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Pittsburgh. Halloween. 11:45 P.M.
“You know Frankenstein’s the name of the doctor, and not the creature, right?”
“Yeah, fine, I’m Frankenstein’s monster if you want to be so specific,” Santos scoffs, sipping on her silly straw. You watch the orange-pink of her drink slink up the plastic spiral onto the lips she meticulously painted grey. It’s admirable, really, the amount of effort she clearly put into tonight’s costume, and the whole party in general. “And you’re dressed as who now? The sexy super-spy cosplay look is really working for you, but the theme was horror characters—”
“Ooh, do you think it’s too much?” you ask anxiously, suddenly self-conscious tugging at the leather harness across your chest with one hand, the other holding an identical red plastic cup with a silly straw poking out. “I used to play a lot of Resident Evil to decompress during my undergrad, and—”
You’re mid-sentence with Trinity Santos when her doorbell rings. It’s more like a screech, really, the way the brrrinnggg of the bell pierces through her surprisingly expansive apartment. You cover your ears as a reflex, careful not to dislodge your carefully placed short black wig and ruin your costume.
Santos rolls her eyes, “Great, some fucker didn’t read the instructions on the invite.” She turns around and squeezes past a handful of familiar faces on her way to the door. The digital flyer included a code to enter the building, and you now understand it was added specifically so none of us would have to deal with that banshee scream of a doorbell.
You stick your head out to see who it was behind the door. He’s standing against the light but you recognize that silhouette: Doctor… Jack Abbot?
Not only are you surprised to see him here at all, but as he steps into the apartment, probably surveying the room’s overall demographic of people at least one generation younger, you notice what he’s wearing. Jack enters the party dressed in what looks like a short-sleeved navy blue rookie cop costume with a long-sleeved grey undershirt. His outfit is punctuated with protective elbow and knee pads, tactical holsters, and a black police vest with the white initials “R.P.D.” stenciled across his chest.
Hold on.
You glance at your own reflection in the full-length mirror next to you, drink in hand, taking stock of your own costume. Before leaving your home you thought this look was so unique, so niche, even Santos couldn’t clock it. Your long, flowy red slip dress that stood in for a cheongsam. The black velvet and onyx choker around your neck. The short black bob covering your long, dark, natural curls. Your black harness, and the tactical holster around your own thigh.
Next thing you know, he’s right in front of you. You realize he was inching toward the drink table, and you were in the way.
You watch his eyes flit up and down the length of your body. The lines on the outside of his eyes deepened, smirking even before his mouth did. He reaches behind you for a bottle of Red Horse Beer and manages to pop the cap by simply tapping it at an angle against the table. The sight of it sends an anxious flutter from your spine to your finger tips. “Nice costume,” he tells you. “It’s Ada Wong, right? From Resident Evil 4?”
“Doctor Abbot,” you say, almost a little too brightly in excitement and surprise. You didn’t peg him for a survival horror gamer type, though it also kind of makes sense, given what you know about him. He’s standing so close to you, closer than he ever did while guiding your hand through yesterday’s left anterolateral thoracotomy. “I—like yours, too. Leon Kennedy, Resident Evil 2?”
“Damn straight, I’ve had this thing forever,” he smiles, tugging on the edges of his police vest, seemingly sharing in my enthusiasm. “If I’d known you were gonna wear this tonight, we could have coordinated. Our costumes are from two different games, but I could have just ditched the vest and put on a black t-shirt. Would have been a lot lighter.”
He rolls his shoulders back. You recall Leon Kennedy’s fitted black tee that highlighted the contours of his arm muscles. Then you picture Jack in the same shirt, with his arms—those fucking arms—which you noticed ever so slightly whenever he’d cross them over his chest while he’d watch you work.
Then you snap back into reality, a warm sensation filling your cheeks when you realize your attending physician probably just caught you spacing out.
“...what? Oh, yeah, that would have been cool,” you mutter, gathering yourself. “I’m sorry, I’m just a little surprised to see an Attending physician at a resident’s house party. Aren’t you a little…”
“I hope you’re not saying I’m too old to be here,” Jack interrupts. “Eh, my therapist says I need to be more social, and Ellis invited me. Besides, I kinda like dressing up.”
Yet somehow he always ends up in some type of uniform, you think to yourself. Jack takes a big gulp of beer then makes a sour face. “God, this stuff is strong.”
“Yeah, those bottles should really come with a warning,” you say. “It’s basically malt liquor, and apparently there’s always one bottle that’s way stronger than all the rest. The San Miguel pilsner’s not bad, but I went for the Weng Weng so it doesn’t mess up my lipstick. That one’s a real kicker too, though.” You use your thumb to point over to the giant punch bowl containing the same drink you and Santos are having.
“Ain’t no party like a Filipino party,” Jack remarks, nodding his head over at Nurse Princess, filling another plate full of fried lumpia at the other side of the drink table.
The apartment door opens again—this time, because you notice someone was leaving.
“Laaaame,” you hear Santos nearby, raising her solo cup. “Everybody boo Huckleberry for leaving so soon!”
You notice a few people jeer playfully at Santos’ roommate, Dennis Whitaker, donning an all-white chef costume and clutching an extra-tall toque, as he slings one strap of his backpack on one shoulder and sheepishly walks out of the apartment.
“What was he dressed as?” Jack asks, leaning over to you.
“I think he’s supposed to be the chef from Ratatouille,” you chuckle. So much for not being too old.
“What’s that?” Jack says, tilting his head toward you, his face leaning right up to your cheek.
You realize you’d blurted that last thought out loud.
“Joking, Jack,” you reply with a giggle in defense, though also catching yourself addressing him by his first name. Your gaze lingers for a beat longer than you intend. He wears that Raccoon Police Department vest so well, and even though the natural salt and pepper of his hair didn’t look anything like the character’s wispy, curtain-esque dirty blonde, you can’t resist imagining what would happen if he, dressed like Leon Kennedy, and you, like Ada Wong, acted upon one of your longest-standing fantasies. Imagine if he was thinking the same thing.
Jack bites his lip, and you lick yours as a reflex. You notice him looking you up and down again, but he’s standing so close now that when he looks down he mainly sees through the top of your satin dress. The air starts to feel hot between you.
“Excuse meee!” Princess cuts past the two of you, abruptly dissolving the moment, and the space in the room starts to feel normal again. She reaches over Abbot for a bottle of San Miguel. She acknowledges the contents of the red cup in your hand. “Okay, yes hottie, you get into that weng-weng!”
“Do you know what’s in it?” you ask her. You notice Jack in your periphery; he hasn’t left your side. “It doesn’t taste like it’s got any alcohol at all.”
“Yup, that’s where it’ll get you,” Princess replies, the condensation from her beer bottle dripping onto the yellow Beauty and the Beast-esque ball gown she chose for the night. She begins to enumerate the ingredient list, counting with her fingers. “Let me see… vodka, tequila, rum, gin, brandy, scotch or bourbon, orange juice, pineapple juice, Grenadine. I used to make it when I’d throw parties back in nursing school.”
“Whaaa—”
“Yeah girl that’s why they call it weng weng! Cos by the end of the night you’ll be… weng… weng…” Princess gestures as if she were acting delirious. “I dunno, loopy? Like your legs are jelly and you can’t think straight. Have fun!” She takes her beer and walks back toward the couch where a couple of other nurses were hanging out.
You already can’t think straight, and you know it.
Leaning with one hand on the table, you feel another sudden rush when you feel warm brushing against your finger tips. You know the way this hand feels, even though the only other time you felt it was with gloves on. It has just about the right amount of push, of force, as if it were guiding you through performing a delicate incision on a patient’s vulnerable throat.
You look up and it’s Jack, staring back almost menacingly, like he wants to say something. He lifts his hand from yours and moves it toward the small of your back, again with the most gentle force. Next thing you know it’s you biting your lip. You lean back toward him, narrowing the gap between you, completely neglecting the fact other people from work are very much in the room.
“Doesn’t Whitaker also live here?” Jack says, mere inches separating his face from yours. You catch a whiff of his scent, a warming combination of sandalwood, cinnamon, and one other thing you can’t quite pinpoint. “I was wondering if—you wanted to check it out.”
“Oh, Leon, you know I don’t work and tell,” you tease and take the lead.
You knock on Whitaker’s door and pop your head in when no one answers. “Hello?”
His room is dark and empty, and from the minimal light coming in from the hallway you also notice there isn’t much going on in there: a chest of drawers, a single built-in closet, a mirror, and a full size bed. There’s a chair against a wall on which several pairs of scrubs and jeans and socks are stacked in a messy heap.
You stealthily sneak into the room and flip the light switch on; the garish fluorescence causes you to mutter a guttural “Nope” as you immediately turn it back off and instead switch to a lamp atop the dresser. Jack trails behind you, a little extra bulky from the costume vest on his chest. You shut the door behind him. The music and chatter are much more muffled in this room.
“Do you think anyone noticed us together?” you ask him. He shrugs, one brow and the corner of his lips doing their own dance.
“Wanna know something? I don’t fucking care.” Jack responds. He hikes up your dress until he manages to get one hand up to the delicate sheath of your underwear, which you didn’t notice was already slick with excitement. Your clit begins to throb as he runs one knuckle over it and along one side of your folds. “What’s this now… did you do all this for me?”
You nod quietly, almost guiltily. You’re not very good at hiding your excitement.
Ideally, Jack would be kissing you right now, and you’re waiting for him to make that move. Instead, he continues to play with your wetness, petting your entrance with gentle strokes before sliding one finger inside you.
“Oh, fuck,” is all you manage to say.
“Do you like this?” Jack presses his face against your cheek, his breath hot on your skin while your back remains against the door. “Do you like it when I fuck you with my finger like this?”
“Mm-hmm,” you reply, feeling his finger hook and pull inside you, and you know you can take more. “I—I like when you fuck me with your finger, mm. Put—can you—want another. Please.”
Right now, with Jack, while he dons yet another uniform that makes you want him even more, you know you can take whatever he gives you. You can take it all.
“Oh you want more? I’ll give you more,” Jack teases before taking his finger out and holding it against your mouth. “But I want to watch you taste yourself first. I want you to know just how sweet you really are.”
He presses a single damp finger on your lips, which you welcome eagerly into your wanting mouth. You begin to suck deeply on it, allowing him to push it further inside and you give him more of yourself.
“Good girl,” he says, removing his hand and bringing it back to the growing heat between your legs. He leans back toward you. “Are you ready for more now, baby? I want you to know how hard you’re making me right now.”
“I’m ready, Jack,” you nod. “Ready for more. Ready for you to fuck me now.”
“Fuck you?” he laughs. “I’m not going to fuck you right now. Not yet.”
His finger enters you again; this time, he uses two of them, keeping his thumb on your hardened clit. This time, he tugs at your cunt a little harder. The movement reverberates through your body. Any attempts at breathing deeply and relaxing your lower body are interrupted by intense jolts of arousal that cause your hips to squirm. Your eyes close.
“Uh-uh,” Jack groans. “Eyes on me now.”
You manage to blink them back open, but you’re struggling as you feel him insert a third, then a fourth finger. Unable to form full sentences you let out a deep “Fuuuuuck” on exhale as you hear the sloshing of your wet pussy on the near entirety of his hand.
“Are you gonna cum for me, Ada?” Jack says, calling you by your character’s name instead of your own. “I want to watch you cum for me—now.”
As you finally release onto him, your eyes maintaining their focus on his maddened gaze, you can feel your face contort as your hips begin to undulate involuntarily, grinding your cunt along his fingertips. Heat rises to the top of your head and you pull off your wig, along with all the bobby pins and wig cap that you’d painstakingly put on earlier in the evening. You feel a trail of your cum ooze down to the leather holster on your shaking leg.
Jack takes his hand off you and holds it in front of your face. You don’t need to wait for his instructions as you lick yourself off his fingers.
“Look at you, being such a good fucking girl for me,” Jack remarks before leaning in and finally pressing his lips on yours, hard and sort of sloppy, his tongue, still cold and tasting like beer, in a forceful waltz with your saliva and pussy juice and, perhaps, a hint of Grenadine.
Burying his face in your mouth, you feel Jack's fingers playing with the loose straps of your dress while he matches your moans. Jack peels the strap over one shoulder, then the next strap over the other. He pulls away briefly, allowing you just enough room to shimmy out of your dress til it lands on the floor.
“Is this… do you… like.. what you see?” You mumble, breathlessly, now standing against the door, arms at your sides wearing nothing but the velvet choker, the harness, the holster, and a black thong whose lace pattern was so soaked in your nectar that it’s now undecipherable.
“Put your hands behind your back for me,” Jack requests, visually examining every curve and groove of your figure. “You don’t need to be shy with me. Not anymore.”
So you do what he asks.
“God, you’re fucking beautiful,” he says, causing your cunt to quiver. “You’re perfect.”
“Thank you,” you reply, craving more of this, more of him. You try to stick one hand under your panties but Jack takes a step toward you and stops you from doing so.
“I didn’t say you could do that.” His tone shifts and is more commanding, almost like a drill sergeant. Maybe the uniform is getting to his head. “Now spread your legs.”
Again, you oblige. In a way, you’ve always wanted Jack Abbot, and you start to think maybe Jack Abbot wanted you, too. The signs were all there, ever since you got moved to his shift.
“Wider.” He uses his feet to nudge yours outward, so you do what he says.
“Now turn around.”
You do as Jack Abbot commands, turning to face the door, taking one step backwards so you could better support yourself on the door when you bend over. Jack uses one finger to caress your pulsating cunt while the other hand unbuckles his pants. You hear the zip fly come down.
“Just so you know, I can be a little loud,” you tell him, knowing for a fact that you would be screaming out of ecstasy if Jack Abbot started to fuck you from behind.
“We can do something about that. I’m going to take your panties off now,” Jack’s voice is now softer, less like a whisper but with more of a growl. He lowers the damp, delicate piece of fabric to your feet, and you lift each foot to take it fully off. Then you notice Jack Abbot’s hand come across your face and stuff your mouth with it.
He moves his hands toward your hips and starts to graze your entrance with the tip of his cock.
“Are you clean? Birth control?” He asks quickly.
You grow impatient. “Yes and yes. Any other ques—fuuuuck!”
He thrusts deeply into you, almost a little aggressively at first, before he finds his rhythm. You let out a sharp moan, the kind that other people at the party would have definitely heard, if not for what appears to be significant soundproofing in Whitaker’s room. Jack puts his hand over your mouth, starting to hunch over you as you moan into this makeshift muzzle.
And it feels so fucking good.
Jack Abbot continues to pump into you vigorously, filling you with every inch of his thick, heavy cock that you’ve daydreamed about more than once. You’ve noticed his little swagger when he walks, and now you know why. His free hand, callused and wise, moves from your hips and begins to cup one of your breasts, then toy with your nipple, squeezing and tugging at it, sending new sensations to your brain and your body and your cunt that you’ve never felt before. You can even feel his balls a little as his tip clashes into your G-spot from behind. It adds yet another sensation that makes you cum another time, your leg shaking uncontrollably as you reach back toward him and pull your face away from his hand.
“Wai—wait, wait, Jack—aah—” Your leg won’t stop shaking. “I think I need a second.”
Jack—every inch of him—pulls out of you, slowly enough that you can’t resist another moan in the end. If anyone was standing outside the door, they definitely would have heard.
He catches you when you nearly collapse on the floor. “You okay?” Jack asks with a soft giggle, almost sweetly.
You nod with a weak “Mm-hmm,” and trudge on toward Whitaker’s bed, your legs like jelly. “I think—we should do the rest over here. Better to ask for forgiveness…”
As Jack walks toward you, you realize he still has the RPD vest on. Below it, you finally see his cock for the first time, still erect, still glossy with your juices. You don’t wait for him to say anything; you lie back across the bed, parallel to the neat row of pillows you decide to spare for the night, and, as if predicting what he’s about to say next, you spread your legs.
Jack meets you at the edge of the bed. He drops to his knees, which you’re surprised to see he’s able to do with ease. If there was any discomfort in his leg, with his prosthetic, he sure wasn’t showing it. You feel the warmth of his breath on your entrance before he begins to trace circles on your clit, then along the curvature of each fold, then straight along the length of your cunt’s opening.
His tongue returns to your clit; it’s hard, it’s pulsating, and you know it’s just the tip of the iceberg. Your hands start to claw at his hair, tousling and digging into his short silver waves. He begins to reintroduce two fingers inside, and it’s enough to send you soaring yet another time.
“No, no, no—,” you begin to protest.
Jack comes up for air. “What’s wrong? Do you want me to stop?”
“I just want you to fuck me again,” you reply. “Not with your fingers. I want you, inside me. Now.”
Jack smirks, then nods. “I have no problem with that at all.”
His cock is still hard.
Maybe he was planning to fuck you again anyway. But you can feel the heat from at least one more explosive climax building within you that you want it to be just right.
Jack climbs on the bed on top of you. He spreads your legs further.
He proceeds inside you, just like you asked. “Oh fuck, you’re so perfect,” he says as he starts to speed up with his thrusts—not too fast, but just enough that you can still feel the rhythmic depth of each one. “You’re so fucking perfect.”
Jack closes his eyes, starting to breathe only with his mouth. He hunches over you, the layer of sweat on your chest rubbing against the canvas-like surface of his makeshift police vest.
“No, Jack,” you manage while panting, synchronizing your breath with his. “I want your eyes on me.”
He looks up at you in a crazed gaze. “You’re gonna make me cum if you keep talking to me like that.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuuuck. Keep fucking me, Jack.” He feels so fucking good, and you don’t know if there’s any coming back from this. “I want you to cum inside me, Doctor Abbot. I want to feel your cum inside me, Jack.”
So he does what you ask.
With one final stroke, he moans like he’s gasping for air. You start to feel the warm ooze of Jack’s cum fill you inside. It feels like a reward.
Jack continues to pant over you, his breath eventually slowing to normal. “I need to roll over,” he says. You nod and make room for him. You start to giggle.
“What?” he asks.
“I can’t believe you kept it on,” you respond, smiling. “The uniform—it stayed on.”
“Yeah, well, maybe a part of me always wanted to do that.”
“Well, maybe a part of me always wanted to fuck Leon Kennedy.”
“You make a pretty good Ada.”
“That’s the best compliment anyone has ever given me,” you say with a smirk.
It’s quiet for a moment, and you begin to think about how you’ll get your dress back on. How you’ll definitely need to use the bathroom once you’re both done here.
“You know,” Jack, still lying on the bed, places his hand on your lower back when you sit up. “If we want to keep doing this, we might have to take different shifts.”
“Well, only if we disclose to the hospital that we’re seeing each other, right?”
“Right. But it’s the right thing to do.”
You turn your gaze back down toward him, admiring the way beads of sweat sat on Jack’s face. “We’ll figure it out.”
Suddenly you start to feel something buzz near your leg. You almost forget you’ve been wearing a phone case as your DIY leg holster for the costume. You hadn’t noticed it going off in the heat of it all.
You can see the text from Santos on your home screen:
Thank FUCK you guys are done. Just FYI… everyone heard that.
Ah. Fuck.
You’ll figure it out.