it as long as you stay a virgin-” you and the nurse laugh, and the phone starts ringing, and the charge nurse answers.

she calls out, yelling for dr. abbot, and so lost in his thoughts—in your thoughts—he doesn’t even hear his own name being called for a couple of car accidents that were incoming. when he turns back to look, you’re already gone.

he needs to shake off whatever you’ve just done to him. his feet automatically take him to the trauma bay, gearing up for whatever is coming, but when he gets there, you’re standing there, waiting. a yellow gown already on you, gloves pulled. and in your hands, another gown and set of gloves—extra large, he can tell from the color. the ones that he wears.

“dr. abbot,” you say, handing both items to him. “i heard from bridget, is it okay if i assist?”

“yeah, sure, kid-” he thinks for a moment that he hasn’t felt this way in a long time. and how the hell is one tiny piece of gossip enough to have his head spinning like he’s some teenage boy? how does that work, when he’s never cared about workplace rumors or any of the other hundreds of medical students he’s worked with before?

you beam up at him again, saying thank you. eager to prove your worth like always. you disappear behind him, and jack is confused for half a second before he feels your fingers on the skin of his neck—briefly, just another half of a second. you’re tying the gown for him.

how is that you’re this kind, this pretty, and you’ve never had someone to take care of you the way you take care of everyone else? that can’t be right. that can’t be fair.

oh god.

jack wants to tie the back of yours, thinks that maybe twenty years ago he’d be a lot quicker on his feet to do what he wants with the information he’s just learned. but instead he hears the ambulance sirens pull up, and he sees the back of your head while you rush out to meet them, and he actually, for the first time in years, has to force his feet to move.

you were so close behind him, he could smell it. not perfume, that would wear off quickly with how much they run around. it was your soap and your shampoo. clean and sweet and something like strawberries lingering in the air after you’ve taken off.

but he’s stood next to you before—how is it that this is the first time he’s noticed?

half way outside, you turn around, realizing jack’s not right behind you.

“dr. abbot?” you question, taking half a step towards him, the opposite direction.

“yeah, coming,” jack answers and he follows you outside.

the mvc’s weren’t in the worst shape jack’s ever seen, but still bad enough that he needed to snap out of it. he doesn’t even want to think about how bad the rumor mill would be if word got out that he lost a patient because he couldn’t stop staring at the twenty-something medical student. (though it is hard to stop staring. how the hell did robby ever work with collins? how did he get anything done?)

it’s not like jack is going to find out. you are strictly off limits.

he tries to do what he always does—asks you questions. how many milligrams should you give the patient? what are the three things you should be the most worried about? the patient’s got a broken wrist from trying to brace for the impact but that’s the least of your worries, so how do you deal with it for now?

the first one gets stable pretty quickly. the second one is where there’s more concern. he comes in, ellis saying something about the patient’s crashing and there’s a big piece of debris jammed in his chest.

jack goes in there and he spares a glance at you. the intensity of the situation is enough to make you a little flushed, even though you’ve done an emergency rotation during third year and two auditions already this year. but it’s a good thing—you take every case as seriously as though it’s your first. worry about each patient like they’re your own family, like each step is your responsibility.

he calls you over, asks you what medications you would give if you had to intubate.

“uh, etomidate a-and rocuronium?” it comes out like a question, like you’re still a little uncertain, even though you’re right, like you don’t believe in yourself enough to say confidently.

he’ll have to change that. help you work on that. he can think of it now—maybe you would learn best if you had some kind of a reward system. you seem like the kind of girl who would benefit from that. maybe if he asked the questions from between your thighs and your reward was—

“dr. abbot?” the sound of your voice snaps him out of it.

“yeah. good. very good,” jack says, and he turns his head just slightly, just so he can see you beam again. “you heard the doctor. let’s get prepped for the intubation.” you move out of the way for ellis to come in, when he stops you. “no, you’re going to be doing it.”

you pause, uncertain eyes staring up at your attending.

“a-are you sure? don’t you think you should-”

“i think you’re perfectly competent to intubate.” “you guys got this,” ellis says, taking her stethoscope around her neck and heading out. the nurse tells you that they’re all set up. you hear the blare of the heart monitor, another nurse reading off the vitals, all the way to the pulse-ox that’s too low.

“i’ll be here the whole time,” jack says, and you really, really wish he hadn’t said that. he’s close to you, handing you the laryngoscope.

in moments like these, you realize why you were always meant to do this. you pick up the scope, carefully lowering it into the mouth and the top of the patient’s throat.

“don’t make any sudden movements. you don’t want to break his teeth,” jack instructs, his voice a gentle guide. you do know how to intubate, you must have done it a hundred times on the dummy in the skills lab. but you’ll never get over how different it is when it’s a real patient, how scared you get even when you shouldn’t be, because the doctor should never be scared like that.

but then you hear dr. abbot’s voice again. quiet, maybe even quiet enough that the other people in the room can’t hear.

“i-i don’t see the cords-”

“take a breath. use your hand to extend the neck, get it straighter.” you listen to his instructions, hands moving by themselves to comply. “try again.” you’re looking down, and the nurses are looking at the video, and jack is looking at you. “past the epiglottis.” you push the tube a little further. “past the larynx.” a little further. “and cords.”

you take a breath like you’ve never taken one before. the capnometer turns yellow and you finish out the steps, the rest feeling like muscle memory before handing it over to the nurse. the patient’s going up to surgery, but you make it outside the trauma room taking deep breaths to ground yourself.

“you okay?” dr. abbot asks from somewhere behind you.

you turn to see him taking off the gown and gloves, the ones you had handed him. maybe you’d never noticed it before, but he’s got freckles over his forearms. maybe he spent a lot of time in the sun as a kid. when you don’t reply, thoughts trapped in your head and words not forming, he speaks again.

“come here,” and he guides you to the empty corner between the trauma room and the hallway. his hand hovers over the small of your back as he leads you there.

you’re going crazy—there’s no way you could feel his body heat through your scrubs. and yet the sensation lingers. he faces you, and you look up, blinking quickly. you don’t think you’ve ever been close enough to dr. abbot to see the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, or how the hair along his temples is more salt than pepper. his eyes bore into yours, and you stare up, forgetting the reason that you had even needed to speak to him.

“are you sure you’re okay, kid?” he asks again, and you nod quickly.

“yes. yes, i’m sorry, dr. abbot.” you turn to look at the trauma room, looking at the nurses hovering over the patient you had just intubated. when you turn back to look at your attending, you realize he’s staring, just like how you were staring.

“what are you apologizing for?”

“i-i forgot the steps. you-you had to talk me through it. i should have known,” you try to explain, though words and sentences become harder to form with each passing moment.

“you’ve done how many of those, now? a handful? less than ten?” you nod. “you don’t have to be perfect here. you just have to try. and keep going, which you did.” you release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding in. “good job, doctor. you saved the patient.”

“thank you dr. abbot.” you smile, beaming again, just not in the way you usually do. you’re still not that proud of yourself, jack can tell.

the voice in the back of your head tells you that you should have been better, faster, more confident. you can’t imagine that ellis or shen or even your attending had been this hesitant as a medical student.

“it’ll come with time, you know. no one’s perfect when they start out.”

“did i say that out loud?” you question seriously, confusion spread all over your pretty features.

“no.”

you’re so stupid—but maybe being so close to your serious, yet growing kinder by the millisecond attending was getting to you. the attending that you really want to impress, for reasons still unbeknownst to you. you want him to like you, to take you seriously, to think that you’d be a great candidate for their intern class starting in july.

and then you lose your train of thought, staring at his eyes. it’s been too long, people are going to wonder where the two of you went.

but his eyes aren’t actually brown, like you thought. they’re hazel.

“yeah,” he says, with a laugh. “they are.”

your own eyes go wide like coins, and then you run straight to central to find a patient to preoccupy you from the embarrassment that is seeping out of you, leaving jack abbot laughing to himself in the empty corner between the trauma room and the hallway.

the rest of your night shift is surprisingly uneventful. you had heard it was a bit calmer, but you didn’t expect such a drastic difference. but maybe it was just one of those nights. ellis wouldn’t let shen say the actual word, but you were all thinking it. it was kind of quiet tonight.

and normally, jack appreciates a quiet night. it’s like a little peace offering from god, akin to a slap on the back and a ‘thanks for your service’. he needs one every now and then, it’s the way only way to make sure for certain that he doesn’t end up on the roof a step closer than the last time.

though, staring at you from across the emergency room, watching you drink from your colorful water bottle and smile at shen and ellis, thanking them for their help while you work on notes, is certainly another way to make sure that jack abbot doesn’t think about that roof.

it’s only three in the morning though. there’s always time for the night to get worse. they’ve got four hours left, and he knows you’re off tomorrow.

well, he knows that he’s off. and then he took a peak at the schedule in one of his many free minutes tonight to see where you’ll be. he hopes the answer is at home, sleeping and eating and letting your body recover from the damage night shift does to your circadian rhythm.

(he needs to cut it out. attendings have no business wondering what their bright eyed and bushy tailed fourth years are doing on their days off.)

but god if it doesn’t plague him—the fact that unlike what he thought, there’s no boyfriend waiting for you at home. no one to hear about your stressful day at work, the intubation that you did—perfectly, just with a little help from your overbearing attending, all the patients that you helped, and the great impression you made on the night shift. how he sees you answer every nurse carrying a question from patient with all your energy, even in the middle of the night. how you fill up a cup of ice chips for the patient waiting to go up to surgery, comforting them while knowing it’ll be sunlight outside when they’re finally taken up.

and then he sees you sit down, taking a breath like you need to remind yourself to breathe sometimes.

it’s just a little bit wrong. whatever he’s thinking, before he’s even thought it, it’s wrong. but how is it that you have all these things to be proud of, and no one at home to be proud of you? jack can sense it in the way that your smile grows every time you find out someone has something kind to say about you. every good job and well done is catalogued somewhere in your mind, and you wait ceaselessly for the next one, like an addiction.

jack would spoil you, he thinks, for other people. for other men. he would praise you. he would tell you how perfect you are so many times that you wouldn’t be able to forget, that you would never doubt yourself again. that’s what you need waiting for you at home—the thing that can make it all better.

and as wrong as it is, he knows he could do it for you.

you look around the room and find hazel eyes staring right at you. your heart thuds in your chest.

you smile at dr. abbot, and then look back down your notes. a minute later, you look up again, and he’s still looking. smiling. and now you can’t look away either. you had heard about the eye contact thing from other residents, it’s just a habit, they had said. you try not to flatter yourself that your attending is looking at you like he knows everything about you, including the things you don’t say out loud.

why does he have to be so nice to you? why does he have to laugh and smile even when you’re making an idiot of yourself? you should go up and apologize for that bit about the hazel eyes, though you think you might collapse into a puddle and melt into the ground if you have to bring it up again.

but you’re on for six more night shifts before the audition ends, and you ranked ptmc pretty high on your list—which may have been a mistake if you can’t stand in the presence of one of your attendings without turning into a flustered mess.

he hasn’t even done anything besides be nice to you. of course it’s that easy to unnerve you. you keep looking, watching the nurse who stopped to ask dr. abbot a question, how jack turns to talk to him, making eye contact that you were just at the receiving end of.

when the nurse walks away, jack turns back, looks right at you again. you can feel your face heat up like you just ran a mile. is this one of those things that’ll go away when you’re not a virgin anymore? that’s a heavy question for three-thirty in the morning.

here’s another one—how is every person in this hospital not in love with him?

you fluster and turn, breaking eye contact and keeping your head firmly staring at the computer screen. he laughs to himself again, walking off to check on a patient from earlier. the next time your eyes look up, they automatically go to the counter where jack was. you turn back and finish your notes.

“hey,” shen says, sliding into the empty seat next to you a while later. he opens the drawer under the desk, lifting up papers and pulling out a packet of goldfish from underneath. “forget what all these other people told you. your first rule is eat when you can.” you smile at that.

“noted. that’s a good hiding spot. inconspicuous.”

“that’s the goal. don’t tell the day shifters. it’ll be empty in an hour.”

“i won’t. promise.”

“is your mvc still waiting for surgery?”

“i think so, yeah,” you sit up a little straighter. you have this fear that you’ve done something wrong, that it’ll all be revealed in time.

“don’t worry, that’s normal this time of the night. i’d go check on him like once an hour and report to abbot. just because it’s-well, i’m not gonna say it.”

“right. got it. will do.” you get up, feet stumbling a little. it is pretty late. your watch says four-thirty, but you’re not tired. you’re just anxious.

you make your way to the patient’s room, the nurse filling you in on the updates in the last hour. there’s not many, thank god. you stare at the pulse-ox on the monitor for way too long, going over and checking to see that he is, in fact, still breathing. it’s silly. you know it is.

the nurse says she’ll be right back, and you look at the chart for another minute or so, trying to formulate the words you’re going to say to dr. abbot now so you don’t have to form them on the spot—god only knows how that might go.

you turn to head out, looking at the notes on the tablet in your hand, when you run into a brick wall.

“oh my god-” you almost drop the ipad, clutching onto it while it nearly tumbles out of your grip. jesus, how tired were you? walking into walls? but then the wall brings a hand to your shoulder, and that voice that’s been haunting your thoughts all night speaks.

and for what can only be the hundredth time that night, dr. abbot asks you if you’re okay.

you stare up at him.

“you okay, kid?”

“yes. i’m so sorry, dr. abbot. i was coming to find you.”

“i figured. how’s your patient?”

“stable. waiting for surgery. i-i… nevermind.”

“you what?” he asks, gently taking the ipad from your hand and reading. he uses one hand to wipe his eyes, like he can take away the tiredness that way, and then runs a hand through his hair. you put your trembling fingers to your sides. he brings his eyes up from the screen to look at you. you really wish he wouldn’t.

“i was just making sure he was still breathing.”

dr. abbot smiles at you. you smile back, but it’s half-hearted. your chest is thudding so loudly you can hear it in your ears. but his smile fades when he catches a glimpse of your shaking fingers.

“have you eaten today?”

“i had some coffee. and some water.”

“the patient looks great. he’ll be fine. let’s get you something to eat.”

you shut your eyes tightly, but your brain is so tired you don’t even know what you’re thinking. you’ll have to get better at this if you want to keep working here someday.

mindlessly, you follow dr. abbot.

“between five and seven is the hardest part of the shift,” he says, opening up another drawer, different from shen’s. he hands you a protein bar. “and too much coffee is a bad thing. we don’t want your hands shaking if you need to put in a chest tube or thirty sutures at six am, do we?”

you shake your head, taking the protein bar from his hand. your fingers brush for all of two seconds. jack feels like he just touched a live wire.

“eat,” he says, and you listen. “you’re doing good, you know. it’s not supposed to be easy.”

“thank you,” you say, though your mouth is full. you lift your hand to cover, because even though it’s five am, you cannot embarrass yourself any further. “sorry about the hazel eyes thing.”

jack laughs and you smile. he has a really nice laugh, the kind that can make you calm down and forget what was bothering you all night. it really is a wonder that everyone here isn’t in love with him. you don’t even know how much longer you’ll be able to last.

“that’s okay. you’re tired.”

“everyone’s tired,” you clear your throat, sitting up straighter. “i think i’m just going crazy.”

“yeah, why’s that?”

“because i can’t stop thinking about you.”

well. looks like that’s about how long you were able to last.

you put the protein bar down on the counter. hands trembling again, mouth dropped open.

“dr. abbot, i am so sorry-” the words come out in a shaky breath, but when you look at him, when he finally moves his gaze back to your eyes, like he’s been doing all night, you see that he’s not mad. he’s not even upset.

“that’s okay-”

“no, no that is so not okay,” you blubber, words and sentences becoming harder to find by the second. “i am so sorry. that is so unprofessional.”

“well, i-”

“b-but it’s not like it’s just my fault, you’re being so nice-”

“it’s not anyone’s fault, kid, it doesn’t work like that-” “if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s yours,” you say, unsure of where you’re finding these words. “you keep staring at me. what am i supposed to do?”

“have you tried looking away?” he quips, and you laugh at that. jack thinks for a moment that it’s a really beautiful sound. he doesn’t get to hear it often enough. maybe he can change that.

“am i?” you ask, after a small silence. “going crazy?”

“no. you’re not,” he replies.

“oh. that’s good, at least.”

the two of you stay like that for a moment, shoulder to shoulder against the counter, your protein bar long forgotten. jack’s looking at you and you’re looking anywhere but him.

“dr. abbot?” you say, but before he can answer, there’s a phone going off. he hears it in the distance—mvc, truck driver, incoming, five minutes out.

“come on,” he says, doing that thing again, guiding you but not really. even if anyone noticed through the haze of five am, he finds that he doesn’t really care right now. you wear the same flustered, confused, guilty expression until he ties the gown behind you this time, which makes you a smile.

a real one this time.

“what do you think about breakfast?” jack asks, snapping on his gloves and heading outside to meet the ambulance.

“i like breakfast,” you answer, not nearly as hesitantly as you thought you would.

“great. i’m of the belief you should always eat breakfast after night shift. there’s a place down the street.”

“do they have french toast?”

“i’m sure they do. you like sweet things?” and you can’t believe the conversation is still going, the paramedics are opening up the doors in front of you. you turn to jack, nodding to answer his question. “makes sense. alright, what’d we have?”

mouth still open, you follow him out to the bay.

an hour later, both of the drivers from the accident are stable. you’re yawning at central, saying goodbye to the nurse you were chatting with earlier, and without even looking, you know jack is looking at you.

you’re too tired to be anxious. all you want is to go to breakfast with him and figure out what the hell happens after breakfast post night-shift with your attending who knows that you can’t stop thinking about him.

he brings over a cup of coffee for you. you look up quizzically.

“i thought you said no more coffee?”

“it’s decaf. but you need something to get you to breakfast, right?”

“shouldn’t i have a coffee at breakfast?”

“no, because then you won’t be able to sleep after.” the way he talks, you believe everything he says. you smile at him. someone from the other side of the room calls him over.

“i’ll, uh, be right back.”

“dr. abbot?” you say, right before he leaves.

“yeah?” “thank you for the coffee.”

the last hour drags. particularly, six to six-thirty. the second half of the hour, the day crew rolls in slowly, one by one. the day shift counterparts take over patients and beds, get their debriefs. you follow around behind the residents, inform the other medical student about what you had done throughout the evening.

and around seven-fifteen, you pull on your jacket, grab your backpack, and wait for jack. you don’t know who else has left yet, who else might see you two together, but you don’t really care.

you walk to the breakfast place together, your eyes stuck anywhere but on your attending, and now it feels weird, because you can’t get his name to come out of your mouth. the idea of saying jack rather than dr. abbot feels inherently wrong.

the place he takes you to is quaint. it smells of espresso and bacon, and you smile brightly at the waitress when you order a latte, not decaf.

“what did i tell you, huh?” jack asks, and you bring yourself to finally look back at the hazel eyes that started this whole thing.

“i never said i was sleeping after this.”

in hindsight, the coffee was a great idea. the food would have made you sleepy, and you would have missed out going back home with jack. he lives in a nice brownstone, much nicer than your tiny apartment.

it also gave you just enough nerve to ask jack if he wanted to try your french toast. to hold his hand on the walk back. to lean against his chest while he opens the door.

“i can still walk you home, y’know,” he says, but you shake your head, watching him get his keys out.

“unless you want to meet my roommate, i don’t think that’s a good idea.” and inside jack abbot’s apartment is everything you had been imagining for the last twelve hours. shelves filled with records, big windows, a couch that looks tantalizingly comfortable. but you have ulterior motives today.

you keep looking around, perusing through his records while he takes a seat on the couch. you inspect with a tilted head, warmth spreading through your chest and radiating out at his music taste. such an old man, you think briefly, looking back at him sitting on the couch in his civilian clothes. your old man.

you pick one out, the first album that’s familiar to you, and bring it over jack on the couch. you sit next to him, thighs touching, resting your head on his shoulder.

“are you gonna put on music?” he laughs, and you can feel his chest vibrate with the noise. this close, you can feel his heartbeat if you place your head just right. every word that he says, you can hear the rumble first. it’s so soothing, you’d fall asleep if you weren’t so wound up.

“how are you not tired?” he questions, and you look up at him.

“i had a latte, remember. you had coffee too. how are you still tired?” you go silent for a moment, trying and failing to conceal a laugh.

“don’t even say it,” jack says, and he’s laughing too.

“i didn’t say anything.”

“you’re thinking it.”

“i’m not tired enough anymore to believe that you can actually read my thoughts.”

“i can’t read your thoughts.”

“that’s a lie-”

“no, promise. i can’t. i can just tell.”

“how is that possible?”

“you want me to teach you?” you prop yourself up, leaning against his forearm while you do it. his skin is warm, and somehow despite everything you two went through the last twelve hours, he still smells good.

“if you’re not too tired, old man.” jack shuts his eyes, groaning. you laugh again, biting your cheek, wondering what he’ll say when—

he opens his eyes.

“i was gonna go easy on you, kid. but you’re in for it now.”

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

“promise?”

jack makes another noise—something in between a groan and a sigh. and then before you can think about it again, he takes your face in between both hands and kisses you.

and you’ve been kissed before. not well, but you know what it’s supposed to be like. after a date once you think, a date that had been pretty mediocre. you felt a spark a hundred times stronger in the last couple hours with jack than any date you’ve been on in your life.

at least—you thought you knew what being kissed was supposed to be like. as it turns out, while kissing jack, you realize that you didn’t know shit.

the way he kisses you leaves your lungs void of any air. he doesn’t pull away, not once, and you don’t either. you don’t want him to pull away, you think you might die if he does. he moves his hands slightly, one on your cheek and the other on the back of your head, holding you in place, firmly, gently. and he kisses you like he wants you to forget what being kissed is like, as though you should have no memory besides this one.

your hands rope themselves on his arms, hard muscles tense under your touch. you move them up and down, brain so empty after the night you’ve had that you don’t know how to signal to him that you want him to take his shirt off. so you pull on his short sleeves and feel his bicep strain against your palm until you give up. you’d rather go at his pace than make any decisions at all, and somehow, you know that jack abbot won’t let you make a single decision, not if you don’t want to. he’ll decide everything, he’ll know what’s right for you, just like he has all night.

your hands finally leave his arm and wander to his hair, fingers working their way through the salt and pepper that you’ve been admiring for so many hours. his curls are messy, and you’ve ruined them, you’re sure, but you can’t stop.

you don’t know how long it’s been since either of you came up for air, but then you hear the record drop to the ground and you pull away quickly, turning your head to see where it went.

jack doesn’t stop kissing you. his mouth is hot and his touch is lava, moving to your cheek and your jaw and then down the column of your neck.

the moans you’ve been singing into his mouth are now out in the air, noises sweet like honey coming back to his ears.

“y-your record, i-i dropped it,” you get the sentence out in gasps. jack has his mouth over the place where your carotid pulses. he sucks hard on the skin there and your eyes shut instantly, the record leaving your mind as quickly as it had come in. he makes his way back through your cheek, back to your mouth.

and you could almost die at the sight—jack abbot, lips red and swollen, darkened eyes looking at you like he’s going to make you pay for that ‘old man’ comment, though you can hardly remember what you had even said.

this time you lean back in to kiss him again, and he lets you control the pace for all of thirty seconds. you kiss him until your lips hurt, until your tongue is tired—but then again, so is every part of your body. but it doesn’t matter, not when you’re so close to getting what it is that you want.

you don’t actually know how you got to his bedroom. you would have been content on that couch, or on the rug on the floor. against the door or on the countertop in the kitchen, but you guess you’ll have time for all of those things one day.

there’s black out curtains in jack’s bedroom. they’re not shut all the way, so you look around while he stands in front of you, pulling off his shirt in one motion. your eyes are big, heart thudding while you take it in. his room is simple, just like you had imagined. the sheets are soft under your skin and everything smells good, like linen and sandalwood. you bring your gaze back, bringing a hand up to touch his chest, like you need to make sure that he’s really in front of you.

jack takes his hand and puts it on top of the one you’re touching him with, pinning it above your head while he hovers over you. you bring the other one up voluntarily, letting him clasp it down, while he leans in to kiss you again. you keep moaning, not sure of how loud you’re being and not entirely sure if you care anymore.

and then he stops. pulls away from the kiss, unpins your hands. you whine in frustration, shut eyes opening quickly to meet his.

“you sure about this, hm?” he asks, bringing his lips to your jaw again. he hovers there too, not pressing down enough for it to be a real kiss. you can feel his stubble rubbing against you.

“i’m sure,” you whisper back, eyes shutting again. jack’s hands roam down, wandering over your waistband.

“there’s no going back,” he says, just as quietly as you had.

“jack, please—” and for the first time that morning, you hear dr. abbot break.

“oh fuck. say my name again, angel,” and you comply, repeating the syllable once, and then twice. it tastes weird on your tongue—like you’d get in trouble for saying it.

the thought makes you laugh. you keep giggling, unable to stop. you hear jack breathe into your neck, laughing with you.

“what’s so funny, hm?” he brings himself back over you, noses almost touching. you look straight into hazel eyes, bringing your hand to his cheek, running your fingers over the short hairs there.

“a couple hours ago i was calling you doctor abbot. now i’m in your bed.”

“you want me to stop, baby? i can. we can just go to sleep,” and you shake your head quickly.

“no, please don’t stop.”

“well, since you asked so politely.” he starts again, kisses up and down your neck, hands pulling off your bottoms. his fingers tease over the hem of your shirt and you raise your arms so he can pull that off too. his eyes rake over your entire body and unlike what you’d imagined, you don’t feel the need to hide. you don’t want to cover yourself up, or feel embarrassed, or anything else. you want jack abbot to keep looking at you like he’s looking now, like he can’t believe what’s in front of him. you can’t believe it either.

and somehow, this is even funnier. now you’re naked in front of your attending, the very one who has been making your heart race since you met him during your third year rotation. you laugh again, before clasping a hand over your mouth.

“i think you might be a little too tired for this,” he says, and you regret your laughter right now.

“no, no, i want this. i’ve been waiting so long for this,” the last part comes out as a whisper. you tilt your head up, pressing in for another kiss. jack’s hands—hot like every other part of him—roam the bare skin of your hips and waist, all the way up to your ribcage and then back down.

“yeah? how long?” he asks. his kisses go lower now, down your neck, onto your collarbone. he goes down to the smooth skin above your breasts, between them. everywhere except where you need him. you can feel the anticipation thrumming under your skin. “i asked you a question.” he pulls away, waiting for his answer.

“s-since i met you.”

“i think it’s been longer than that, hasn’t it?”

you look at him confused, but then the bastard actually smirks at you. and suddenly you’re back to ten o’clock last night, when the nurse was telling you to keep you legs closed—sorry, couldn’t help myself—and you saw someone in the corner of your eye but you didn’t want to be rude and look away, but when you left for the incoming trauma, you had seen—

“you dick-” you yell, sitting up in jack’s soft sheets. “you heard that whole conversation?” jack’s laughing and you start laughing too, taking one of his pillows and smacking it across his chest.

“not-” you get him with the pillow again and he grabs it, wrestling it out of your hands. you realize how much stronger he is than you for a split second in that moment. “not the entire thing. just the important bits.”

“well at least now i don’t have to figure out how to tell you,” you reply sheepishly, feeling particularly vulnerable. you bring your knees in to your chest, watching jack in front of you with big eyes. “do you feel weird about it?”

“weird about what, sweetheart?” he asks quietly, placing one of his warm hands on your knee and rubbing the skin there.

“the virgin thing. do you not-”

“hey,” he says, and with so much caring behind his voice that you feel whatever’s left—if there even was any—of your resolve break. “we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. we can shower and go to sleep. i can take you home. whatever you want. and we can pick up where we left off when you’re ready.”

“yeah?” you ask.

“yeah.”

you move back towards him, shutting your eyes and leaning in for another kiss. this time you crawl into his lap, feeling his hands roaming all over your body again. you can feel him under you—rock hard, pulsing, incredibly hot even through his pants. your hips move on their own while your hands fiddle with the tie before he takes over, undoing it for you. you hear jack groaning in your ear, and you’re positive that you’re wet enough to leave a wet mark on him. the noise is so exhilarating to you that you have to stop yourself from doing whatever it takes to get more out of him.

jack keeps one huge hand on your back, keeping you steady while he kisses you. you lock your arms around his neck, not letting go incase he tries to pull away. he flips you over in one motion—you on your back, and him hovering over you.

you don’t like this nearly as much—you want it back, the insanely rough pleasure of grinding yourself down on him. you whine again, but he murmurs one word in your ear over and over again—patience.

you’ve waited this long. you think you can be patient a little while longer.

jack goes back to whatever was on his long list of things he wants to do to you. he starts with pinning your hands down, locking you in place so you don’t flail around too much. he starts at your chest, his hot mouth working down to your nipple. he takes one in his mouth and you arch up off the bed, making saccharine noises that no one besides him has ever gotten to hear. that no one besides him will ever get to hear.

“jack, jack,” you say his name over and over again, like you’re worried he’ll disappear if you don’t. your body reacts just like he thought you would, only taking what you’re giving, waiting patiently for more.

“you’re being so good, sweetheart,” and he thinks the words alone are enough to make you come. he switches over to your other nipple, and he hears you curse, the swear ripping from your mouth.

and he hasn’t even touched your cunt yet. but he knows already that he’s going to drag this out, that he’s going to make sure you can never forget it. that he’ll spent the rest of his life trying to top this moment, give you something to compare to forever.

hot kisses down your stomach while your chest heaves. he watches from his position between your thighs, hands reaching out to play with your tits while he finally does what he’s been thinking about since that trauma yesterday night.

he moves your hands for you, putting them to work, making you tease your nipples while he spreads open your legs further.

he stares up again, watching you comply with his instructions wordlessly, being such a good girl without even needing to be told. he needs to tell you, but he doesn’t want you to come until you’re coming on his tongue.

without waiting, jack licks the length of your pussy and makes your entire body tense up, back rising off the bed again. he uses one hand on your stomach to keep you pinned down, to make sure you keep taking whatever he gives you. he can’t talk like this, but he’ll talk you through it when he makes you come all over his dick.

that’s what he’s thinking about while he starts to stretch you out. one finger, then two. your cunt is soaking wet, leaking down and making a mess of your thighs and his sheets and his face. he teases your clit more than he should, but how can he not? when you thrash so hard that you’d fall if he wasn’t holding you down? when you have no choice but to take it, to lay back and feel jack’s tongue on the most sensitive part of your body, the part that no one but him has ever gotten to touch?

two fingers become three, stretching you out for him while he sucks on your clit hard, finally giving you what you’ve been begging for.

one of your hands makes its way down to his hair, pulling on it while the other stays on your breast—you want to have both in jack’s hair but you can’t just ignore what he told you to do.

you don’t know what the punishment would be, even though you’re sure you’d enjoy it. but that’s going to be saved for another day.

right now, you were so close to cumming, so close that you could feel yourself hurtling over the edge, and then you pull on jack’s hair harder than you meant to and he moans around you.

it’s something entirely different—the vibration from his mouth and the fact that he’s moaning while he does this to you, and whatever the combination is, you feel it split you apart. the electric current that you felt earlier when you brushed hands with jack is nothing compared to this, lightening coursing through every part of your body, head to toe, inside and out. the white hot tension in your stomach snapping makes you cry out against jack’s pillows, toes curling while he keeps going all the way through it. you can hear him, and it only makes you cum harder, encouraging you, telling you how good you’re doing, how good you’ve been all this time. the only thing you can hear after it stops is your own heart inside your ribcage, bursting like it’s going to come out.

you let go of jack’s hair, bringing your exhausted hand to his shoulder instead. he comes up to where you are, meeting your eyes and leaning in for a kiss that leaves you breathless and thoughtless all over again.

“thank you, jack,” you whisper, too tired to say it any louder. jack laughs against your skin.

“you tired, sweetheart?” the answer is yes and no at the time, but you shake your head. you move closer to him, bringing your hand to his boxers, palming him. you can tell he’s big—big in the way that’s going to hurt, big in the way that his fingers can’t compare. big like you’re going to have trouble walking tomorrow.

“please, jack?” you say, and honest to god, how is he supposed to say no to that? even in your post-orgasmic state, tired as you can be, every muscle probably screaming at you to let you sleep, you’re so sweet in your request, so polite. just like always. he can’t say no to you even if he wanted to.

jack positions himself on top of you. this is it—what you’ve been waiting for. the result of one harmless conversation half a day ago.

jack brings your knees to your chest, and you loop your arms around them, holding yourself in place. his arms cage you in, and you look up, meeting hazel eyes. and even though you should probably be nervous, you’re not, not at all. because you know jack will take care of you.

he leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, making your eyes shut.

“you ready, kid?” the nickname makes your heart flutter. you open your eyes, nodding again. “take a deep breath for me,” jack says, and you comply. and when he pushes inside of you, you swear everything in your body stops working for a second.

every thought leaves your head, every muscle goes lax. your eyes rolls back, mouth dropping open. there is nothing left to think about, nothing to feel except jack abbot inside of you.

“breathe for me,” he instructs, and you have to remind yourself to listen to him, that he knows what you need in this moment. jack abbot knows everything about you—even the things you don’t know.

you hear him—groaning and whispering things that you’re sure would make you pass out if you were in a state of mind that could understand him, but you’re not. so you wait for his kiss, take another breath, and feel him push inside of you all the way.

“jack,” you cry out, toes curling and head spinning. “jack, jack, jack-”

“i know, i know,” he says, and gives you another kiss. “you’re doing—fuck, you’re doing perfect.” he pulls out and thrusts back in, and the stretch is enough to make you cry out again. he’s going slowly for you but you don’t know how to tell him that you need more, that you might die if you don’t get more. but then again, you don’t have to tell him anything.

he picks up the pace, eyes stuck to where he’s filling you up. he can’t stop watching, seeing inch after inch disappear inside you, like you were made for him, because fuck, you were. your hands claw at his back and you pull on his neck to kiss you again, and when he does, you moan into his mouth. but he can’t just let you take it like this, he needs to tell you, all the things he’s been wanting to say.

he pulls away from your mouth and you make another noise, upset. he smooths down your hair and kisses your forehead, working down to your temple and then your cheek and to your ear.

“you’re being so good for me,” those six words that you love hearing so much make your entire body tighten up, including your cunt. you pulse around him as he pauses for a minute, taking in how you react to it. you moan against his skin, crying out when he resumes.

“so perfect for me. you’re taking me so well, baby. like you were made for it.” another moan, more crying. but he knows—knows there’s something else still.

you had once thought your first time might be gentle, candles and flowers. you don’t think you would trade jack abbot and his bedroom and his half-pulled black out curtains for anything in this world.

he keeps fucking you, brutally and deliberately, each thrust telling you something different. you squeal out his name like it’s the only word you know. but it’s when he starts speaking again, when you clench down against him, pulsing so tightly, that he knows he’s figured it out.

“good girl,” jack says, and you have to press your mouth against his arm to stop from screaming out loud. “you’re doing so good, so perfect. my good girl, aren’t you?”

“j-jack, jack, jack, i’m gonna-”

“come on, angel. come for me. i want you to come around me. can you do that for me?” you can’t answer, though it’s on the tip of your tongue, and then it happens again—the lightening, white hot, running through you. even stronger than the first one—it rips through you. jack’s in your ear and you can understand him this time—good girl. so perfect. you did amazing.

you don’t think you can feel your legs. your eyes want to flutter shut but you still feel the aftershocks each time jack thrusts inside of you—and when you open your eyes to stare up at him, you lean up, silently asking for a kiss.

he complies, pressing his lips against you. you don’t let go, keeping it going, until you whisper against his lips.

“thank you doctor abbot,” and that seems to be the last straw for him. you wish you could engrain it into your brain forever, how jack sounds when he cums. you’ve been listening to him all morning but this, this was different. a real moan, wrangled from the back of his throat, from his chest. as good as he’s made you feel, now you get to help him, your cunt clenching around him while he finishes. you press back for another kiss, and jack deepens it, until he pulls out.

you suddenly feel so empty.

he collapses next to you, ushering you onto his sweaty skin. you’re sure that you’re drenched too, and you can feel the back of your head where hairs have stuck to your neck.

you find jack’s hand, holding onto it like letting go might make all of this disappear. he presses a kiss to your forehead, fingers rubbing the skin of the dorsum of your hand.

“you okay?” he asks again, and you nod against his chest. glancing up for a moment, you catch hazel eyes looking at you already.

“are you okay?” he gives you another kiss to your forehead.

“you need to get some sleep.”

“i’m not tired,” you lie.

“yes you are. why do you keep thinking you can lie to me?” he asks, still staring into your eyes. you want to look away but you don’t think you can. you lay down against him, so you don’t have to look away.

“i’m not lying.” you take a pause, take a breath. “do i still have to call you dr. abbot at work tomorrow?” jack laughs. you can feel the vibration on his chest. it makes you smile.

“close your eyes, kid. i promise we’ll talk about everything in the morning.”

“jack?”

“yes?”

“you wanna go again?”

♡

#AAAIIUUURRGGGHHHHH MASTERPIECE #i want that old man so fucking bad #rb #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot

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