Imagine being the waypoint operator for the 141s comms, in charge of directing their chatter to the correct channels when needed, right?
Your station acts as an added layer of security, encrypting the route the channels take in the event they are hacked. Sure, you work with other teams but the 141 are your main group.
One...small caveat of being in charge of their comms, is that you have to actually listen to their conversations in case they request a patch to someone.
Which leads to you hearing...way more than you'd like.
Gaz: sir. Stop poking it. Soap's waitin'
Ghost: think he had health issues. Look at his femur, odd texture.
Gaz: oh shit, really? Let me see—
Followed by far too graphic descriptions of the poor blokes leg. You had to skip lunch that day. You do most days they have missions, gross fuckers act like you can't hear all the shit they say.
Meaning, of course, that you hear too damn much about their sex lives or lack thereof due to missions. It's nothing new, and given you know what they look like, it doesn't paint a bad picture.
But this time? You're shocked by the subject of conversation.
Soap: ahm tellin' you, it's been too damn long. The poor lass is crying for attention!
Gaz: why not the guy from IT? He's eager enough.
Soap: no. Not really feeling that right now. Actually, you know who sounds nice?
There's that characteristic smirk in soaps voice you've long since learned to identify. You absently hear ghost prompt him to continue, wondering how the hell price tunes them out so well—
Soap: our waypoint.
You choke, splutter. Your own coughing making it impossible to hear gaz and ghosts reactions, but when you tune back in soap is viciously defending himself
Soap: no, no! Listen! Have you heard that voice?? Christ, just that and I could get a better wank than I've had all month! C'mon, ghost, I know you agree—
Ghost: you know they can hear you right now, johnny? Got anything to say?
Gaz: *chuckles* besides asking to get his dick wet? Maybe beg for a moan or something?
....silence
Soap: ....hey waypoint? You there?"
You shouldn't. Christ you shouldn't respond.
All comms are recorded, and waypoints should only talk when absolutely necessary but— but the 141 comms are wiped every 24 hours and...
You lean close to your mic, voice weaker than you'd like.
Thinking about mer!reader who was born in captivity meeting mer!ghost who was born wild...
You both meet in a mer sanctuary, you having been rescued from an aquarium going bankrupt and ghost under treatment for a boating strike. You've never seen another mer before, but the strange creature in your tank undeniably is one, that much you instincts tell you.
But....but he's so big, bigger than anything you've seen before! You doubt he could ever comfortably fit in your tank! Just looking at him makes your fins flutter nervously, hiding in the rocks on the shelf built into the pool.
He keeps peeking into your cave, chirping and churring in a way that makes your instincts perk but you don't really understand. Safety? Pod? You don't know.
Meanwhile, ghost is losing his mind.
This strange mer is too damn small, and he keeps trying to ask "are you okay? I'm safe, did they hurt you?" But all it does is squeak like a pup and hide!
Ghost can't fit into the tiny cave with the mer, and his instincts are already freaking out because he's separated from his pod! He needs to protect the weird pup!
....how the hell the workers intend to care for you when ghost is at risk of drowning anyone who tries, they have no idea.
Request fill for nonny who wanted captive vs wild mer!!!
summary: robby tells you he wants to keep things casual after you catch him flirting with noelle. he's less enthusiastic when he finds out you've been seeing his best friend. (5k)
characters: michael robinavitch / fem!reader, jack abbot / fem!reader, trinity santos, dennis whitaker, mel king
contents: established relationship, friends with benefits, jealousy, mutual pining, angst, possessive!robby, allusions to smut
FIC #5 / 20 FOR 20
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
You and Robby were not together. Not officially, and definitely not publicly. You were hardly together privately, if you were being real honest with yourself — aside from a few stolen nights after particularly draining shifts, where he’d show up at your place with takeout and exhaustion sitting heavy in his eyes and promises of distracting you from the hard day; where he’d then wake up before sunrise and leave before you had the chance to miss him.
Casual. That was the point. Because he was an attending, and you were his resident, and Robby had already made the mistake of blurring those lines once before. “It gets messy, sweetheart,” he murmured against your bare shoulder one night, voice heavy with sex and sleep alike. “And when it ends, it… It really fuckin’ ends, you know?”
You didn’t know what he meant by that, actually. You figured he was saying that dating within the hierarchy tends to crash and burn in some way or another, but you didn’t press him on the issue then. Though now you think that maybe you should’ve.
You should’ve told him to give this a name back then — whatever this thing was between you — because at least then you’d have a name for the feeling searing in your chest just now, as you’re forced to watch Robby flirt with Noelle on the other side of the workstation.
You’re examining the chart glowing from the iPad in your hands, trying hard to ignore the ache in your lower back and the fact that you haven’t eaten since six that morning, when the sound of Robby’s sudden laughter graces your ears — finding you despite the buzzing chatter of the crowded E.R.
You glance up automatically and find him leaning against the counter, with the sleeves of his undershirt pushed up to his elbows and his stethoscope looped lazily around his neck, towering several inches over Noelle.
“You’re getting less grumpy in your old age, Robinavitch,” the older woman quips beneath a quiet smile and the faint flush coating her caramel-colored cheeks. She arches a manicured brow in his direction, dark eyes glimmering beneath long lashes. “Something been improving your mood lately? Or some-one?”
Your palms go clammy around the tablet in your hand. You never wanted anyone to find out that you were dating your attending, but god, your heart stops beating just to hear your name fall from his lips.
Robby laughs instead, a sharp exhale from his nose.
“You always think you know everything,” he says with a shake of his head, though you can still hear the smile in his voice when he tells her, “I’m not sure your new boyfriend up in ortho would like you asking about my love life, Hastings…”
“Oh, I stopped seeing him ages ago,” Noelle scoffs. “He kept calling himself an alpha male unironically, and I— couldn’t take it anymore.”
Robby physically recoils. “Jeez… And here I thought your taste in men improved after me.”
Their laughter entwines and lingers in the air for several lingering moments. It’s more familiar than flirtatious, but your stomach twists with a sick feeling anyway. Because Noelle was, to put it simply, everything you weren’t. She was effortlessly gorgeous and carried all that confidence in her matching pant suits and pulled-back curls. She was much closer to Robby’s age, too, and their lengthy history is one you know you couldn’t compete with if you tried.
You feel a little like a child as you watch them talk in hushed voices. You flare with all the embarrassment of one, too, when Robby’s eyes lock suddenly with yours.
You turn away a beat too late, just in time to catch the look that flashes suddenly across his weathered features — as if he’d somehow been caught. You pretend not to notice, or otherwise care, when he dismisses himself from Noelle and closes the distance between you. He towers over you the same way he had with her, smelling like a mixture of his cologne and your bed sheets.
“Hey…” he says, all casual, stuffing his hands into his scrub pockets and nodding to the tablet in your hands. “You get that CBC back on Central Eight?”
“Yep,” you deadpan, still without looking at him.
He flinches slightly when you shove the chart suddenly at his chest with a less-than-gentle hand. His brows lower in confusion when you turn on your heel and walk away a second later, with considerably more ire than you had that morning. (‘Cause you’d been complaining about some mild insomnia for a while now, so Robby fucked you to sleep the night before. He figured you’d be in a better mood today accordingly. But alas.)
“So I take it you’re not helping with this endoscopy?” he calls after you, pulling his glasses from his shirt pocket for a better view of the screen in his hand.
“Nope,” you call back, already halfway down the hall — not as his resident, but as a woman halfway scorned.
Whitaker’s eyes dart back and forth like he’s watching a tennis match — between you, Robby, and the bloodied head wound he’s watching you stitch up with practiced hands. There’s a heavy tension he can feel simmering in the air, snatching all the remaining oxygen out of the room. Even from where he stands behind you, peering over Trinity’s shoulder, he feels hardly shielded from the building stress.
“Call ortho for a consult for me, will ya?” Robby asks you, or rather politely commands, without looking away from the chart in his hands.
You, similarly, don’t glance up from your sutures as you tell him, “You have a pair of free hands, don’t you, Dr. Robby?”
The man’s eyes dart to you in an instant, peering at you over the top of the glasses sitting low on his broad nose. His dark brown gaze glimmers with a mixture of amusement and shock as a faint smile flickers beneath his beard.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll do it!” Whitaker blurts, half-strangled by the tension, as he rushes for the red phone across the room. It’s quite telling, the younger boy finds, that he’d rather suffer a call with Park the Shark than watch this lover’s quarrel unfold.
Robby squints as he takes a slow step towards you. His eyes flit from your deadpan face, to your gloved hands, to the balding head of the unconscious patient you stitch up.
“Have you eaten today?” he wonders aloud.
“Are you gonna ask if I need a nap next to?” you scoff. “I’m not a child.”
“Well, you’re kinda acting like one,” Robby says within a breathless chuckle. “So do you wanna maybe dial the attitude back a notch?”
“Sorry, Dr. Robby,” you say flatly, tying off the final stitch with sharp, methodical movements. “I’ll remember to stroke your ego next time— Maybe then you won’t accuse me of being a bitch.”
“I wasn’t—”
A laugh sputters suddenly from Santos’ mouth before she can help it. She hides it behind her fist when Robby glares at her and pretends to cough instead.
The tension between the two of you doesn’t snap until around the tenth hour of the shift, when you’re hiding from the chaos of the E.D. with the excuse of fetching more supplies from the walk-in closet. Robby enters like a dark cloud, mixing with your own storm, and threatening to create a most fatal concoction when he corners you against the shelf. (You hadn’t stopped moving for about four straight hours, to be fair — this was his only real chance of getting you alone.)
“What the hell is your problem today?” the older man says in lieu of a greeting.
You huff and roll your eyes, shoving at a pack of saline flushes a little harder than necessary when they threaten to fall from the shelf and on top of you. Robby watches with narrowed eyes and a pair of weathered hands splayed on his hip.
“Did I do something to you? ‘Cause you’ve been acting crazy all day—”
You slam the cabinet door shut with a resounding clang, so hard it refuses to latch,before spinning on your heels to face the man behind you. The glare you give him almost makes him flinch before he swallows down the instinct to.
“Crazy?” you echo through a tense jaw. “You flirt with Noelle all day, right in front of me, and now you’re calling me crazy?”
Robby blinks owlishly back at you for several long moments.
You almost think you see a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth beneath his mustache, before a chuckle sputters suddenly from his lips. You flinch at the intensity of his laughter, and at the distant mania glimmering in his dark eyes.
“Oh, my god—”
“Don’t laugh!” you exclaim, face burning under the weight of your embarrassment.
“—That’s what this is about?”
“Yes! It is. Because I thought I was enough for you.”
His weathered features soften with a heavy sigh, though traces of his amusement still remain — equal parts fond and exhausted.
“Oh, c’mon… You know this wasn’t supposed to be anything serious,” Robby croons gently, taking slow steps towards you. “That was the agreement, right? Casual. So we could avoid all… This.”
You peer up at the man from beneath your lashes when he plants himself in front of you. You try not to melt when you catch a whiff of his dizzying cologne. “This?” you echo.
“Yeah… You know, all the… jealousy and the— arguments,” he huffs with a lazy shrug and crosses his pale arms over his chest. “I’ve been through this before, kid. Trust me. This is… This is what’s best.”
Your chest sears with a mixture of red-hot anger and ice-cold jealousy. Your jaw tightens at how detached he sounds, how rational, as if he were discussing policies instead of real actual feelings. (If he was even capable of those). You want him to feel this, too — this awful, wretched jealousy clawing at your ribs from the inside out.
You fold your arms tightly across your chest, forcing your voice into a deadpan as hurt simmers somewhere beneath the words. “So I can see whoever I want?” you ask him.
Robby’s expression flickers slightly, almost imperceptibly. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows, but his dark gaze never once wavers from yours.
“Of course, you can,” he tells you, though his taut voice threatens to betray him. “We’re casual. That was the deal.”
“Okay,” you nod once and turn away from him again, giving him very little to play off of as he tries and fails to call your bluff.
Robby’s forced to stare at the back of you while you pull a large pack of lap pads from the shelf. His brows knit in confusion when you spin back around to face him, mostly back to normal again, with a ghost of a polite smile dancing the edges of your mouth.
“Run these to Trauma 1 for me, will ya? Dr. Al-Hashimi needs ‘em for a trauma patient coming in.”
You press the package to Robby’s chest before he can answer and walk past him for the exit before he can blink.
Three days after the fact, you’re sitting in a crowded bar a block away from the PTMC, drowning your post-shift sorrows in half-priced beers.
In those three days, you haven’t seen Robby once outside of work. There were no more stolen kisses in empty elevators, no more lingering touches in stairwells, no more “come over” texts sent in the dead of night. And Robby thought it was strange, because the two of you weren’t even fighting anymore — not technically, anyway — and yet you were more distant now than ever.
“Question,” the man murmured casually from the other side of the desk while you finished up your charting at the monitor. “Is it me you’re avoiding or just my apartment?”
“What?” you scoffed, still typing. “I’ve just been— busy, Robby.”
“Hm…” he sighed, less than convinced.
You didn’t spare him a second glance — not then and not when you took Santos’ offer of happy hour and Friday night karaoke. The girl herself returns now to the cracked pleather booth in the corner of the dingy bar, where you sit with Mel and Whitaker, after butchering another Alanis Morrissette song.
Her chest heaves with panted breaths under her black tank top, pale skin sticky with a thin layer of alcohol-induced sweat.
“Okay, what’s with the long faces over here?” Trinity jokes as she steals a room-temperature fry off your plate, talking through the mouthful. “I know you and Robby are fighting or whatever, but I just gave the performance of a lifetime up there.”
You slurp nosily at the remnants of your fruity drink and nearly choke on it at the accusation. “What?” you cough with the thin straw still in your mouth. “We aren’t— fighting. What are you talking about?”
“Oh, please,” Trinity scoffs and reaches for her beer. “You’re both been acting like a couple of… divorced parents at soccer practice.”
“Okay, I don’t even know what that means—”
“Playing nice in front of everyone as not to evoke suspicion, which inevitably turns the obvious tension between you from angry to sexually charged,” Mel rambles matter-of-factly. Her blonde hair sways around her jaw as she nods, left slightly crimped from her undone braid.
Your eyes flit to Whitaker then, who nods much more solemnly in agreement.
Your face burns red-hot in response. “Well— we’re not even, like, together or anything, so…”
“Mhm…” Santos hums with a knowing look that makes you shift uncomfortably in the booth. She takes another quick swig from the amber bottle in her hand before her gaze zeroes in on an unfortunate Whitaker. “C’mon, Huckleberry. You’re up.”
His light eyes widen, glassy with exhaustion and alcohol alike. “I’m… Up?”
“Yeah. You’re doing karaoke with me. Let’s go,” Trinity says as she slides once more off the weathered vinyl. She frowns when she rises and finds the boy still sitting in place. “Let’s go, I said! We gotta get back in line before the spots fill up—”
Whitaker scrambles to follow the girl towards the stage despite his better judgment. You use that as an excuse to get another drink, tugging the skirt of your dress further down your thighs as you go. You weave through the crowd of strangers and coworkers alike until you reach the sticky wooden counter.
You lean your elbows against it and flash the bartender a kinda smile. “Can I get another aperol spritz, please?”
“Put that on my tab,” a familiar voice says from beside you.
Your head whips to find Jack sitting there, one chair down and nursing a sweaty amber bottle of cheap beer in his pale hand. He looks more relaxed now than you think you’ve ever seen him — camo pants baggy around his legs, black t-shirt untucked from the belt, warm around the edges from the alcohol.
You feel very suddenly overdressed in your form-fitting velveteen number and cross your arms over your chest to hide beneath the loose cardigan you wear over top of it. “Oh, you don’t have to do that—”
“I insist,” the older man smiles. “You deserve it after that canthotomy you did today. You were a real trooper.”
The bartender slides a cocktail glass across the wooden surface over to you. The orange liquid threatens to slosh over the thin rim. You give him a polite grin in return. “Thank you,” you tell the man, then grow considerably shier when you turn back to the attending sitting a stool down from you. “Thanks, Dr. Abbot.”
“Jack,” the older man corrects before bringing the lip of his bottle back up to his mouth.
“Jack,” you echo softly.
The man shifts on the hard stool, keeping his prosthetic limb stretched slightly ahead of him beneath the bar. A not quite silence settles between you then, filled by the buzzing bar all around you. Your eyes cut to the stage on the far side of the room, where Santos belts the lyrics to “You Oughta Know” and Whitaker stumbles over himself to get the foreign words out.
“I think Shen is looking for a karaoke partner,” you quip, nodding your head towards the doctor standing by the stage and flipping through the binder of song choices there.
The dim overhead lighting turns Jack’s silver curls a softer golden shade when he turns his head to follow your gaze. He grimaces instantly at the thought. “Yeah, absolutely not.”
“Why?” you laugh softly, with the thin straw dancing against your mouth. “You scared?”
“Yes,” the man answers without a second thought. “And I’ve been shot at before— Today, even— And somehow karaoke still feels more terrifying.”
Your eyes squint in his direction, glittering with something foreign. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t ya think?”
“Eh. Maybe a little.”
You scoff and slide into the bar stool beside him. “You don’t strike me as someone who embarrasses easily, Dr. Abbot.”
“That’s because you only know me at work,” he quips halfway into his beer, before licking the amber sheen from his mouth. “Where I am equal parts competent and mysterious.”
“Mysterious?” you repeat skeptically.
“Mm,” Jack nods with narrowed eyes and a faint smile twitching the corner of his lip. “Very tortured, you know? Very brooding.”
“Ah, yes…” you sigh with alcohol glittering on your lips like gloss. “The very brooding, tortured doctor who makes dinosaur noises to win over scared children in pedes.”
Jack pauses mid-sip, pale eyes narrowing. “Well, this is new…” he hums.
Your stomach flips at the way he’s looking at you. Heat crawls instantly up your neck. You feel very suddenly suffocated by the heavy cardigan on your shoulders. “…What is?”
“I don’t know,” he answers with a lazy shrug, though his heavy eyes dart once down your form and up again. You don’t realize, until then, that this is his first time seeing you in anything other than your dark black scrubs. “You… Flirting with me.”
You exhale a breathy laugh, if only to dispel the anxiety clawing at your chest. “Flirting? Is that what this is?”
“Hey— You’re the one who called me mysterious.”
“Actually, I was clarifying if you thought you were mysterious.”
“Still counts.”
“Does it?” you squint.
Jack smirks behind the lip of the beer bottle against his mouth. His adam’s apple bobs with a short sip before he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You know… For a while there, I thought you hated me… Considering you never talked to me unless you had to.”
“You work nights, Jack— I don’t talk to you because I see you for, maybe, twenty minutes out of my day,” you scoff, and don’t realize you’ve called him by his first name until his eyes glimmer with amusement. You turn away with a shake of your head as your face burns, bringing the straw back up to your mouth. “Though, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t consider it…”
“Oh, really?” Jack hums with raised brows. “What’s the verdict now, then, huh?”
You let your gaze drag over him deliberately as you ponder the question, biting at the straw between your teeth. You scan over his toned biceps, his lean stomach caged beneath his form-fitting tee, and his spread thighs that make your head spin, before meeting his eyes once more.
“Now,” you hum sweetly, “I think I’m starting to understand the appeal…”
Jack stares at you for a long moment before he lets out a low, disbelieving laugh. The lamplight shines in his greying curls as he shakes his head. “Yeah? And how does Robby feel about that?”
Your eyes harden in an instant.
Jack raises a free hand in surrender. “Hey, I’m just sayin’— He looks like he wants to put his fist through a wall any time another attending talks to you for more than thirty seconds.”
Your chest tightens unexpectedly. You swallow hard to fight the strangling feeling — of Robby, and of his laughter in the supply closet — as you shrug a lazy shoulder in response. You don’t bother to lift your cardigan when it slips softly down your arm.
“It’s casual,” you tell him.
Jack studies you for a long moment. The corner of his mouth curls into a slow half-smile, and you feel your heart stuttering behind your ribcage.
“Casual, huh?” he hums and brings his bottle back up to his mouth. “Interesting…”
Morning arrives slowly through the veiled curtains of the quiet bedroom, where pale golden light cuts softly over hardwood floors and rumpled sheets. You rouse gradually, cocooned beneath strangely heavy blankets that smell differently from your own back home — like unfamiliar detergent, cedarwood, and musky cologne.
For a blissful wink of a moment, you don’t remember where you are. Not until you stretch your tired limbs and brush a scruffy leg with your foot, anyway.
Your breath catches. Your heavy eyes snap open. Your body prickles with heat as flashes from the night before return to you at once — of the walk home from the bar, of Jack’s laugh against your throat, of his stubble scraping your skin, of the teasing murmur in his velvety voice as he told you to cum for him.
Your thighs clench together at the memory, while a lingering ache pulses pleasantly low in the pit of your stomach.
You lift your head from the pillow and inhale sharply through your nose as your eyes scan the foreign bedroom, which you had been too busy to do the night before.
There’s an expensive-looking record player in one corner, sat beside a crate of well-loved vinyls. There’s a bookshelf lining the far wall — cluttered with medical textbooks, old paperbacks, and framed photos from his military days. His camo bag, etched with his name, slouches by the entrance, and over the foot of the bed, you can see his prosthetic limb lying beside your shoes.
Other than that, it’s strikingly empty, with very little decoration on the wall or bedside tables. It makes sense, you figure, for a man who is working far more than he isn’t.
Your head turns in the opposite direction to find Jack sleeping soundly just beside you. The gentle rays of morning light brush over the canvas of his bare back, turning his freckles there a deeper shade of golden brown. He’s got one arm shoved beneath the pillow he folds into his cheek and the other lying loose across the mattress — from where your waist must’ve been before you slithered out from underneath it.
Your chest pinches at the sight of him. With pride, maybe, at having conquered him. And with a pang of white-hot guilt that twists when your mind inevitably drifts to Robby.
You slide out of bed, careful not to let the mattress give too much beneath your weight. You grimace when the fabric of your t-shirt twists uncomfortably around your form, only to find that you’re wearing Jack’s shirt, which had seemingly been given to you at some point last night. It falls over your thighs when you stand, bare feet padding as you gather your discarded clothes.
You bend down to drag your underwear back up your thighs and wince when your head throbs from last night’s cheap cocktails. With your dress and knit cardigan balled in your arm, you toe your shoes back on. Your breath hitches when the mattress shifts with a soft creak.
Jack squints when he raises his wild head. His mouth twitches when he finds you at the foot of the mattress. “Y’know…” he rasps, voice rough with sleep. “I’m at least grateful you’re not robbing me before sneaking out. That’s very courteous of you.”
“I’m not sneaking,” you scoff. “I just… didn’t want to wake you.”
The man inhales sharply as he twists onto his back, charcoal sheets tangling around his waist. You force yourself to look away from his lean stomach and the red claw marks you left on his scruffy chest when he stretches his toned arms above his head.
“That’s sweet,” he says with a wince. “But unfortunately, I wake up if somebody breathes wrong in the next room.”
You exhale a soft laugh.
Jack’s eyes soften around the edges at the sound of it. “You workin’ today?”
“Yep, in about…” Your eyes flit to the alarm clock on his nightstand. “Half an hour.”
“Brutal,” he scoffs.
“You’re fault.”
“Don’t say that like you didn’t have a good time,” he teases with narrowed eyes, then softens slightly when you turn away. You fumble with the stubborn back of your shoe, and his chest twists at your silence. “Do you… Do you regret it?”
“No,” you answer instantly.
“Good,” he hums, relaxing visibly once more into the sheets. “Me neither.”
Your stomach blooms with warmth. You shift awkwardly on your feet before him, even still. “So, uh… What— What now?”
“Well, feel free to use my shower, if you want—”
“I’m serious, Jack,” you insist gently, then add, more sheepishly. “But I will be using your shower, actually, thank you…”
Jack inhales deeply, considering. “Well,” he starts carefully, “I like you. Obviously.”
Your pulse rushes like a teenage girl.
“But,” he continues, as relief and disappointment tangle in your chest all at once. “I also know that neither of us is in the right spot for a relationship right now…”
“So… Casual?” you offer lightly, mouth lifted in a tired smile.
“Casual,” Jack agrees with a firm nod and glassy eyes.
You wear the night before all over, despite your desperate attempts to hide it.
Robby notices it the moment he sees you — how relaxed you are, how happy you seem to be. Whatever had been plaguing you before is now long gone, and that alone should be enough to comfort him. But still, he can’t shake the feeling that someone had gotten rid of all the aching for you — fucked it out of you the way only he could.
“You’re in a good mood today,” he observes while signing off on the chart you’d given him.
“Am I?” you hum.
“Yeah,” he nods, clicking his pen with his thumb. He glances at you over the top of his glasses before averting his gaze once more. “What’d you get up to last night, huh?”
“Nothing,” you shrug. “Other than watching Santos butcher Alanis Morrissette’s discography at karaoke… Maybe I just slept well.”
“You usually only do that at my place.”
Your brows furrow when he passes the clipboard back to you. “I’m sorry— Are you accusing me of something, Dr. Robby?”
His mouth opens to respond — to tell you that he can smell the foreign body wash on your skin, far muskier than the delicate sweet-vanilla he’s used to. But the automatic doors across the station swish open and shut before he can.
Jack enters with his camo pack slung over his shoulder and brings a cool evening breeze in with him. Robby can’t help but notice how your eyes find each other’s almost instantly, clicking like magnets and lingering together like there’s a secret that only the two of you know about. His stomach swirls with jealousy.
“Look alive, degenerates,” Jack announces in lieu of a greeting, then quiets slightly when he reaches your side. “What’d I miss?”
“I was just briefing Robby on last night at karaoke,” you answer with a polite smile. “And how I will never be able to listen to Alanis Morissette after Santos’ crimes last night—”
“Fuuuck you,” Trinity drags out from the desk beside you, still sluggish from the long day and the hangover that won’t seem to leave her.
“Don’t drag me into this,” Jack quips. “I took an oath as a physician to do no harm.”
You exhale a quiet laugh. The man’s eyes soften around the edges, as though pleased at having earned the sound, before walking off towards the locker room. He leaves a trail of musky cedarwood as he goes, and Robby’s heart drops when he finally places the scent — the one he’s been smelling on you all day.
The realization hit him like a truck.
His expression darkens instantly when he turns back to you.
“Supply closet,” he mutters lowly as he walks past you. “Now.”
Your stomach drops at his tone. He takes all the remaining breath from your lungs with him as he goes. Your chest stings accordingly — with a surge of pride at his jealousy, and with a pang of distant regret at his hurt. You follow behind him down the long hallway to the supply closet like a scolded child. He barely waits for the door to click shut behind him before rounding on you.
“You slept with him?” he shouts, eyes wide and wild.
You cross your arms tight over your chest, with your head tilted inquisitively to your shoulder. “Aren’t you the one who said I could see whoever I want?”
“Yeah, I meant random assholes at the bar,” he snaps. “Not my best fucking friend!”
An incredulous laugh sputters from your lips. “Oh, so now we have rules? What happened to just being casual, huh? If you can flirt with your coworkers, why can’t I?”
Robby’s dark eyes narrow as he takes a slow step towards you. You catch a faint upward flicker of his mouth as he asks, “So that’s why you did it, huh? You just wanted to piss me off?”
Your anger spikes instantly. You feel it prickling red-hot beneath your scrubs. Because he’s an arrogant asshole, maybe, or maybe because a distant part of you knows that he’s right.
“No, actually,” you tell him anyway. “Because not everything’s about you, Robby. I did it because Jack wanted me. Because he didn’t treat me like I was just another one of his dirty secrets—”
“Yeah, alright,” Robby scoffs a breathy laugh and turns away, running a pale hand through his chopped brown hair.
“Because being with him made me feel good—”
“I said alright!”
“Aw, what’s wrong, Robby?” you coo, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Does it bother you that somebody else wanted me?”
Robby exhales another one of his stupid laughs.
Your chest swells with a burning feeling that makes you feel like crying. “Why is it so hard to admit that you care about me?”
“I care about you! Of course, I fucking care about you!” he exclaims, red in the face. “Because I’ve spent months trying not to screw this up.”
“Oh, please,” you roll your eyes. “Says the man who practically shoved me into someone else’s bed.”
“Oh, don’t do that,” Robby squints.
“Do what?”
“Act like this is what I wanted—”
The words die in his throat when the silver knob to the closet door clicks suddenly behind him. The hinges open with a quiet squeak a second later. Your heads whip in sync to find Santos in the threshold, rubbing at her tired eyes as she steps into the room. She doesn’t realize the two of you are in there until the door shuts behind her again.
Her wide eyes dart back and forth between the two of you for a moment. “…Why does it feel like I just walked into a hostage situation?” she quips in a monotone.
“Now you know how I felt last night,” you joke back weakly.
She flips you off and walks further inside. Neither of you says a word as she retrieves a case of saline flushes and four-by-fours from the shelves. The plastic crinkles loudly in the silence.
“Please. Feel free to continue,” Santos deadpans as she leaves. “I definitely won’t be listening with my ear pressed against the door.”
The entrance shuts behind her with a dull click that sounds much louder in the quiet. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding as Robby pinches his nose between his thumb and forefinger. When he lifts his head against, his eyes zero in on you.
“We’ll finish this when we get home,” he tells you, firmly.
“Can’t tonight,” you shrug, lying through your teeth. “I have plans.”
“Yeah, not anymore, you don’t.”
Your stomach does a back flip at his words, at his very sudden act of dominance that makes you feel like melting into a puddle at his feet. And judging by the newfound glint in Robby’s dark eyes, he notices it, too.
to whoever requested papabear!PRICE there i have some:
papabear!PRICE who checks everything before going to bed. Are the lights off? Is the stove off? Is the backyard clean? Is the door locked? He stands for real 10 minutes on the front porch with his palms on his hips, observing all the houses on his left, right and across the street, squinting his eyes at every car passing by as if he will ever really check the license plate. You honestly find this habit of his pretty adorable. "You see any hostile, Captain?"
papabear!PRICE who is known at his girls' school. He's not the one who picks them up usually, but when he's on leave or has a day off (which happened like three times in his entire life), he's here, opening his arms to catch his daughters as they jump on his as on a walking monkey bar. Not that he minds though.
papabear!PRICE who cleared up some space at the backyard for a pool when you were pregnant with your second. So now, during the especially hot days, he gets to sit in his swim trunks on the back porch, soft sides that he gained with your delicious cooking slightly falling out of the rim. He's got that soft smile, watching his girls splashing water and laughing, and you can't help but wink at him, making him wink back.
papabear!PRICE who is always on nightmare duty when he's at home. When your eldest walked into your bedroom, all trembling lower lip and glossy eyes, he scooped her in his arms and walked back into her room. "But monster here!" "I doubt tha', sweet girl. He's gotta fight Daddy first, and yer Daddy can sure fight." She took the lesson and even started to shush her younger sister when she had bad dreams. But they both still prefer dad to come to them and reassure that nothing will ever hurt them.
Summary: Your husband smokes all the time. While he’s away you wonder what the appeal of it is. There’s only one way to find out right?
Warnings: 18+, Smoking, GN reader, reader is irritated as fuck… , Price is in his 50s, obvious communication issues, not proof read
WC: 588
John had a smoking habit. Everyone who ever knew him was aware of it.
It didn’t bother you much at first, you thought it never would. He would excuse himself to smoke a quick cigarette after dinner dates or when you’d sleepover at his flat. But two years into living with each other has changed that.
Every morning you’d wake up to that strong odor beside you. John smoking in bed. This morning he didn’t even bother to use the ash tray on the bedside table. There was a small pile of ash on the fancy comforter you took so much care of.
“God damn it John. My sheets..” Your voice was still groggy.
He turned to you as he non-chalantly let smoke go from between his lips. His large hand reached to pet your hair.
“Sorry love.” John took another drag of the cigarette.
It was the same thing when he got home from the base each day. Stepping through the door and lighting a cigarette before greeting you. During dinner he would have his meal with a large cigar in one hand, a fork in the other. You even started to find his cigarette butts in random areas of the house. The key tray by the door. Your shared closet. In some of your planters.
You didn't dare to express how you felt. John’s work was hard enough. He didn't need a spouse nagging at him at home.
Still, His smoking habit was really getting on your fucking nerves.
Your home was quiet for 2 months. This was the longest the house had been clean for since you guys moved in. John was on leave for work. He didn't tell you much but he did say he’d be home in no time.
The lingering smell of tobacco was long gone. Part of you missed it.
You missed your husband so much that went up to your bedroom to search through his bedside table. There you found a box, It was John's stash of cigars.
Curiosity took over.
The first drag you took made you cough hard. It felt like something was clawing at your throat. That feeling made you regret your decision of inhaling. But there it was. The familiar scent of your husband. After a few more puffs the cough subsided. Your skin was buzzing and your mouth was dry. The living room smelled like John again.
To your surprise it was actually enjoyable. Now you understand why John smoked so often.
The front door opened.
Loud footsteps approached from behind the couch you laid on.
“What the fuck are you doing.” A cigarette hung from his mouth.
“Smokin’...What the fuck are you doing?" Your tone was teasing.
Moonlight that seeped through the curtains allowed you to just barely see the expression on his face. Disappointment? Slowly, he reached for the marlboro black between his lips, putting it out on the ashtry nearby. Both of you maintained eyecontact. John didn't say anything else about what he walked in on.
He held you tighter than usual in bed that night.
You noticed a difference in the following days.
No more waking up to John smoking in bed. No more lighting up before greeting you after work. No more smoking at the dinner table while you both ate.
All the ashtrays in the house seemingly vanished without a trace. John didn't smell of tobacco anymore.
Thinking that his addiction rubbed off on you made him sick. John couldn't fathom the idea of you harming your body like that. He wanted the best for you, if that meant dropping a 30 year old habit then he would do it.
Chick note: I dont know if this counts as angst/comfort ?? This is super short because i’m working up the courage to write something big.. taking baby steps here!!!!!!!!
ᴛʜᴇ ᴘɪᴛᴛ, ᴘᴏꜱᴛ-ꜱᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ ᴛᴡᴏ. Robby never promised you anything, but you thought there was a deeper connection beneath the situationship. When he leaves for his sabbatical and breaks your heart, you choose to move on and quickly fall for Jack Abbot. But when Robby returns, rested, healing, and desperately in love with you, begging for a second chance, you find yourself split between two very different lovers, and you know you can't have both.
... Or can you?
Tags: Michael Robinavitch x Doctor!Reader, Jack Abbot x Doctor!Reader, Jack Abbot x Reader x Michael Robinavitch. why choose?? explicit sexual content. fingering, unprotected sex, protected sex, thigh riding. lots of smut. age gap. Trigger warning for Robby's mental health.
DISCLAIMER I didn't mean for this to be a two part mini-series, but this is already insanely long, soooooo.... yeah. pt. 2 coming soon ;) mostly unedited. 4.3k words. whoops.
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It takes a moment for the ripples to reach the entire Pitt.
Robby comes in like he always does: too fast on the motorcycle, no helmet, hair messy from his hands running through it. He's explosive in the way a grenade is when the pin is pulled, just before the release. Between Langdon's return (he still won't speak to you for turning him in), the new attending taking over for him, losing Louie, and the chaos of the holiday, you're barely keeping it together. It doesn't help that Robby's being so flippant about if he comes back, if he'll be careful. The words start to bleed, from casual, blink-and-you'll-miss-it, to downright scary.
You snap in the ambulance bay, after the ambulance clips his bike, and he finally loses it. After he all but screamed at Dana, moving her to tears. After an endless shift in the technical dark ages, barely hanging on to your sanity.
The conversation isn't calm, not after the worst words leave your lips. He gets defensive, like a dog backed into the corner. He's a dirty bomb, throwing shrapnel, sharp edges ready to cut. You're just caught in the crossfire.
Better you than Samira, than Santos. You can take a hit. You're tough.
But you're losing him, and it terrifies you. Discretion has been the bedrock of this little tryst of yours, except now it's all coming to a head. You're raising your voice, and you don't care. "What am I supposed to do, Michael? Sit around like a war widow collecting postcards? Hoping you might come back?"
"War widow? That's fucking dramatic—"
"You keep talking like you're going to kill yourself—"
"Don't be ridiculous."
"I'm scared for you, Robby." Your voice is thin, reedy almost, like it's about to break open. "Please just—"
"What do you want from me?" He grunts out your name like an accusation, without any warmth or affection. It's the first time you've ever heard it sound like that off his lips. "Huh? What do you want? Because you're acting like a clingy little girl."
You flinch. "Little girl, huh? And yet you slept with me anyway."
He barks out a mirthless laugh. "Little Miss Perfect. Doctorpedia, the genius. You think just because you're smart, you know everything? Just because I fucked you, I owe you something?"
Your lip trembles. You bite down hard enough to draw blood. "I... Just thought..."
"Well, you thought wrong, because the last time I checked, I didn't make you any promises," he spits. "This conversation is over. I am your boss, and you're out of line, and those charts need scanning."
He might as well have punched you in the gut. A tear slides down your cheek, but you don't break. You clench your jaw defiantly and salute him with a middle finger. "Yes, boss."
You crash back into the ER, collapsing in a chair with a stack of pages in front of you, the screen where you've been dictating now blurry from unshed tears. You blink, swiping the tears away with your sleeve when another escapes.
"You good?" Santos asks, nudging you with her foot.
You nod. "I'm perfect."
"I need an extra set of hands in here!" Dr. Abbot's voice reverberates through the ER as an alarm beside a patient in Trauma One starts to scream. You make a break for it, eager to distract yourself with work.
And you run the procedure flawlessly. Your execution, your pace, your technique. You narrate what you're doing before Abbot can ask, and by the end of it, your hands are shaking. But it's not from adrenaline, it's from the grief and love festering inside you, about to split you open. You live a life guided by rules and missed the biggest one of all: don't fall in love with your boss.
Too bad you did just that.
"Maybe you should scrub into the OR," Robby suggests, his voice cold. It's an indirect order to get out of his sight, out of his ER. You have a background in surgery. Trauma surgery, pediatric specialty. He doesn't want you in an OR for your skills, though. He wants to remind you he's in charge, and the final nail in the coffin of your relationship has been hammered in.
"No, we need her down here," says Abbot.
Robby scoffs. "Whatever, man."
He gets called away by Dr. Al-Hashimi, and you breathe a sigh of relief. The breath comes out shaky, almost broken.
"You did good, kid." Abbot clasps your shoulder, meeting your eyes. "You okay?"
"Long day," you reply. You give him a watery smile.
He sighs. "He doesn't mean it."
"He does, though," you say.
You wonder if he knows about you, how close you and Robby actually are. Jack is Robby's best friend, his emergency contact. He's also smart enough to see when something is going on, and you and Robby, however subtle you try to be, don't slip past him unnoticed.
"Hey," Jack murmurs, a little softer. "I'll talk to him, okay?"
You shrug. "It's okay."
"It's not," he says. "But he'll come around, okay?"
"I'm sorry for bringing my personal crap into work, Dr. Abbot." Your voice trembles with shame. "It won't happen again."
"Call me Jack," he tells you, so gentle it aches.
"Jack," you try again.
"Atta girl."
As much as Robby would like to pretend the boundaries of the arrangement have always been clear, it was him who broke the rules first.
The first time, it's an emotional disaster. All blurred lines, jagged edges that don't quite fit. You're doctors who don't know how to be clean. All you know is the chaos, the mess that drives you.
It's right after PittFest. You found him curled up in pedes, reciting a prayer to an unhearing god, tears in his eyes, breath shuddering like a broken door rattling on fragile hinges. You knelt down, finished the prayer for him, took his hand, helped him up, and never said a word about it.
Two days later, two shifts later, he catches you outside in the ambulance bay, smoking a cigarette.
He narrows his eyes at your smoke. "Those'll kill you."
"Dana gave it to me," you reply, like that justifies it. "I came in at three because they needed help. Pedes traumas. Three kids."
It's now almost ten o'clock at night. This fact doesn't escape his notice.
"The cigarette is waking me up enough to drive home," you add.
He shakes his head, snatching it out of your hand. Without preamble, he drops it to the ground and stamps it out.
"Hey!"
"What kind of doctor would I be if I let you drive home like this?" he asks. "No way in hell. Give me your keys."
"No!" you exclaim.
"I'll drive you home. Uber back. Give me your keys," he says again, more firmly. "You're not safe behind the wheel after nineteen fuckin' hours. I mean, Jesus, do you even sleep?"
"Occasionally," you answer briskly.
"Keys." He adds your name, a little softer. "Please."
You reluctantly hand them over, and he walks you to the passenger side of your own damn car, helping you into it with a hand between your shoulder blades. You want to snap at him, tell him he's being ridiculous, but the words catch in your throat. All your life, you've been caring for everyone else. Now, suddenly, you're at a loss. The compassion you never afford yourself is coming from your attending. Your rock-solid attending, who's too old for you to crush on, and yet you want him anyway.
Music plays softly as he drives you home, following your directions. The only time you speak is to tell him to turn. When he pulls into the parking garage under your apartment complex, you're almost sad he'll have to go.
"Want to wait for your Uber upstairs?" you ask, trying to prolong the night. To avoid the goodbye a second or two longer.
He pauses, and your face pinches scarlet with embarrassment. What were you thinking? What are you doing?
"Sure," he says, nodding. "I can do that."
He follows you to the third floor, where your tiny unit sits. Your hands shake when you unlock the door: a catastrophic mix of low blood sugar, exhaustion, and nerves. You haven't had a man in your apartment before, not since you moved to Pittsburgh when your last relationship crashed and burned back in Seattle.
Your tiny one-bedroom is full of books, and your cat, Emily Brontë, or EB for short, rules over the domain. You've always loved Wuthering Heights. When you're not reading medical journals or studying surgical techniques, you read classics for fun. You double-majored in undergrad, pre-med and comparative literature, which is why you named EB after a writer.
EB approaches Robby instantly, rubbing along his shins. He scratches her behind the ears, and she poises her paws on his knee, all but climbing his leg. He takes the cue to pick her up, holding her against his chest and petting her with a chuckle. "And who is this pretty girl?"
"EB," you answer.
"EB? As in Phoebe?" he asks, drawing out the sounds with obvious confusion.
"As in Emily Brontë."
"Most people name their cats Mittens or something."
"Does she look like a Mittens?" As if on cue, she narrows her eyes before hopping down and skittering away. "She doesn't normally like strangers."
"I'm honored, then." He glances around.
"Sorry about the mess," you say quickly. "You want coffee or something? I have leftover pizza."
He shrugs. "I'm not really all that hungry."
"Hasn't hit you yet. I doubt you've taken a break all day."
"Pot-kettle," he retorts.
"I'll eat if you do," you offer.
Robby's laugh lines crinkle when he smiles a little deeper. "How could I say no to that?"
So, that's how you wind up watching Jeopardy! on the couch, folded next to him munching on cold pizza. You answer nearly all of the questions quietly, and he raises an eyebrow.
"I should take you out for some bar trivia. You'd win the pot," Robby says casually. His arm is stretched across the back of the loveseat, fingers brushing the curve of your shoulder when you lean back.
Take you out whirls around in your head, tilting until it doesn't seem like English anymore. "I'd like that," you say, a bit shy.
He leans in a little, his touch ghosting across your cheek. "I..."
You kiss him.
He's surprised for a moment, but before you can pull away and apologize, embarrassed, certain you read the moment wrong, he grabs your chin and whispers, "Where are you going, honey?" against your mouth. When he kisses you again, it's hard, certain. Consuming.
He hauls you onto his lap, knocking your glasses off your face. His tongue is in your mouth, and the space between your bodies is almost non-existent. You can feel his cock beneath his scrubs, hardening slowly, and grind your hips against him, seeking relief.
He groans, and you whimper as his deft fingers reach under your scrub top and unhook your bra with one hand. Your brain shuts down, then reboots, and his beard scratches against your neck as he sucks a little mark into your collarbone.
He unties your pants, lifting you just enough to fit his hand down the front of them, and when he finds your cotton panties sticky with need, he groans. "That all for me?" he asks. "Fuck, sweetheart."
He rubs your sensitive nub gently with his thumb, teasing you over the fabric, and you whimper, chasing his touch. When you think you're about to go insane, he pulls the fabric to the side and curls two fingers inside your aching hole. You try to say his name, but all that comes out is a desperate, needy sound as he pumps his thick digits in and out of your cunt, hitting every delicate, perfect spot to undo you. You're tightening around him, a fluttery, floaty feeling pulling you out of your skin, and then you come, hard.
Robby coaches you through it. "That's it. That's my girl."
He teases your clit a few seconds longer before he pulls his fingers out of you, now slick with your release. Even though you're sensitive and working through the aftershocks, you want more. You want him.
He lifts his fingers to his mouth, and you watch him suck the taste of you like it's sweet nectar.
Yeah, you need him inside of you. Now.
If you can take it. Because the hard length of him pressing into your thigh is daunting. Long and thick. He twitches as you slide your hands under his shirt, skimming the soft skin of his tummy.
"My bedroom is down the hall," you say.
"Yes, ma'am," he replies. He scoops you up, like you weigh nothing at all, and he carries you into your bedroom before dropping you on the bed. EB, annoyed at you for waking her, trots out of the room, and Robby kicks the door shut before he's on you again.
You rip off your shirt, letting your unclasped bra hit the carpet. He pulls his over his head, the golden Star of David on the chain resting against his broad chest. He works off his pants, then yours. And then he whistles at the sight of your tits before taking one of your nipples between his teeth and tugging just so. He spreads your knees as he worships your breasts, and you palm him over his boxers, whining sweet nothings and pleas for more.
"I don't have—"
"I'm clean. IUD. Robby, please—"
He groans. "Are you sure?"
You yank his boxers down as his answer. He hisses out a breath, rubbing his shaft through the slick folds of your pussy. When the thick head of him catches on your clit, you whine. You feel better than you ever have in your life. It's never been like this, so perfect. He knows exactly how to touch you, with all the confidence of a man who's been having sex since before you were born. It should be daunting, but it isn't.
Finally, he slides the first inch in. Just the thick tip to start, just enough to start spreading you. It's not enough, the delicious pressure of him, so you hook your heels around his hips and pull him in. He slips all the way inside of you in one thrust, like his self-control has fallen out the window. As he crashes into you, buried all the way to your cervix, balls slapping against your ass with each thrust, you kiss him sloppily, desperately.
He lasts a long time, too. Enough time to make you come two more times with his cock, and when he finally paints your plush walls white with ropes of his cum, you're too blissed out and fucked stupid to realize the gravity of what you've done.
You left Seattle, running from an ill-fated relationship with another surgeon, and now, your fresh start is ruined by the same mistake. Worse, even, given his position as the head of the department.
The problem is, you can't be bothered to care.
He cleans you up and then holds you until you fall asleep. But the rules of the game are set when your eyes open, only to find EB in your bed and cold sheets where he used to lie.
At first, it's easy. Infrequent sexual encounters where neither of you talks about what it means. You keep it casual, simple. Scratching an itch. It starts to bleed into work when it happens once in the on-call room, another time in your backseat in the parking lot. Then, it becomes sleepovers, shower sex, and morning orgasms when he eats his breakfast between your thighs.
He takes you to the biker bar for trivia, and doesn't correct Duke when he refers to you as Robby's girl. Like you belong to him permanently, and aren't just a borrowed thing. You don't realize you're falling in love with him because it's something that just happens so easily, so gradually, it's practically a law of physics, like gravity.
You know the score. At least, you should. That doesn't stop you from loving him, from smiling at your phone when he texts, or when he calls at night because he can't sleep.
Then, slowly, he starts to pull away. Until he's not even with you during sex, not mentally, and then the phone calls stop, the shifts become rigid, uncertain dances, and he stops looking at you from across the room.
You find out Robby's going away on a sabbatical for three months from Dr. Abbot, when he announces it to the night shift one evening you're working late, after Ellis asks you to cover for her. You call, and he doesn't answer. Your texts are left on read.
Just when you're all but begging him to talk to you, he starts lashing out, and then all you do on shift is argue. It's unprofessional, it's messy. It's heart break in slow motion. An unavoidable collision.
You're not surprised when the final fight plays out the way it does. You just wish the fact that you saw it coming made it any easier to stomach. And somehow, after he shatters your soul, you catch sight of him swaddling baby Jane Doe, holding her so tenderly it makes you wonder how he lost that gentleness for you.
You cry the whole way home.
You switch to nights to accommodate the schedule changes. Shen moves to days, and slowly, the ED finds its rhythm again. You live off the crumbs of information Jack gives Dana during hand-offs, pretending not to be eavesdropping.
You shouldn't care where Robby is, or what he's doing. But you do.
Meanwhile, you end up thriving on the night shift. Something about the other doctors and nurses makes you feel appreciated, like a working cog in a machine. Patient satisfaction and morale are up, and Gloria is floating the idea of tenure to you when you return to day shift. Turns out, you're a great mentor, and Jack is there, telling you how well you're doing, how much the team values you.
He doesn't make a move until your last night shift, when everyone throws you a little party with donuts and your favorite coffee. You pretend to be annoyed, acting like it's not a big deal, just a shift change, not death, but you accept all the hugs they give you.
Jack's lasts the longest of all.
And after, when the shift is over, he glances at you across the ambulance bay and says, "You wanna get breakfast?"
"Oh, I wasn't planning on going anywhere. I mean, I'm a mess."
"You're beautiful," he tells you. "So breakfast? It's a low stakes date."
"You're asking me out?"
He leans over into the rose bush, plucking one stem, careful around the thorns. Then he passes it to you, like an offering. "Romantic enough for you, yet?"
You nod, your face lighting up like the golden hour sun. He grins, kisses the top of your head, and the two of you walk to the diner together, hand in hand.
Unsurprisingly, Jack Abbot is a gentleman. One date becomes two, becomes three, and it never goes past kissing. He doesn't push for more or ask, and if you're honest with yourself, you want more. Want him.
His resolve finally breaks when date number four rolls around. He cooks for you, and you wind up making out in the kitchen, wine glasses forgotten. Your legs are wrapped around his waist, ass pressing against the cold countertop. His hand is in your hair, his cock straining against his jeans as you grind against him.
"Jack," you plead. "Jack, please."
"Are you sure?" he asks.
You nod.
He carries you to his bedroom, but you can see the way his bad leg is dragging. Long hours on the prosthetic are hard on him, and even when he's taking it easy at home, he pushes too hard. You guide him down to the bed, peeling away his jeans. His cock is tenting the fabric of his boxer briefs, and you're nervous. He's girthy, thicker all the way around than anyone else you've been with. Where Robby's long, Jack is beefy. You try not to compare them as you mouth the tip of his length, then slowly, take off his prosthetic.
You gently massage the stump, and he yanks you up to kiss him. His hands yank your t-shirt over your head, and when he catches sight of your thin, lacy bralette, he lets out an unbridled moan. "Fuck, baby. Look at you."
You blush. He slides the strap of your bra down, the cup pooling around your ribs. His mouth closes around your nipple, and you whimper, grinding against the hard ridge of his cock. Your panties are soaked, and your leggings, however thin, are still too much fabric between you. You moan his name, a breathy gasp, and he pulls you down hard over his thigh.
"Show me how bad you want it," he orders. "Use me."
And oh, do you. You grind against him, trembling as you drag your clit across his hardness. The pressure from the ridges of his cock are just enough to make your head spin. Your wetness, sticky and coating your lacy panties, grows with each thrust of your hips to meet his. You come undone with his name in your mouth, and when you finally can't take anymore, he flips you over, puts you on your back, and tugs your panties and leggings off in one move. He makes short work of your bra too, sucking your nipples into hard, wet peaks.
Then, without preamble, he kneels. He hauls you forward, wrapping your thighs around his head, and then his mouth is on your clit before you can process the fact you're naked in front of Jack Abbot, and he's looking at you like you're the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
When your eyes flutter shut, he pinches your nipple, raising his brows. Whatever he says as he laps at your folds is muffled, but it almost sounds like eyes on me. You whimper, but obey him, digging your hands in his salt and pepper curls for leverage. You're grinding against his stubbled chin, his lips applying the perfect pressure to your sensitive bundle of nerves. Then, just when you're almost there, he pushes a finger inside you and curls it just so.
This time, you come with a rush of liquid too. Under any other circumstances, you'd be embarrassed, since squirting rarely happens for you, but Jack laps it all up greedily.
"Gonna make you do that again," he decides, and when he kisses you, you taste it on his tongue.
"I need to ride you," you tell him.
He nods. "Fuck, baby, I wouldn't have you any other way."
He reaches into the nightstand for a condom, opening it with his teeth. You help him roll it down on his cock, feeling your hands around him properly. His size is daunting, but you need him too badly to slow down now.
Jack sits propped against his headboard, pupils blown, hazel eyes wild with want. He nibbles your bottom lip, dragging it between his teeth as he devours you with his tongue. Hands on your hips, he holds you over him, sliding his cock through your slick folds.
You lower yourself down slowly, one inch at a time. When he's fully seated inside you, he's deep enough to kiss your cervix, and your belly is bulging with each movement as he slides home. You drop up and down on his cock, slowly at first, and then harder. Your tits bounce as you ride him, and your mind is blank, wiped clean. All you can think about is Jack, about how this feels, and then you can't think of anything at all.
When you come again, he follows behind you, cursing under his breath as he spills hot ropes of his seed into the condom. You're overwhelmed with sensations, but above all else, you feel loved.
And you feel it for him too.
Which terrifies you.
Because you love Robby, too.
After, Jack just holds you. Arms wrapped around you, his shirt on your body, borrowed boxers on your hips.
You wait until his breaths even out to let yourself cry silently into the pillow. Happy tears, sad ones, everything all at once.
When you wake up the next morning, he's still there. He even makes you breakfast and coffee the way you like it.
After that, you're officially Jack's.
It's a rainy October day, just around the corner from Halloween, when Robby comes back to PTMC.
You and Jack are coming off the night shift, one fraught with stomach pumps and drunk drivers. Halloweekend came early, and the Pitt never rests. He comes through the door without ceremony, his bag slung over his shoulder, badge pinned to his scrubs.
"Robby!" Dana says, beaming. "As I live and breathe."
Robby hugs her first, and then Jack. Immediately, Santos and Whittaker offer him handshakes, and even Dr. Al-Hashimi seems pleased to see him. You idle by the nurse's station, unsure of what to do.
You left things on a bad note. More than a bad note. After the fight, the sex, the history, you know there's a fifty-fifty shot this blows up in your face. And yet, naive hope keeps you hesitant. You don't run, rocking forward on your heels and bracing yourself for impending disaster.
Jack slides a hand around your waist, hand falling against your hip as his lips press into your hair. The claim, staked.
Robby's eyes shift between you, hurt flickering in them.
"You're here," you whisper.
He nods. "And you're..."
"Lot's changed since you left, brother," Jack cuts in. "Good to have you back."
The understanding hits Robby, tearing his heart—and yours—into pieces. For reasons you don't quite understand, it's hit you like a freight train. A sucker punch to the guts.
When you and Jack finally leave the ER, it takes everything in you not to look back.
But just because you don't look doesn't mean it's over.
This idea randomly possessed me today, and now I'm stuck on it. Anyway, if you like what you read, feel free to buy me a cup of joe (hehehe)
summary: You were meant to be on vacation with your boyfriend, but instead you were there alone, where you meet the man across the hall from your hotel room, Michael, drinking alone in the hotel lobby.
Months later, you're admitted to the ER at the Pitt.
warnings/content: angst, fertility issues, Reader has endometriosis, some descriptions of blood, explicit casual-not-so-casual vacation sex, oral (f and m receiving), light praise kink, caretaking, hurt/comfort, accidental pregnancy
a/n: don't even get me startedddddddddddd!!! it's super fitting that March is also Endometriosis Awareness Month. I just have so many feelings. I hope you like this!!!! divider by me; unbeta-d and poorly proofread
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
Although, the location seemed perfect. Pristine beaches, the clearest water you'd ever seen. The friendliest greeters when you arrived at the hotel placing leis around your neck. Everyone seemed to smile and absorb all those good feelings. There was literal laughter in the air.
It was all that you planned it to be, except you weren't alone when you first talked about coming to Hawaii. All that vacation time you saved up together, and then your life went to shit.
That was a month ago. You debated for weeks about cancelling everything, since your partner cancelled your life together - but then over time you felt like it was worse to be sitting around at home feeling sorry for yourself instead of being here anyway.
You could grieve your old life here instead, where everything looked like a scene on a postcard.
You went to your hotel room, opened up your suitcase and fished out your first swimsuit. It was a low cut one-piece that hugged your body. You wrapped a sarong around your middle and swapped your sneakers for flip-flops and walked down to the beach with your towel and a book.
You'd been doing the same thing at home, except instead of the ocean you'd had your messy apartment surrounding you. If this was all you did for the rest of the day, fine.
You fell asleep in one of the sunbeds in the long line covered with umbrellas on the shore, only to be awoken by the shrieks of a young family whose children tore down to the beach with their gear. The father gave you a sheepish look as you stared after them, picking up your book from the spot it fell beside you.
Sand was already in it, great. And you managed to lose your spot. You couldn’t be upset at the kids, though. They were in literal paradise. You probably should have stayed home…
You trudged back to your room to shower. As you got out your key, elevator doors shutting behind you, you spotted a man whose back was to you opening the room opposite yours in the hallway.
You ducked into your room without a word, not before having brief, awkward eye contact with him. He was older than you, but handsome all the more for it. His brows hiked ever so slightly as you disappeared, and you hoped he wasn’t offended.
You weren’t in the mood to talk just yet.
-
Hours later, you couldn’t sleep. You ordered room service instead of attending the lūʻau, hoping that by tomorrow you would have the courage to show your face to random strangers.
Now, with the blankets twisting around you each time you moved, there was no way you were getting to sleep anytime soon.
You took a deep breath and left your bed, throwing your cardigan over your sleep clothes. Heading downstairs, you could hear there were still a few people around, but it was nothing like earlier that evening.
No-one was at the bar, save the guy behind it, and another figure nursing a beer. You recognized him immediately as your neighbor from across the hall, and sat nearby him, an empty stool between you.
As you waited, you scanned the wide dining area behind you. There was one other man at the far wall, staring into his phone with a large whiskey by his elbow.
“What would you like, ma’am?”
The bartender approached with a wide smile, unbothered by the hour.
“Uh… vodka soda, please.”
“Of course,” he said, and departed.
You felt watched and looked at your neighbor.
“I’m not interrupting?” you asked, and he shook his head.
“Stay.”
You told him your name and offered your hand.
“I think we’re on the same floor,” you added, and he shook your hand.
“Yeah. I’m Michael.”
You nodded, taking a short sip of your drink when it arrived a beat later. You remembered your clothes. Michael was wearing shorts and a t-shirt.
“I… can’t sleep.”
“Sorry to hear it,” he said. “You’re here by yourself? Where’re you from?”
You nodded. “Pittsburgh.”
He burst into a real smile and you felt your face flush. He was very, very handsome. Never mind your first impression. He was cute as hell.
“Me, too.”
“Oh, no shit?” you said, and he laughed. “What are the odds?”
You talked a bit about the journey there, and Michael said he’d got there yesterday. He was on a long vacation, nothing fixed.
You snorted. “Jesus. Mine was nothing but planned. So much of it went to shit already-”
It was like you couldn’t help yourself, cringing. You hadn’t meant to already get into it, but it was bound to come up, why you were alone.
“I mean, I had these big plans but the person I was supposed to come with decided not to in the end.”
“Sorry, again,” Michael said, taking a swig of beer.
You shook your head. “Don’t be. Turns out he wasn’t the guy I thought he was.”
Michael went quiet for a second, tilting his head, narrowing his eyes. “Was this… a break-up?”
“Yeah,” you sighed.
There was a pause and you added quickly:
“Not that I’m losing sleep over him! I’m way past that. I just… had these plans…”
You should have already been drinking long ago if you were going to bring this up with a complete stranger, but fuck it. You were on vacation, things were different. This wasn’t like being at your local dive, or telling people you work with.
“I had a laparoscopy,” you said. “It’s when-”
“Do you have endometriosis?” he asked.
“How did you know that?”
“I’m a doctor,” he said.
You looked away, suddenly very aware of him looking straight at you. You wondered what else he knew about you, even if it was just by looking at you.
“I wanted to start IVF, after this trip,” you went on. “This was meant to be our last big one before - hopefully - a baby.”
It wasn’t like you, to disclose so much. You didn’t feel judged, though you could sense the cogs were turning when you looked back at him.
“Must be something about you, for me to get so personal so fast,” you mumbled. “And I guess that happens a lot, when people find out you’re a doctor. But I’m guessing you’re not a psychiatrist?”
He shook his head, with an almost sad kind of smile. “Emergency.”
“So you work in a hospital?” you asked, and he nodded.
“Yeah.”
The silence between you that followed felt less strange, somehow. You didn’t want to avoid him like you had before, at least.
“I really am sorry if I gatecrashed your downtime,” you said, and he shook his head, draining his beer.
“Nah, I couldn’t sleep, either.”
He got up and you considered doing the same, but left your glass instead of finishing it.
“You wanna go for a walk?”
You thought about it, and then wondered why it mattered. It didn’t hurt. You nodded, rising from your seat. You gathered your cardigan around yourself and walked out, down the short footpath to the beach.
Tiki torches still burned, lining the sand well enough to see his face in the halflight. The moonlight did the rest. The tide came and went in a steady rhythm, the night otherwise blissfully quiet.
“It’s so… peaceful out here,” you murmured, and Michael nodded.
It was romantic. It was supposed to be, that’s why you chose to take your ex here. If he hadn’t run away from you, you’d be rolling around in the sand together, trying to make a baby. The regret crested over you again and you sighed, moving on, not waiting.
“Has the treatment been… effective?” he asked, and you glanced his way, for a moment too lost in your thoughts to understand.
Oftentimes, when someone learned you had endometriosis, their response was pitying, or worse, falsely trying to relate to your emotional and physical agonies. No, it wasn’t like ordinary period pain. Yes, it had derailed work and school, it had made life harder in a lot of ways.
Yes, you hoped to have children. Past tense - hoped. You didn’t know anymore. It meant doing it alone, if you were doing it now.
“I thought you were supposed to be on vacation,” you retorted, folding your arms.
He copied you, and you could make out a smirk on his face.
“I’ll send you the bill.”
Your welcomed laughter followed, before you rolled your eyes. “I guess it has been. Symptoms aren’t as bad. For now.”
There wasn’t a cure. You just had to wait it out, hope that each cycle didn’t render you bedridden like usual.
“That’s good to hear,” he said. “Sorry, that’s personal…”
“Hey, I’m the one who told you,” you said, shrugging. You glanced towards the water. “Jesus.”
You sidestepped the tide as it came rushing in, faster than you expected. Michael did the same, but he’d been paying attention, guiding you back with a hand that hovered the small of your back. He wasn’t quite touching, but you felt that spark of sudden proximity.
You kept walking in silence, a little further away from the shore.
“How long were you planning on staying here?” you asked, and he shook his head.
“I’m undecided,” he said.
“Is that why you can’t sleep?” you asked.
You may as well try more honesty with him. He knew what felt like too much already. You looked at one another.
“It’s probably related.”
You smirked back at him, then suppressed a sudden yawn. It was probably time to head back. Michael nodded toward the hotel and you walked back together. The elevator ride was silent, too. You went to your door, and then glanced back his way, shoving the keycard in.
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” he echoed softly.
Something about that made you feel warm inside.
-
You approached him the next afternoon, among a group of other tourists waiting on the pier. You couldn’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses but he smiled back at you.
“Hey, I know you,” you said, face shielding your eyes.
You hadn’t seen him all morning, though admittedly you’d hoped to. You slept okay once you got back to bed, and spent the beginning of the day looking for him at breakfast before you went back to your room to laze around.
This afternoon trip was booked well in advance. It was supposed to be a late lunch on the ocean, with a tour guide included. A few families, couples and a bachelorette party gathered to board the yacht.
You and Michael stood together like two kids pairing up on a field trip.
“I can’t get over how clear the water is out here,” he said, and you beamed.
“I know, right?”
You hadn’t expected him here. In fact, neither of you had said anything about what you planned to do while in Hawaii. You packed too much, as you were prone to, so you were glad to have brought at least a couple nice dresses and skirts.
Today’s outfit was brand new, tags popped off that morning. Linen dress that cinched at the waist with a broad sun hat.
Michael’s Birkenstocks looked well-worn, his shorts were the same from yesterday. He wore a navy polo shirt that hid little of his broad frame. His… bulk attracted you. You wanted to stare at his forearms but tried not to. He was fun to look at, but he was a person, too.
Also, you’d just gone through a breakup.
You put on your sunglasses and ascended with the others, Michael behind you. He stayed by your side as the tour guide from the hotel began his introduction, and then everyone took a seat as the yacht began to move away from the dock.
“This is insane,” you murmured.
For the next half an hour, you listened with Michael beside you as the tour went on. Describing the flora and fauna of the islands, you wish you could see it for yourself, not have someone only describe it to you.
There was a loud gurgle and you looked at Michael.
“Was that your stomach?”
“...yes,” he whispered.
You covered your mouth with your hand, pressing your lips together for good measure. As the trip went on, you too felt hunger begin to pull your focus.
When they finally docked on the other side of the island, wait staff approached with heaping trays of fresh fruit and seafood. There were collective sighs of relief all around.
“Get in there,” Michael encouraged, and you laughed openly, tucking in.
-
“Did that feel… weird to you?” you asked, twirling your hat absently.
You walked back up to the hotel with Michael, and he nodded.
“Yeah, it felt… commercial,” he muttered. “Inauthentic.”
“Not a waste of money, though, surely?”
“I’m not your accountant.”
“I’m just saying - I don’t totally regret it,” you retorted. “It wasn’t what I expected, though.”
His sunglasses were tucked into his neckline, his arms bearing a healthy glow from the sun. You looked at his skin when he kept the elevator door open for you, allowing you in beside him.
He pressed the button for your floor.
“It’s not gonna help my Yelp review, I’ll tell you that much...”
You smiled again, looking away. “Obviously.”
It felt so good to be on the same page. It was different to what you were used to. With your ex, it never felt like you were truly in sync. It was your downfall, in the end. All the time you were together it felt like you’d manage to get over that eventually.
“Are you gonna grab some dinner downstairs later?” he asked, and you met his gaze.
He wasn’t saying that just to make conversation. You believed that with how he was looking at you now, although maybe you weren’t the best judge of character when it came to men.
“Yeah, maybe after a nap,” you said.
“Sounds good,” he said.
“Were you… were you hoping to see me?” you asked.
“Sure.”
He made it sound so simple. Why wouldn’t he hope to see you? Your face flushed and you looked away.
“Okay, cool,” you said.
“Okay, I’ll see you after,” he said.
He let you out first, and you felt butterflies in your stomach for the first time in years. You smiled shyly and walked away to your door, letting yourself in before you embarrassed yourself.
-
Something shifted inside you and wanted to enjoy yourself for the sake of it. You showered, after you didn’t nap - your brain kept thinking about Michael and his warm eyes peering at you - and dressed in one of your sundresses.
You found him at the bar and he nodded towards the dining area, where the host led you to a table overlooking the beach outside. Handed a menu, you peruse, unsure of where to begin.
Michael ordered beer, looking your way.
“I’ll get a cocktail,” you beamed. “Sex on the beach.”
If it landed anywhere, you tried not to read it too much on his face as you were left alone. He hadn’t said this was a date - but he hadn’t said it wasn’t either.
Conversation came easily, like you’d never stopped talking earlier.
“What’s it like being an ER doctor?” you asked, as you picked up some bread from the basket between you.
You offered it to him and he took a piece, breaking it in half on his plate.
“Chaotic,” he said. “Sometimes heartbreaking.”
“I can’t imagine how challenging it is,” you said, chewing. “I would never stay calm.”
“It’s not easy.”
You felt like he was skirting around the reality he faced, and your brows furrowed.
“I feel like you’re trying to not sound as impressive as you are.”
He laughed at that, passing a hand over his face wearily.
“I mean…”
“You’d constantly have to be flexible, right? No day is the same, you deal with anything and everyone…”
“Yeah,” he said. “But someone has to.”
You swallowed. The waiter returned with your drinks, and you took yours with a brief smile of acknowledgment. You took a sip, and put the towering glass aside, picking out a piece of pineapple stuck to its rim.
“So why you, then? Why not do something other than emergency healthcare?”
You shoved the fruit in your mouth, watching him. He drank from his glass of beer as you asked this. He sighed.
“I don’t… want to. But I probably should.”
You appreciated his honesty. You sucked the juice from your thumb, nodding. The silence felt taut with more questions, from both sides of the table.
“Why’d you break up with your ex?” he asked.
You smiled bitterly. “He didn’t want to have babies with me.”
The heaviness of your conversation only just hit you. You were both alone here, out of choice, but now you’d decided to create this bond, however fleeting it may be.
“I’m sorry,” he added.
“You didn’t upset me,” you said, because he hadn’t. “It’s the truth. He left me. I thought he wanted to have kids. We talked about it enough.”
You sighed, not unlike him.
“We started dating just before lockdown, and then we moved in together pretty fast. I was already diagnosed with endo then - and whenever we talked about the future it felt like hypotheticals. I mean, the world had fallen apart, and we weren’t going anywhere. We were forced to know one another really well. And we did, I thought. I thought we were close.”
You rolled your eyes at yourself, at how wrong you were.
“I think maybe he thought I’d never be serious about it, because I knew it would be hard to conceive, but then I started cutting back on drinking-”
You glanced at your drink briefly and gave a short laugh.
“I was trying to get my body healthy for trying, and I finally had my surgery…”
“And he flaked,” Michael said, not unkindly.
“Yeah,” you said. “And I feel like an idiot that I spent all this time with him, and I never really knew him. I think he meant more to me than I ever did to him.”
You picked up your drink again to stop talking, to stop yourself from becoming too sad again. You were only repeating the same thoughts you’d had for weeks.
“He’s an idiot,” Michael said, and you met his gaze. “He should have known sooner, anyway. Let you down better.”
You rolled your eyes again, trying not to notice how his eyes bore into you. Your skin began to feel hot.
Mercifully, the night’s entertainment began. Dancers twirling flames drew all attention away from your sad life, and with it your perspective. You were here, and not at home feeling sorry for yourself.
The night was warm, beautiful. The scenery and culture was spectacular, and this man was sitting with you out of choice. Things could be a thousand times worse. You were lucky.
“Hey, if anyone gets hurt, at least I know where to find a doctor,” you said, clapping with the rest of the dinner crowd.
Michael’s eyes were bright with mirth.
Some time later, full of good food, carrying your purse under your arm, your shoes in one hand and a water glass in your other, you and Michael walked along the beach together once more.
“Do you have kids?” you asked, and Michael took a second to reply.
“I had a stepson, sort of,” he said. “I haven’t seen him in a while.”
He didn’t explain, but added:
“Answer’s no.”
“Do you want them?” you asked. “I mean, did you ever?”
“Sometimes,” he said. “Other times…”
Again, he didn’t elaborate, his words hanging there. You decided to fill the silence.
“I guess I always wanted to try, to… y’know, give it a shot. Try to fight my infertility.”
He nodded, wincing. “I guess it would be hard if I was working like I do.”
“People make it work.”
“Sorry, I guess I’m just naturally morbid from time to time,” he said.
The sand was oddly comforting as you strolled, the sounds of life around you mere background noise. You drew in a breath, deciding to be your most direct.
“You weren’t just being nice, about my ex being a moron?” you asked.
His brows hiked. “No.”
“It can be hard for guys to be with-”
“With women with chronic illnesses?” he cut in.
You glanced towards the sea, the darkness beyond.
“Yeah, I guess that makes him sound like an asshole.” You sighed. “I’m going to stop mentioning him. I promise.”
Michael stopped, and you turned back, looking down at his hand he had poised beneath your nose.
“Pinky promise?”
You smirked, indulging him. You clasped his pinky with your own, shaking. For a beat too long, you noticed. He pulled away first, only to step closer to you, watching your face.
The heat between you was undeniable. He lifted his hand once again, thumb and forefinger catching your chin.
“Walk you back?”
“Sure,” you said, heart hammering.
-
It took a little while to fall asleep, since he was a gentleman and did as he said - walked you back to your room and then said goodnight.
No kiss, not even a hug. You simply parted ways and then you throbbed for hours after, feeling like you should have just gone for it. Unless somehow you were misreading it.
Those thoughts were pushed aside the second your landline rang beside you, around eight the next morning. You rolled over, confused, picking up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Hey, did I wake you?”
Michael’s voice early in the morning made a thrill stir in your guts, a smile already playing on your lips. He was all soft and friendly, and you felt like you could hear him smiling on the other end of the line, across the hallway.
“No. Who is this?”
“It’s the guy that’s gonna get you to see some real nature today, if you let him,” he replied.
You grinned, rolling onto your back. “What did you have in mind?”
“A hike, if you’re up for it.”
You knew you didn’t look your best when you were huffing and puffing up a hill.
“I’ll take it easy on you,” he added.
“Gee, thanks,” you muttered.
When were you ever going to do this again?
“Alright, fuck it.”
You agreed to meet one another in the lobby in half an hour and you hung up, leaping out of bed and into the shower.
You threw on some shorts and your new hat, tried to figure out a way to look both cute and not totally ridiculous, and then headed downstairs. You grabbed a banana from the breakfast buffet and a coffee and scoffed them down, before making your way to the lobby.
He was waiting for you, backpack over one shoulder.
“Don’t have one of those,” you said, gesturing.
“I can carry everything.”
“Where’re we going?” you asked, following him out the door and into the street.
“It’s a tourist trap, technically,” he said, and you punched the air. “But the biodiversity is up there, compared to yacht tours-”
“Man, that Yelp review just writes itself, huh?”
You suspected he could walk faster if he wanted to, but he was doing the nice thing and making sure you weren’t left behind. He offered you bottled water that you took, uncapping it as you climbed a footpath up a steep hill.
“There’s a cliff view,” he explained.
“That’s the reward?”
“No, the journey is the reward,” he said, and you snorted. “Yeah, I know how I sound.”
He sounded like someone who could call out his own bullshit, which you appreciated. It was refreshing, in a way. In this place with him, there was no room for a facade.
You made sure to walk beside him until the path was too narrow, and then you took the lead, in the hope of seeming up for anything. Also, you knew the shorts you wore did great things for your butt.
Nearly half an hour later, you reached the top, passing another couple that nodded and smiled at you.
“Enjoy.”
“Thanks,” you called after them, as Michael let them pass.
The view took your breath away. Rocks below as waves crashed into them. Lush greenery all around. Birdcalls echoing as Michael rested beside you against a tree.
“You did it,” he murmured, taking out his water.
You tapped his bottle with yours and drank. You felt a little out of breath, but otherwise good. There was a sense of achievement.
When you got back to the hotel, Michael jerked his thumb towards the concierge desk.
“Gimme a sec.”
“What are you up to?”
He had a conspiratorial glint in his eye as he walked over, you hurrying after him. As he approached the desk, a worker smiled at you.
“Afternoon, Dr. Robinavich.”
“I was wondering if anyone was available at short notice, we were out hiking…”
The worker's uniform reminded you to buy a Hawaiian shirt while you were here in the next few days, the thought distracting you momentarily.
“Unfortunately, we only have a couple's massage session available, it's a longer one. Our regular masseuse Amy is away, she does our shorter sessions…”
“Couple's massage?” you blurted, and Michael looked at you.
“Would you mind?”
Uh, fuck no. You shook your head. The worker smiled.
“Alright. We'll see you in twenty minutes.”
-
You quickly realized that you were in over your head. The massage rooms were low lit with the kind of ambient lighting you associated with softcore porn.
The tiny candles that dotted the room, along with the soothing New Age music coming from the small speaker in the corner only added to the highly sensual atmosphere.
“Uh…” you said, as you walked in with Michael.
The masseuses stood by with towels in hand, two smiling young women with matching frangipani in their hairdos, their skin glowing, looking soft to the touch. You envied their calm, feeling your face burn.
“Good afternoon,” one of them said, beaming. “I’m Naomi, and this is Mia…”
Mia gave a little wave.
“Afternoon,” Michael said, nodding.
He was also weirdly at ease. Then again, as a doctor, wouldn’t he deal with embarrassing situations all the time? You pressed your lips together, listening.
“We will give you a few minutes to undress to your liking. Are there any concerns before we continue?”
You cleared your throat. “I - uh, I can have a tender abdomen sometimes, I have endometriosis…”
Naomi nodded, understanding. “Yes, of course. We can avoid certain areas. Anything you want us to focus on?”
“My neck and shoulders,” you said. “I think I probably look down at my phone too much.”
“My back,” Michael added. “I’m on my feet a lot, generally.”
“He’s a doctor,” you said, and he looked at the floor.
“Oh, wonderful,” Mia said. “Thank you.”
They departed, Michael staring after them.
“‘Thank you’? I’m not a veteran.”
“You worked through the height of the pandemic though, right?” you said, and he met your gaze, his face changing.
Dread or something close to it flashed across his face and you immediately regretted your question, realizing far too late how invasive and awful it was.
“I’m sorry, that was crass,” you babbled, and he shook his head.
“It’s fine.”
He moved away, towards one of the massage tables, fingers going to his buttons.
“Right,” you muttered. “Uh. I’ll just…”
You went to the other table, taking your shoes off, hands going to your shirt to remove it as fast as possible.
“Don’t turn around,” you said.
“You good?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” you lied.
“Because we don’t have to do this if you’re uncomfortable.”
You thought about it for longer than a second and then slipped under the towel, the table firm and unyielding under your weight. You tried to ground yourself, your nipples hardening under your towel as you spared a glance at him.
His back was to you, but he was under his own towel, no shirt. He had some scars, a couple moles you found endearing. Freckles and marks of age that only flattered him more. He was broad, too, of course.
You thought of that strength hidden under his clothes.
“Can I roll over?” he asked, and you whispered:
“Yeah.”
He turned, pulling in a breath.
“You with me?” he asked. “Are you in any pain today?”
You shook your head, and you were touched by his concern. You buried yourself further under the towel, barely peeking out.
He murmured your name a couple times and your eyes snapped to his.
“My liver spots and wrinkles are really that hard to look at?”
“Shut the fuck up,” you retorted, laughing uncomfortably. “You’re cute and you know it.”
He began to laugh, rolling onto his back, hand passing over his face. You wanted him so badly then, wishing he was under the towel with you. Now you had ninety minutes of this a few feet away from you.
“This is supposed to be relaxing,” he said. “So try to relax.”
“A man telling me to relax,” you muttered. “My favorite.”
“Yes, and a male healthcare professional, too, no less,” he retorted.
Your eyes met again and you shuffled up a little, until your arms were free, the towel still covering your naked torso.
“After this, we should-”
Whatever bold thing you were about to propose was interrupted by a short knock on the door, Naomi’s voice floating in.
“Are you ready?”
A beat, and Michael closed his eyes.
“Yeah,” he called. “Thank you.”
The massage itself was divine. It felt far shorter than its ninety minutes, and after a while all you could do was melt into a pile of goo. You were surprised you didn’t nod off, and Michael admitted the same in the elevator back up to your floor.
Whatever momentum you had earlier was lost, but you didn’t mind. You weren’t in any hurry to get back there, by how liquid you felt. You were rubbed all over with lavender oil and felt your clothes sticking to your skin. You craved a hot shower and a bed to nap on.
You gave him a dreamy little wave as you went your separate ways.
-
You woke hours later, hearing a knocking at the front door drifting in as you fought off the remainder of your sleep. You lifted your head from your pillow and walked out to answer it.
Michael stood before you.
“I definitely woke you this time,” he said, looking at your bathrobe that matched his.
He looked apologetic but cuddly in the fluffy white robe, his feet bare. He had nice toes, you noted vaguely.
“It’s fine,” you said, not bothering to lie. “It’s better I don’t sleep through dinner.”
“I’m actually wondering if you wanna…”
He gestured behind him, toward the elevator down the hall.
“I was gonna order room service,” you said.
You were too lazy to dress in something nice, to walk all the way down. You were spoiled by the massage. All you wanted was creature comforts.
“You can order it at mine.”
He really, really wanted to see you, that was clear. You softened, rubbing your eye.
“Okay…”
You took your phone and your keys and followed him out. His TV set was on, his window was open with the curtains moving with the soft night breeze, and the moon was out. The sounds of the hotel floated up from below, but you liked it here best, in this little space of his.
His suitcase was open against the wall, its contents far more economical than yours. From your brief glance, you saw a small bottle of cologne resting on his bedside table. On the yacht you’d smelt a fresh, slightly sweet scent on him.
His room itself had his own scent, amplified. You could chase it if you wanted to. It was vaguely earthy, welcoming. You perched on the end of his bed beside him, your knees touching.
He was so close.
“Good day?” you asked, and he nodded.
Then he took your hand like you were his and you stared down at him.
“Your hand is crazy soft,” you whispered, just to break the tension.
“It’s probably from all the hand sanitizer at work,” he murmured, threading your fingers together. “Aloe in it.”
You looked up into his eyes, your stomach full of butterflies.
“Michael…”
You took his free hand and slipped it into your robe, under your bra cup, his fingers finding your nipple. He stared down at your skin, thumb flicking over you as he rolled your breast, the moan tumbling out of you.
He leaned in to kiss you, your noses brushing. Light teasing, lips passing over one another until he pushed into your mouth with his tongue, your breaths already turning to panting. You were molten, wet without being touched anywhere near your pussy, and you knew it.
Your hands went up to his hair and you pulled him towards you, the TV playing in the background as you kissed and kissed, both of his hands on your chest now. You pulled back once your lips began to numb, relishing in how soft his beard was, noting the grey hairs you could make out.
“Can I take this off?” he murmured, nuzzling your skin as you nodded.
He pushed down your robe and then the straps of your bra. Freed of them both, you threw a leg over him and straddled his lap, feeling how hard he was beneath you. You gave a grind of your hips against his and he groaned into your mouth, the sound reverberating through you.
You slotted in together, rocking as you kissed, clumsy but not ever rushed. It was so thorough, and you throbbed for him, scratching his scalp.
“Sex can hurt sometimes,” you warned.
You were telling him what you knew he’d already know.
“I just don’t want to disappoint you,” you whispered.
Michael promptly planted his foot and spun you around so you were pinned underneath him.
“That’s not gonna happen,” he said, and you kissed him hard for that alone, his cock rubbing against your thigh insistantly.
He broke away with a soft smack of your lips, and you gazed up at him with a shy smile.
“Can you get a condom?” you whispered.
He nodded, moving back quick enough to make you laugh at his enthusiasm. You watched as he went to his suitcase, retrieving a box.
“Wow, how many is in there?” you teased, resting on your elbows.
“I’m on sabbatical for three months,” he said, and you smirked again. “And I’m a doctor.”
“I’m not complaining,” you said.
“Good.”
You took hold of your underwear and lifted your hips, pulling them off. You tossed them aside as he watched with a quiet awe.
“I was hoping to do that,” he said, returning to the bed.
The clear outline of his erection made your heart hammer with anticipation. A Pavlovian-like response, your mouth watered as he went to take off his own robe and pants underneath.
When he stood naked by the bed, you crawled over for a closer look, and to touch, of course. You couldn’t help it. You reached for his cock, wrapping your hand around it, his hand finding your shoulder and squeezing.
“Shit,” he whispered, as you jerked him slowly, tenderly.
His eyes closed, distracted. He still held the unopened box, and you took the opportunity to dip down and take him into your mouth without warning.
You went all the way down, until you were hitting your gag reflex, careful to not trigger it too hard, dragging your tongue along the underside. He tasted nice, that musky saltiness that was never quite enough. The precum that rewarded you made you moan around his cock, pulling back, swirling your tongue around the blunt tip.
He was so warm, and so hard. You bobbed your head, pushing yourself further, foregoing breathing to make him lose his own. He panted as you worked him over in hard sucks, his hand moving up to grab your hair. Just hard enough to be known, but not painful.
“Fuck,” he hissed. “Fuck…”
You missed this, feeling wanted. Feeling cherished, even if this was fleeting. You could believe it just enough. You pulled back, eyes watering from the effort.
“You…”
He pushed you back, until he lay on top of you, caging you in with his arms. His wet cock slipped between you, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, your nails digging into his back.
“You’re a menace,” he murmured, peppering your face with kisses.
You made out again, until you were certain you were dripping onto the sheets, your naked chests and stomachs pressed together. You panted, sweat already beading on your forehead and his.
“Condom,” he said, and you nodded.
He broke open the box, took out the sleeve of them and tore one off. You watched as he pulled it on efficiently, expertly.
“When’s the last time you fucked someone?” you panted.
“Feels like too long ago, now,” he said, his eyes blown with lust.
He pulled you under him again and kissed you, lining you up.
“I’ll go slowly,” he whispered, and you nodded. “We can stop if…”
“No, don’t stop,” you whispered back. “Please don’t stop.”
You wrapped your arms around his neck as he sunk into you, your cunt gripping him already, a whimper falling from your lips as he filled every inch of you to the brim.
You gasped, adjusting. You felt all tingly, right down to your toes. He groaned as he shifted, not moving as you accommodated for him.
“You’re a fucking dream,” he breathed, and you moaned.
“Keep… going.”
“I can’t get too worked up or it’ll be over too soon,” he said, and you laughed breathily.
“You’re so sweet,” you whispered.
“I mean it…”
He finally began to move, his nose bumping yours with each thrust. Things quickly dissolved into sweat and moans, each stroke bringing you closer to the edge. He moved in for another swift kiss, teeth clacking, and you gripped him harder, digging into his flesh.
Your bodies slapped together, foreheads pressed to one another’s. He slowed, breathing heavily, kissing you deep as he tried to recalibrate.
You watched him pull back, to preserve himself a little longer. You squeezed him deep inside and he blinked down at you, narrowing his eyes.
He shifted, moving your legs up to rest your ankles on his shoulders. The stretch was exquisite, his cock feeling impossibly deep inside you. His retaliation was rewarded with your shuddering moan.
As he pounded into you, it blurred between too much and just enough, your trembling hand slipping down between you, desperate to reach your clit.
“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he whispered, and you nodded, suddenly overwhelmed by it all.
Your pleasure crested and you came, crying out right by his ear, his face buried into your neck as he showed you no mercy. Bending you in half like this, your legs in the air, your wailing by his handsome face - it all would usually mortify you but it felt too fucking perfect to diminish.
He kept going for several seconds after you crashed back to earth, huffing and nearing his own end. You clung to him as he spilled inside the condom, going rigid above you. You pressed a kiss to his arm, panting with him.
In the gentle afterglow, he settled against you, a happy kind of hum in your hair. He held you against him, and it didn’t feel like he let go for a long, long time, but things were blurry at best by the end.
It was a good fuck. Legendary, even. He peeled away reluctantly and flopped beside you with a sigh. You rested in the wet patch for all of one minute before you too decided you had to move away.
-
You hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but you woke much later. You drew in a breath, surrounded by Michael’s heat and scent. You shared a pillow, you remembered, as you blinked and took in the surroundings in the early morning light.
The TV was still on, though its volume was too low to make out the majority of the dialogue, you could see it was a black and white Italian movie.
Michael’s arm was across your middle, as if he had flung it across you during the night. You watched the side of his face. His blissed out face filled your stomach with butterflies.
You rolled over, and then he stirred at your movement. You waited until he was waking up to finally move again, slipping out of bed and walking to the bathroom.
“Get back here,” you heard him call, and you smirked, glancing at the mirror.
Once you flushed the toilet and washed your hands, you went back, seeing him waiting for you.
You picked up your robe and threw it on. Michael's brows hiked.
“I really don't want you doing that.”
“I'm gonna go,” you said. You sat on the end of the bed. “Sorry to burst your bubble.”
You moved to grab your slides but he stopped you, suddenly behind you and pulling you back into his arms.
“You want me to stay?”
“Don’t be so surprised,” he murmured, lips already ghosting your neck.
You hadn’t slept with someone new in literally years, so you were rusty, you figured. But he seemed serious about how much he wanted to repeat this. After all the buildup, he wanted more? You weren’t about to argue with him when his hand opened your robe again, exposing your skin once more.
And you certainly weren’t going to stop him when he lay you down, your head half off the bed, diving between your spread thighs with all eager lips and tongue.
He had a confidence with a woman’s body that you knew didn’t just come with age, though you suspected it helped immensely for some men. He had a greater understanding of experience, plus his regular ‘touching strangers’ thing. You could never. Michael seemed born for this.
Your hands found the back of his head as he ruined you, spearing his tongue inside you, fucking you relentlessly with it once you started to whine and shiver with pleasure. Your thighs quivered, fighting to keep themselves open as he stroked deep inside your cunt.
“Oh, fuck…”
You back bowed as you came, and he didn’t let up, working your clit with his thumb at a steady rhythm. He only stopped when you tried to pull away, his kisses landing on your inner thigh, wet and sticky. He kept kissing you, cherishing you.
It was so intimate and intense you had to look away, your hand over your face.
“You okay?” he panted, and you nodded.
He pulled you up and rolled you over so your face was in his pillow, the spare under your hips a second later. In no time at all, he lined himself up, the blunt tip of him teasing your folds.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, and you believed him. The reverence was undeniable.
When he pushed inside, bottoming out with a grunt, you gripped him in earnest. He bent down, kissing your neck, your shoulders. You were still recovering from before, still in that floaty stage, when he began to move.
“Fuck, look at you,” he whispered, never missing a stroke.
He didn’t last long, and you didn’t mind. You honestly didn’t notice, with how full and wanted you felt. He was rougher than last night, taking from you, all the while whispering encouragement as you gave him all.
He came with a groan, fingers biting into your ass as he went still. You sighed, content as he pulled away.
Once you showered in your room and returned, he ate you out again after breakfast. It was a lot. But it felt like the closest thing to perfect. Too bad it wasn’t going to last longer than a few more days of your vacation.
“What are you doing after this?” you murmured, popping a grape into your mouth.
“Well…”
He glanced down at you beside him, lifting the sheet, as if to examine your naked body.
“I meant after vacation,” you said.
He was engrossed in your lower half. You moved your free hand across your lower stomach where your scars were. As if detecting your self-consciousness, he switched back.
“I’m still not sure.”
“Haven’t given it more thought?” you said. “You’ve got a passport, right?”
He nodded.
“You could always, y’know - disappear…”
He swallowed, looking away. The immediate shift in him had you wanting to take it back, like usual.
“I don’t have to know,” you added. “I’d just hope you enjoy it. You deserve it.”
He rubbed his eyes. “I dunno about that.”
He went quiet then and you finished eating, moving closer. He let you under his arm, pulling you into his side. Your legs tangled.
“What have you ever done that was so awful, Michael?” you whispered.
He gave a pained smile. You were starting to know it well.
“The stepson I had,” he began. “Jake.”
“What happened?”
He closed his eyes. “Pittfest.”
Of course. The entire event had slipped your mind as something he’d be part of. You remember donating blood in the days that followed, and you were lucky to not know anyone who’d been there. The whole city had been affected though, for months after.
“He was there, I gave him my ticket for his girlfriend,” he mumbled. He bit his lip. “Leah. She… she was shot, and I… I… couldn’t save her.”
You pulled him into a tight hug before he could resist it, kissing his head, clinging to him. Your chest squeezed when he hugged you back, and you heard him sniffle.
“I’m so sorry,” you whispered.
“Yeah, me too,” he mumbled.
You stayed like that for a while, and he began to relax against you, your lips still brushing his brow when you spoke.
“It’s not your fault.”
“Don’t,” he said.
“Michael, it’s not- it’s not your fault. Don’t do that to yourself. I know we’ve only known each other a few days but…”
You pulled back to look him in the eye.
“I feel like I… fucking skipped time or something. I know you well enough that you tried everything you could to save her, and… I’m sorry. I’m just so fucking sorry you have to live with that-”
He broke you off with a crushing kiss. In seconds you were tussling again, rearranging yourselves for him to push inside you. It was rushed and desperate, like you hadn’t been fucking for hours.
“We fucking skipped time,” he whispered, pounding into you like it was his mission to do so. “C’mon, I’ve got you…”
When he played with your clit, everything shrunk to a pinpoint and you tensed up, clenching around him.
“Attagirl,” he whispered, watching you fall apart.
He didn’t relent until he had his fill, your mind going blank.
-
Robby’s back and shoulders were beginning to ache, as they always did this late into the shift. He hadn’t sat down in over eight hours, except to tell a patient’s relative some bad news in the family room.
That didn’t count.
He hung his neck, tugging on his stethoscope with both hands, taking a deep breath through his nose. It wasn’t chaotic, but a steady hum of constant beeps, voices and movement around him. He was waiting for several beds to be available upstairs.
“Six still waiting on labs?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Dana said without looking up. “And trauma two’s CT just came back.”
“Great,” Robby muttered.
Everything was normal, the tunnel-vision type of end to his day. Dana answered the phone, taking off her glasses as she stood up from her chair.
“Robby. Incoming severe vaginal bleeding.”
He nodded, looking around. Whittaker went into eight with a brave look set on his face. He watched as Mel walked with Mohan, deep in conversation. He knew Santos was trying to chart nearby.
McKay came out to grab another computer, logging in.
“Severe bleeding incoming,” he murmured. “Look alive.”
Not three minutes later, the paramedics burst in with the stretcher, a sheet thrown over the lower half of the woman whose eyes were closed, her face twisted in pain.
“Severe vaginal bleeding,” one of the paramedics rattled off. “History of endometriosis per patient. Syncope at home.”
Robby’s mind clicked into gear.
“How long?”
“Couple hours of heavy bleeding.”
“Any pregnancy—”
He stopped. The patient’s head rolled slightly to the side on the stretcher, just enough for the overhead light to fall across her face.
Robby’s brain registered it before the rest of him caught up.
The ER disappeared. The smell of the antiseptic, the fluorescent lights. All of it was replaced with sun, the ocean - Hawaii.
You.
He stopped walking, McKay bumping into him.
“Robby?”
“Trauma One,” he said, coming back to life. Years of practice kept his voice steady.
He stepped forward, grabbing the gurney to help steer it.
“BP is eighty over fifty.”
“Jesus,” he hissed.
“Heartrate is 130.”
Of all the places to see you again, his ER.
Of all the hospitals in all of Pittsburgh, she rolls into mine.
Like something out of fucking Casablanca.
You were transferred to the hospital bed, Robby slipping gloves on as he approached your side, his voice calm:
“Let’s get two large-bore IVs. CBC, type and cross, CMP.”
Your head lolled to the side, your eyelids fluttering.
“...Michael?”
He ignored McKay’s eyes burning into the side of his face. He began to check your pupils. Your skin was cold.
“You’re in the ER at PTMC. You’ve lost some blood, but we’re taking care of you.”
You blinked, still hazy. But you managed to focus on his face, his gentle tone. You nodded, closing your eyes again.
Monitors clipped into place with soft, rapid clicks. The familiar choreography of a patient circling instability.
“Fluids and a transfuse,” he said to the room. He glanced back at you, grabbing your hand.
“Pressure’s dropping,” Princess at your left said. “Seventy-eight systolic.”
He adjusted your arm for the IV, the sting of it nothing compared to the pain you felt elsewhere. Someone hung a bag of fluids behind him.
“Blood’s on the way, we’ll start a transfusion the second it gets here.”
“Excellent,” he said.
You struggled, eyes fluttering shut. He leaned in closer to you.
“Hey - stay with me.”
“Robby, should we page OB now or wait for labs?” McKay asked, and he shook his head.
“Given the history, I don’t want to wait.”
“The… history?” she asked, sharing a look with Princess.
Robby tried to not visibly react to the highly likely scenario that this incident would be circling in the days to come.
Robby ignored them, giving your wrist a small squeeze.
“You’re going to be okay.”
“BP’s responding,” someone called. “Up to ninety-two systolic.”
“Good,” Robby said immediately. “Keep it going.”
Your breathing had steadied slightly, though your eyelids still fluttered with the effort of staying conscious. The first unit of blood arrived moments later.
“Type O negative.”
“Perfect,” Robby replied. “Let’s start it.”
The bag was spiked, the line flushed, the transfusion beginning in practiced, efficient movements.
Robby didn’t step away, nor did he hand you over or delegate. He lingered by your side, hand resting beside yours as he watched your vitals.
-
On the last day of your vacation, you woke up in his arms. You could hear the crashing of the waves below the open windows, the sea breeze on your bare skin.
You rolled over, facing him, your noses brushing.
“I wish I could go with you,” you whispered for the first time.
You meant it, but knew neither of you would actually follow through with it.
“I should kidnap you,” he whispered back, and then he kissed you.
-
“Robby.”
It was Santos, rushed but remaining calm. Practically fearless, but looking for help. Robby glanced over his shoulder, then back at you in the bed.
“Yeah,” he sighed. He took off his gloves, stood up and tossed them in the trash.
He went by Dana at her desk and nodded over at your room.
“Come and find me when she wakes up.”
“Will do, Chief.”
Dana stared him down but he refused to engage. He wasn’t in the right headspace. Seeing you like that, so vulnerable, had too great of an impact.
He pushed off the desk and left to follow Santos.
-
You rest for an hour before you manage to open your eyes again. You glance around, seeing a nurse wearing a hijab checking your vitals.
Among the sea of pain is a shame so sudden you gasp, remembering Michael all over again. What were the chances you ended up here?
“I’ll go get Dr. Robby,” the nurse said.
You sat up on your elbows, nodding. You hadn’t prepared yourself for this. You only had to wait another ten minutes before the resident with a ponytail from before came in with Michael in tow.
“How are you feeling?” the resident asked, and you glanced over at Michael, feeling scrutinised.
“Okay, uh-”
“I’m Dr. McKay, and this is- well, you seemed to know each other,” McKay said.
Michael crossed his arms. “Yes, uh…”
“We’re friends,” you said, though that didn’t feel right.
You hadn’t spoken in months. On that last day, no promises were made. You exchanged numbers, but you hadn’t wanted to ruin his time off, and you left him in Hawaii.
Sure, you’d thought about him constantly since, but not all for good reasons.
Michael didn’t say anything about that, looking at your monitors.
“You’re definitely improving,” he murmured. “And the glow is back in your skin.”
“It might be sweat,” you muttered.
“How’s your pain?” McKay asked. “If you can give it a number-”
You always thought this was one of the more frustrating ways of dealing with endometriosis. Having to self report.
“Like a seven to eight,” you interjected. “I wouldn’t say it’s the worst pain I’ve ever felt. I can kind of sleep with it. Or pass out.”
That wasn’t funny, not even remotely, but you saw Michael smirk in the corner of your eye.
“You called the ambulance?” McKay asked, and you nodded.
“After I came to,” you said. “The bleeding was getting worse, and then I realized it wasn’t slowing down, and my towel was soaked through.”
“How was your last menstrual cycle?”
“Fine,” you said. “Not like this. Not exactly easy, but not like this…”
You pulled in a breath. You knew where this was going.
“Any surgeries?”
“I had a laparoscopy six months ago,” you murmured. You looked at your hands.
“Any other complications?”
Your eyes stung. You picked at a cuticle.
“I had an ectopic pregnancy a few months ago.”
-
Robby rubbed his eyes under his glasses, staring at his screen. He had left you and McKay, dragged away by another patient.
Santos came up to the charge desk, glancing up at the list of patients.
“Ectopic?”
He heard McKay beside her.
“Left tube,” she said. “Treated with methotrexate. When detected early, we can avoid rupture and surgery.”
It was a teaching moment, but only then did it hit Robby squarely in the chest. He’d been distracted.
Ectopic, a few months ago.
Hawaii?
He looked at McKay, whose conversation with Santos changed to something about the weekend.
“Hey, Santos?” he called. “Are you any closer to sending your guy home?”
“Sure,” she said, hands in her scrubs pockets. “Once I get back a clear drug test.”
McKay met his gaze.
“I ordered an ultrasound for your friend,” she said.
He nodded. He looked at his watch.
“You think you’re leaving any time soon?” Dana snapped.
He put away his glasses with a sigh. He felt several pairs of female eyes on him as he made his way back to your room.
He slipped inside, shutting the door behind him. You swallowed hard, a lump already there.
“Hey, so… you lied to me,” you said.
“About what?”
He came over to your bed and sat on the chair beside it, scooting closer. It was too close for a doctor-patient relationship, you felt. You didn’t mind.
You lifted your hand and reached over, tapping his name tag.
“It was easier to be Michael.”
“‘Robby’ does suit you,” you murmured. “It’s cute.”
“Cute?” he repeated, leaning on one elbow.
You stared at one another for what felt like an age, a story unravelling between the two of you.
“Don’t be sorry you came here,” he whispered.
“I’m not, it’s just - I didn’t want this to be the way I saw you for a second time,” you mumbled. “I mean, if I ever saw you a second time. I didn’t… I didn’t call.”
“Neither did I,” he said. He sighed. “I could’ve.”
“But I didn’t, like you’d hoped.”
“No,” he said. “You did not.”
Everything felt heavy. You sniffled.
“Jesus, sorry,” you said, with a roll of your eyes. You wiped your nose with your hand. “To be fair, I am on my period.”
“It’s okay.”
“It doesn’t feel like it’s okay,” you whispered, your voice so small you could barely hear it yourself.
He was the one to take your hand, your fingers twining. He squeezed.
“I didn’t get back with my ex,” you said, and he nodded.
“Good.”
You snorted, but then instantly sobered by the look on his face. He stared intently at your fingers before looking back at you.
“Was it mine?”
You nodded. You knew what he meant. The moment passed between you and you let out a shuddering breath.
“It wasn’t even a real pregnancy,” you said. “No possibility of it… happening. But I just had this feeling before - and I tested positive, so…”
You rolled your eyes again.
“For two days it was like…”
You couldn’t get the words out. He squeezed your hand again.
“For two days it was like it was ours.”
-
Robby had been taking a lot of deep breaths in the last half an hour. On the rooftop, the air was fresh, the nighttime sharpness coming in.
“So,” he heard someone say, and he turned, seeing Jack.
“So,” he echoed.
“Who’s the girl?”
He smirked, shaking his head. Unbelievable. He hadn’t even seen him yet and he knew about you. He could accuse Dana, but if he was honest, most everyone at the Pitt was a gossip.
“She’s the one I met in Hawaii,” he murmured.
Jack’s mouth fell open. “Holy shit.”
“Mm.”
“You’re up here because you’re trying to figure out a way to get out of this?” he teased.
He joined Robby, glancing down.
“Not exactly,” Robby replied. He grit his jaw for a beat. “She was pregnant. Ectopic. Then today she came in after she couldn’t stop bleeding.”
“Endometriosis? What stage?”
“One.”
Jack shook his head. “Y’know, there are women whose biopsies confirm it, because surgeons can’t find it. They can be microscopic.”
“It’s brutal,” Robby muttered. “I can’t stand it, Jack. Seeing her like that. She might’ve…”
He didn’t dare say it.
“What’re you doing up here, brother?” Jack murmured.
“Thinking,” Robby muttered. “Thinking too much.”
As they began their walk back, he said:
“She’s waiting to be transferred to OB.”
He wasn’t going to let it go until he said it out loud, so he did it, feeling heavy.
“I got her pregnant. It was me.”
Jack didn’t seem surprised, giving him an understanding, soft sort of look.
“It’s okay, it happens. Is she okay?”
“I guess. No?”
He needed to focus back to work, to finally finish his shift. He started to make the rounds.
-
He came back to your room. You put down your magazine Dana got you.
“Hey,” you said. “You’re gonna leave?”
He nodded, going to the computer, swiping his card. He typed, glasses on. You remembered the first time you saw him use them, when he read the menu on your first not-date on vacation.
“I can feel you watching me,” he said, not looking up.
“What’re you doing, then?” you asked.
He typed, then scratched his head. Typed some more.
“Recommending you have an iron transfusion after your follow-up blood test. Your gynecologist will get a letter from the hospital. And then… it’s on me.”
“Robby,” you said, a little alarmed. You knew the cost of those. “That’s too much. What the fuck?”
He smirked, giving a definitive tap.
“Because, baby, you are anemic.”
You felt a burst of something - a warm affection that made your eyes water. You watched as he came over, sitting on the edge of your bed. He held your hands.
“A girl walks into a hotel bar, and she happens to be from Pittsburgh, and I pass that up? What a fucking…”
He pressed a kiss to your knuckles.
“...moron.”
You gave a tearful little laugh, and leaned toward him, kissing him. It was rushed and clumsy, but the mixture of trust and danger - it was everything to you.
He was everything. You pressed your foreheads together.
inspired wholly by this hard of hearing!simon by @ynstark — i’ve been plagued by the thought ever since
cw: suggestive
he hears the kettle just fine when it whistles, and he hears the front door when it slams with the wind. what he doesn’t hear, almost ever, is you.
“john,” you call.
you get nothing in return. he’s got his feet up on the coffee table, his reading glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, some dense paperback open in his hands.
“john,” you try again, huffing.
still nothing. the corner of the room he’s not facing may as well be another county.
you cross to the sofa and stop right in front of him until the shape of you finally registers and he looks up over the rim of his glasses, eyebrows lifting like you’ve appeared out of nowhere.
“what?”
“i called for you twice.”
“did you?” he asks, lips pursing slightly.
you’ve been dealing with this for a long while. over dinner, leaning across the table, repeating yourself, watching him nod at the wrong moments and answer questions you never asked. in the kitchen, talking to his back, getting no reply. in bed, breathing his name against his neck, not getting the same response from him you would’ve got a few years ago.
decades of gunfire and breaching charges and the thumping punch of helo rotors, year over year. by the time anyone thought to check, preserving it was out of the question because the damage was already there. the audiologist had been matter-of-fact about it. showed him the chart, the slope of it dropping off. he nodded along like it was someone else’s ear.
the hearing aids have been sitting in the dish by the bathroom sink for weeks, untouched. they’re good ones too. tiny things. they sit down in the canal, you’d have to be nose-to-nose with him to spot the little nub of them, and even then you’d have to know to look. nothing hooks over the ear or catches in the light.
he just wont wear them.
“i’m not seventy,” he’d said the once you really pushed it. “m’not puttin’ in hearing aids.”
“you’re wearing them, john. you already had them fitted.”
“i don’t need them,” he’d protested. “not day to day.”
which is how you ended up here, two weeks later, watching the back of his head while he reads and ignores the sound of you existing.
so you change tactics.
you don’t say his name again. you take the book out of his hands gently, dog-ear his page with your thumb, set it on the table next to his feet. and before he can do more than open his mouth you climb into his lap, knees bracketing his thighs, settling yourself down onto him.
his hands land on your hips instinctually, his whole expression changing. the annoyance smooths out and something warm comes up slowly in its place, you can read his thoughts as clearly as if he’d said it out loud — ‘well, this is alright’.
“well, hello,” he says low, hands sliding up your sides.
he thinks he’s won something. he’s already tilting his chin up for you, lips looking for yours.
you reach into the pocket of your cardigan and pull them out, cupped in your palm where he can see, and his face drops.
“oh, you’re joking,” his shoulders sink with disappointment.
“hold still,” you grumble, leaning forward.
“i was comfortable,” he complains.
“john.” you get the first one in before he can turn his head, fingers careful at his ear, and he huffs through his nose like a dog that’s been told no. “other side.”
“this is entrapment.”
“mm-hm.” you fit the second one in, tucking his hair back where it’s gone astray. you sit back against him to look with your hands resting on his chest. “there,” you grin, satisfied.
“i was reading.”
“and you weren’t hearing a single word i said all night.”
“i can hear!”
“so you’re choosing to ignore me then?”
“i wasn’t— i just—,”
“you answered ‘fine’ when i asked if you wanted chicken or fish for dinner.”
his jaw works. he doesn’t have anything to say to that. “they itch,” he tries instead, pressing a finger against the front of his ear, rubbing the cartilage there.
“they don’t itch. you’re being dramatic.” you shift your weight, just slightly, settling in more solidly against him, and watch his breath catch. “tell me they itch now.”
he’s still scowling, but his hands have tightened on your hips. “i don’t see what hearing’s got to do with this…” he looks down at where you’re pressed to him.
you roll your hips down against him, folding forward, letting your mouth go to the side of his face, right up close to his ear, and you breathe out — soft, the smallest sound, half a moan and half a laugh because you can’t help yourself.
you feel him go still beneath you.
you do it again. rocking down against the shape of him through his trousers and let the noise come up out of you naturally, quiet and close and meant only for him, the kind of sound you make without thinking when his hands are on you. his fingers flex and splay and grip harder, his head turns toward you like it’s being pulled.
“there you are,” you murmur.
“…christ.”
“you hear that?”
he doesn’t answer. his eyes have gone heavy lidded and his hand’s come up into your hair and he’s turned fully into you now, chasing it, the small wet sounds of your breath against his ear, the catch in your throat when you press down and he pushes up to meet you.
these little intimate things he stopped hearing a long time ago and never noticed he’d lost because of how gradual it happened. this way you sound when you want him, the quiet things. the things you only ever say just for him, the things you’ve been saying into the dark for a year now with no return.
“say my name,” you breathe.
“…what?”
“in bed. i always say your name and you never—,” you rock against him and his breath stutters, “you never answer anymore.”
his hand comes up to the side of your face. he pulls back just far enough to look at you, and there’s something that’s gone serious under the want, something that’s caught up with what you’re telling him.
“m’so sorry, love,” he nudges his nose under your jaw, kissing the soft of your neck. “say it now. again,” he says, rough. “go on.” he’s gone hard under you, rolling his hips up, hands keeping your hips down. the seam of his zipper pushing through the thin cotton of your joggers
“john,” you breathe.
he hears you and you watch him — watch his eyes close for a second like it’s gone straight through him.
“yeah,” he says, his thumb moving slow against your cheek. “heard that.” then your name unfurls from his tongue and you kiss him before he can pretend he wasn’t affected, and his arms come all the way around you, and he doesn’t say a single word about the hearing aids again.
john wears them after that without making a fuss over it. just puts them in every morning before you’re up. you never mention that you notice. don’t wanna spook him.
saw this tweet and thought... wouldn't this be such a good one-shot prompt. so here is this !! wc: 1.2k... minors dni
Ovulation brings forth a different demon that is unlike you in many ways. You go out wearing revealing clothing because you feel extremely sexy – unlike when you’re in luteal and have to sheathe your eyes every time you come across a reflective surface. You make goo-goo eyes at people in a manner that almost comes off as flirtatious, even if you’re only trying to be nice. You make eye contact, and you never fail to strike up a conversation with random people. You’re also criminally horny, and with that comes a strange bit of evilness.
You’ve been lying in bed all evening with a glass of wine, listening to the crime documentary you turned on a while ago. You were eagerly watching it a half hour ago, but now you’re growing a bit paranoid with how violent it’s getting.
Jack picked up a day shift today, even though you wanted him home with you, and you’ve decided that instead of doing something productive, you’d rather get scared over some really shitty crimes.
You chug the rest of your wine and reach for the remote to change the show before they enter traumatizing territory. Right as you lift the remote, the apartment door jiggles, and a groan follows two seconds later.
Paranoia sneaks up onto your shoulders, and you say the only thing you can think of. “Jack? Is that you?”
No one answers. There is only more shuffling and groaning. You don’t move, though.
“Jack?” you say, louder this time.
He steps into the room a few moments later, donned in his wrinkled scrubs and an amused smile. “Hey, darling. Is there something wrong?”
You shake your head. “Why didn’t you answer when I first called you?”
He shrugs. “Were you scared?”
You roll your eyes and sink into your bed. “A little.”
Jack steps further into the room and pulls his scrub top and undershirt over his head. “I told you to stop watching those crime documentaries. They freak you out,” he tells you. He then pulls his pants down, takes the clothing pooling around his feet, and dumps them into the hamper in the bathroom. “I don’t want you clutching onto me tonight over something you could have avoided watching.”
“So you hate me?” you ask as he starts the shower.
“I do not hate you,” he says, enunciating each word.
“Right,” you reply, then turn away from him.
He lets out a ‘humph,’ then continues to undress for his shower. You swear you can hear him say things under his breath, but you don’t pay attention. Or at least try to.
You’re not really mad at Jack. You agree with him, really. You shouldn’t be watching shows or movies that freak you out because you end up losing sleep and getting into such a terrible mood that the weather shifts.
Your annoyance is simply because Jack might not cuddle you tonight – a time when you’re incredibly needy and desperate for his hands touching any part of your body. It doesn’t matter if he’s sweeping hair off your shoulder or running his fingertips along your forearm for you to go to sleep. You just need him, but he might not be into it tonight.
You watch the wall as Jack showers and goes through his night routine. When the lights shut off, his bedside lamp flickers on, and his weight sinks into the mattress, you grip your sheets and lift them higher up your face.
“Good night,” you mumble, then pretend to go to bed.
“Are you seriously mad at me?” he asks.
You shrug.
Jack turns off his lamp and then scoots closer to you. One arm curves along your head, his hand resting inches away from your eyes. His other arm drapes over your side and pulls your body into his chest.
You think about squirming your way out of his grasp, but the little devil crawling out of your ear and plopping itself on your shoulder is telling you something else…
You scoot further into his chest and push your ass into his crotch. You grab his hand that rests on your collarbone and place it on your tits. He most certainly feels how hard your nipples are, and he massages them over your thin sleep top before moving a hand under the fabric and groping your tit.
You breathe out a whimper and continue dragging your ass along his growing erection.
“Feels good?” you whisper.
He groans. “You feel so good. You smell so good…”
“I got some new body wash and lotions. Do you like them?”
“I fucking love them,” he whispers. He keeps pushing his concealed and very hard cock into your ass – your almost bare ass, considering your shorts are very loose and thin. Jack needs more of you, you can tell. He moves his hand that was once steady on your tit and heads for your cunt. “I want to feel you, baby. Please.”
You grab his hand and push it off your hip. You roll onto your back and tilt your head towards the wall. “Not tonight.”
“What?” he exclaims, his voice sounding like it’s on the verge of tears. “Please, baby. Let me touch you.”
You pretend you’re asleep. He doesn’t fall for it until you completely twist your body around and sink your face into your pillow.
That’s when he groans like someone trying not to throw a tantrum.
“Whatever,” you hear him mumble. “I need to take care of this.”
A second later, the bedsheets rustle and Jack gasps. Then he moans.
There’s a quiet movement in the sheets you hear. Like someone is beneath them, punching them over and over again, as if they might float up and away like a hot air balloon. However, no one is there. Well, except for Jack’s hand that’s fisting his extremely hard cock.
You don’t think he might actually be stroking himself until you hear one of his mangled moans. You heard those moans back when you first started dating and would fuck anywhere and everywhere. In bar bathrooms, in concert venue alleyways, or in the car. Jack would bite down on his lip – or yours – to stifle his moans but end up failing. They would sound lethargic, like he had just run a marathon, and it would always rile you up.
You hear those moans over and over again as the movement beneath the sheets gets faster.
“Fuck me,” he whispers. “My cock could be inside you right now. I could be hitting that spot you like, deep in your fucking pussy. If you had just let me.”
You don’t say a word. You keep quiet and only clamp your legs shut, even if you’re already really wet and it’s uncomfortable keeping this position.
“Yeah… yeah… I need to come,” you hear him mumbling. You can imagine his hand tight around his cock, pumping fast and hard, squeezing himself around the base like you usually do – something that typically pushes him over the edge. “Thinking about your pretty tits and that fucking cunt.”
The noise of the sheets gets louder, and so do his moans. When he comes, he whines.
You hear the snap of his boxers, then the sound of someone smacking their lips together. “All of this cum could be on your pretty little lips if you had just let me.”
Even though listening to him fuck his fist was enjoyable, you’re left upset knowing you didn’t even get to fuck him. Maybe tomorrow night, when the evil leads you to near BDSM.
Hi! I have a prompt for 141: Reader sending her husband spicy text messages while at a family gathering
This is only going to go one way: reader getting dicked down because they can't stop being a horny menace to their partners. I know the above says "husband" but I threw in a little cheeky boyfriend moment because why not.
For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE
Task Force 141 x Female Reader
Content & Warnings (mdni): sexting, oral sex, unprotected piv, creampie, dirty talk, family gathering/holiday, teasing, punishment, established relationship, risk of getting caught, breeding
Word Count: 2k
ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist
John Price
John is across the room, talking with your father.
They’re deep in conversation, your father speaking while John stares, silent and focused. Your father didn’t want you to marry military, thought the idea of John leaving you alone for long periods of time disrespectful. Whether their conversation is civil or not, it’s the perfect opportunity to mess with John.
Retrieving your phone, you open your messages. Glancing up at the two men, you smile, knowing that what you’re about to send will set John off.
I’m wet and horny. Can’t stop thinking about you fucking me on my childhood bed with everyone downstairs.
The messages become bubbles on the right-hand side of the screen. Locking your phone, you count the seconds, observing John as the messages come through. Your father turns away to say something to your cousin. In that moment, John pulls out his phone and glances at the screen.
You’re already up, already moving through the living room and toward the hall. Looking back to see if he’s following will ruin it. Either he’ll follow you or he won’t, but you’re betting on the former.
You take your time ascending the stairs. Everything about your movements is casual and unhurried. Rushing will only draw suspicion and questions. With the whole family in the house, you won’t be missed for a while. There are plenty of people here to bother each other.
At the top of the stairs, you head down the hall, stopping at the far door on the left. Without glancing back, you enter the room, shutting the door behind you, only to meet firm resistance. This is when you turn, finding your husband, his hand gripping the edge of the door. You release the handle, taking a step back as John forces himself inside, closing the door softly behind him.
“What are you up to?”
“Nothing,” you answer, shrugging.
John places his beer bottle on top of the dresser. Reaching for his belt, he undoes the front, never taking his eyes off you.
“That’s the bed,” says John, but it’s almost teasing, more of a “why are you not bent over already?” statement.
“It is,” you reply, hands behind your back, swaying.
John is on you seconds later. The man is so much stronger than you, and he uses it to his advantage. Spinning you around, he brings you flush against him, one arm braced over your front to hinder escape.
“Telling the truth? Or teasing?” he breathes into your ear.
“Can it not be both?” you counter, pressing your hand against the bulge in his pants, squeezing.
You bite back a yelp as you’re bent forward. Hands rising to brace yourself, they land on the bed, forehead pressed against the glittery duvet. Holding your hips, John shoves your dress up. It pools around your breasts, leaving most of you exposed.
“Be quiet, cabbage,” coos John, hooking a finger in your underwear, dragging it down to expose your pussy. “Don’t want daddy to hear.”
It’s the air, cool and biting against your arousal, and then you’re choking, fingers curling as John bottoms out. With one hand on the small of your back and the other supporting your pelvis, John’s hips move like a well-oiled piston. The stretch of him requires adjustment, but the lack of preparedness forces the ache higher.
The metal frame of the bed squeaks softly with his thrusts. John works fast, rough, his dick hitting deep.
You whimper and John fists your hair. “Said quiet,” he growls, and you promptly bite down on your knuckles.
Erratic and raw, you cling to the bed, taking John’s heavy hand, moaning around your fist as he explodes inside you.
“Don’t let your family see my cum sliding down your leg.”
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
You’re drooling, unable to peel your gaze away from your husband.
Kyle is crouched low, talking to his niece. She waves her hands excitedly as she talks, and Kyle hangs on every word. His parental nature is downright sexy, and though you’re resistant on having a kid, your ovaries are screaming at you, and when your ovaries are in control, you never make anything but horny decisions.
I want you to put a baby in me.
You send the text before you can think twice.
“Let’s sneak off.”
Kyle’s voice close and quiet. “Fucking Christ, you startled me.”
He taps your phone screen where the offending message glows back. “No one’s looking, bird. Plenty of places to hide here.”
“It’s nothing,” you shrug.
“Nothing?” he questions teasingly. “You asked for a baby.”
“Kyle—”
“Think of my cum dripping down your leg. And only we know about it.” He’s pressed in, a flirty twinkle in his eye. “Can make a break for it. Now. If that’s what you want.”
“Where, then?”
“Garage. Car.”
A minute later and you’re in the backseat of your father’s Jeep. The car isn’t locked and you didn’t turn the light on. If anyone opens the door, they’ll see nothing unless they step inside, the motion-activated overhead igniting when someone enters.
Sitting reverse in Kyle’s lap, you brace your hands on the center console, rocking your hips, his hands guiding and helpful.
“Love watching you take my cock. Fucking gorgeous.” Kyle groans. “Best fucking view.”
You’re doing most of the work, your thigh muscles aching from the position, but you’re sliding easily, arousal thick, perfectly coating Kyle’s cock.
“I’m gonna come,” you whimper.
Kyle is the only man who has ever given you an orgasm with penetration alone. He really is the perfect fit.
“Only when I fill your pussy, bird. Gotta stuff you first. Then you can. Promise.”
Kyle’s grip on your hips tightens, control slipping into his hands. You’re forced down and back up again in frequent, unrelenting succession.
“Kyle—I can’t. I—”
With a growl, Kyle thrusts up into you, holding you still as his cock pulses, emptying every drop. Fingers find your clit, circling, drawing forth the orgasm until your back bows and your head falls back, resting on his shoulder as you come undone.
Kyle is kissing your ear, kissing your neck, nipping at your throat as you come down.
“Don’t think I want to leave,” he murmurs.
“Your family—”
“I know.” He holds up your discarded thong. “But I’m taking these.”
John "Soap" MacTavish
Johnny’s phone pings.
Pings again.
You bite back a giggle, unwilling to blow your cover.
The MacTavish family is enormous, suppose that’s the way with Catholics. They don’t believe in birth control and with that comes armies of kids who have kids themselves. You’re surrounded, but you can still poke at your husband, especially with his family present.
Won’t be a better opportunity.
Johnny is smiling, laughing along with his siblings. You watch as he fishes his phone from his pocket, reads the screen, his smile fading, eyes widening. His head snaps up, scanning the room for you. When he spots you, the smile returns, but with it comes that look you know so well, the one where he’s up to no good.
A few strides and he’s butting into the conversation. “Excuse me. Need my wife. Only a moment.” He flashes his charm and everyone nods, waving the two of you off as he half-drags, half-leads you down the hall and into the nearby guestroom.
“What did you want to talk about?”
“You know what.” Johnny closes in, grasping, playfully tugging you closer. As you squirm, attempting to evade him, Johnny lunges, wrapping his arms around you, wildly humping your leg like a dog.
“Johnny!”
“Gonna show me how wet really are?” he breathes, his erection rubbing against your thigh. “Or was that a lie?”
Every shove on your attempt is feeble, not meant to fuel escape, but to play along.
Johnny pops the button on your jeans, sliding his hand in and down, cupping your sex, the tips of his fingers grazing your pussy.
“Show me,” he says, all playfulness gone. “Take it off.”
“No.”
Johnny has you face down, bent over the bed in seconds. Keeping one hand on the back of your neck to hold you in place, Johnny tugs at your jeans. They fall to your ankles, pooled at your feet. Johnny knees your legs wide, exposing you.
“There she is,” he coos, landing a soft slap to your pussy, the sound wet. “Could use a good fucking.”
He slides in one finger, then two, then three, stretching stretching stretching until your slickness is all over his fingers, preparing you to take his cock.
“Johnny,” you pant. “We can’t. Your family—”
His hold on the back of your neck tightens, silencing your next words. “Should of thought of that before telling me how badly you wanted me to fuck you.”
Fingers gone, they’re replaced with his cock. There is no sweetness to him, just rough thrusting that has you moaning into the bedding. It’s the only thing stifling your sounds. The rest is full of Johnny, of his grunts and groans, of the slick friction of your bodies meeting.
The orgasm rises, quick and sharp, ready to severe your head. You’re unable to do much except submit, clenching down on him as it bubbles forward.
A choked noise follows, and then you’re overfull, stuffed with Johnny’s cock and cum.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Awkward. Stiff.
It’s the only way you can describe Simon while he’s surrounded by a bunch of men he doesn’t know. Family gatherings often follow a routine with the men and women separated while the children run around the house. A stranger might mistake his silence for rapt attention, but you know all of Simon’s tells.
This function is growing boring anyway.
Time to save yourself—and him.
While a distant cousin rattles off about her last five pap smears and recent pregnancy, you tap away at your phone, sending Simon a quick message. Nothing fancy, just a blunt statement that’ll grab his attention.
I’m bored. Can I suck you off?
You draw your gaze to the men. Simon is looking down at his phone, his expression unreadable. The shift is subtle, just Simon’s eyes finding you, the rest of him a statue.
“I’ll be right back,” you murmur to your aunt.
She inclines her head in acknowledgement, but her attention remains on your cousin. Perfect. They’re all preoccupied and the children are hyped on sugar. No one will care that you’ve stepped away, or that Simon will disappear.
You take two steps into the upstairs bathroom before Simon is on you. Back pressed against the closed door, Simon grasps the sides of your face, drawing you into a kiss. It leaves you breathless, hands rising to rest against his chest as he devours.
“On your knees,” he growls, breaking it off, making quick work of his pants.
His cock is out and in your mouth seconds later. You nearly choke with how rough that first thrust is. Fisting the base, you stroke him in time with the bob of your head. Simon keeps one hand at the back of your head, the other on your shoulder, the pressure of both keeping you in place.
“Didn’t lock the door,” he says. “Someone might walk in. Your father, perhaps. Think he’d enjoy seeing his daughter on her knees?”
Simon is not your husband. He isn’t even your fiancé. The two of you are still in the dating period, serious, living together, but not moving forward. If your father walked in, or a brother, and found Simon fucking your mouth, they’d lose their shit.
Not that Simon couldn’t take them. Wouldn’t hurt them for your sake, but he’d stand his ground.
“Suck harder, love. Make this quick. Wouldn’t want dear old dad to find out.”
You obediently do as you’re told, taking more, allowing Simon to seize the lead. Tears form in your eyes as you gag. Simon remains steady and unrelenting, pace quickening as your cheeks and chin are painted with drool and tears.
“Almost there, love,” he grunts.
Simon’s head falls back, and then he’s holding you flush, lips touching your hand, muscles flexing as he comes down your throat.
No thoughts just dragon!reader being absolutely enamoured with price and his cigars...
Logistically, you know price isn't a dragon, that he has no inner fire or smoke chamber to breathe from. But that fact doesn't stop your instincts from burning with want whenever he decides to smoke around you.
You feel foolish whenever your wings decide to puff out around price, a mind of their own you've yet to get a hang on. Your only saving grace being that most humans are absolutely clueless about dragon courting displays.
Little do you know, price knows damn well what he's doing when he pulls out the expensive cigars around you.
Or when he decides to learn a few tricks and show them off, grinning all pleased at the way your tail thrashes in barely contained arousal. Once, price blew smoke in your face mid-conversation and you had to physically brace against the way from how intensely horny you became.
It was only a matter of time before you approached price, inner fire burning hot when you offered a piece from your hoard, asked if he would be your mate.
The...unfortunate side affect is that you can't smell his cigars without remembering how you inhaled the smoke from his mouth whith him thrusting between your legs and filling you up for the third time that night....
Not a great quirk to have considering how often he smokes on the field.
something that i think is under appreciated about season one is just how concerned/heartbroken everyone is for robby.
walsh asks if robby is ok. donnie gives him this helpless and bereft look when he tells robby that leah’s parents are there. samira and mckay watch robby work on leah in utter sadness. perlah sends him worried glances basically the whole season.
dana starts off the season by iterating to heather that robby would be off that day. it is so obvious to literally everyone that robby is on the brink that whole season. it’s just a fact that everyone legitimately cares for him and feels terrible about how shit his day has been.
this is one of the reasons i just can’t buy the narrative that robby is a mean/bad boss. all of these people have so much sympathy and empathy for him. it is obvious they’re all worried because he’s not acting like himself. mckay, even when she’s so mad at robby about the incel kid thing, says she’s ‘learned from the best’ and looks where robby was.
robby is a competent boss who has developed meaningful connections with his staff. there’s context to those relationships that is just plain to see and it should not be disregarded.
Trigger warning: emotional/physical abuse mention, shitty father figure
John Price came from a military family, his mother a well respected medic and his father a highly decorated Captain. You grew up hearing his name spat at you, your father using his accomplishments against you. John this, John that.
You’re not close, the ten year gap between you and John creating a bigger divide. That and the fact he rarely visited home, but ohh your father spoke of him. You’d stare at John’s stupid face, full military uniform and medals pinned to his chest…just like your dad. Horrible bastard probably. That was enough for you to steer clear of your older brother. The too serious, barely smiling man that grunted at everyone but your mum.
Now your dad never let you forget how disappointed he was of you.
Too soft, he’d say pushing you to the ground till you hit him back. “Pathetic, you think people are going to fight for you? You gotta hold your own.” Bloody knees and calloused hands were familiar, sure you could fight, but you could never anticipate the heavy hands your dad dealt you. Your mum taught you how to glue and tape the gash above your brow. Frozen peas wrapped around a tea towel for tender spots, gotta prevent that nasty bruise. She taught John how to cook, something she never did for you as she was always the one doing it. Fixing yourself up came naturally.
There’d always be this invisible threat hanging over you growing up. You’d lost count of the times he’d woken you at five in the morning to go for a run, increase your stamina whilst his spit hurled at you and his voice bellowed in your ear. Restricting meals so you could survive on barely nothing and conserve your energy incase something were to happen. Nothing did happen. The old man convinced his work would catch up with him, he still thought he was a Captain. Checked your room like you were a soldier, sheets tucked tightly under the mattress and nothing out of place.
John’s bitter that you grew up with both parents at home. He never had much of a stable upbringing, bouncing back and forth from whatever military base your parents were living at the time. He hated how the old man had seemed to mellow out, how he left you alone in your bedroom and didn’t expect the same standards he threw at him. No john hated that you got a normal life. How he was moulded into a soldier before a son. How he had to grow up quick, make his own meals and do his own laundry before his voice dropped.
He doesn’t know how you grew up, survived and you think as he’s the favoured son that he didn’t get it as bad as you. As if there was something wrong with you that needed correcting. Too soft. Not good enough for the Price name.
So when John sees you in the infirmary at his base he’s not sure what to think. Your mother’s maiden name clipped to your lapel, your gaze flitting to him as you blatantly ignore him sitting beside Kyle who’s practically flirting with you as you stitch up a wound on his bicep. Did you just smile? And when did you get that scar above your brow? He knows you don’t speak to your parents, his your mother hounding him on the phone about your possible whereabouts.
♡ pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader x michael robinavitch
♡ synopsis: after creating a rift in your triumvirate, jack has hardly felt more regret in his life. wanting nothing more than to repair his, your, and robby's fractured relationship, he makes an admittance to each of you that changes everything.
♡ content: angst, threesome, p in v, creampie, fondling, jack has feelings for robby, robby & jack share & try to breed reader
♡ a/n: written thanks to @rufles2's comment on the prev. part 😏
( PART I )
Jack has been quite irritable lately. Such as at home when a Steelers game is playing on the flatscreen and one of his favorite quarterbacks makes a commendable play on the field—something which always makes his head jerk to the left in search of Robby, only to realize with disappointment that he's no longer around. Then is when he sinks back against the sofa with crossed arms and a scowl etched upon his face.
Or at work, when there's a ridiculous case. Like a fairly recent one where a woman swallowed a tapeworm because she "Liked knowing she wasn't alone because her pet was always with her.", and that it "Made for a good alternative to diet pills."
Safe to say that a psyche consult was requested.
But seeing as Jack is the one who caused this whole issue, you're reluctant to provide him comfort from his own decisions.
You figure that if he wants Robby around again, he can very well suck up his pride and tell him as much.
Every time Jack tries to get close to him in the ED, however, Robby goes in the opposite direction, or otherwise swerves around him like a car narrowly avoiding driving head-long into an oncoming accident.
You're not doing any better with the situation.
It was only a couple days ago which saw you crying in a stall in the women's restroom because you were so distraught over the fact that he won't even look at you now. Even when you're in the same room together, he scarcely acknowledges your presence.
You're starting to resent your husband for it.
So now here you stand half an ED away from him, gathering pre-warmed blankets for a homeless woman who came in with a fractured shin due to being attacked two streets over after having her shopping cart wrenched away, and thus stolen.
The matter has been reported to the police, but you've little faith that they'll do anything worthwhile about it.
Once you've reached her room, you set a fresh cup of water on the overbed table before fanning out one of the three blankets you've retrieved for her comfort.
"Thank you, dear," she says with a smile. "Sweet of you to look after me."
You open your mouth to assure her that it's your job to ensure she's well looked after while here at PTMC, until another rumbling voice speaks up from behind you. "That is her specialty."
Turning around, you're greeted by the sight of Robby leaning against the doorway with folded arms. "Jack's looking for you," he states while softly jerking his head to the left.
You half turn toward him. "Okay. Thank you."
He nods before stepping away.
"Is that your husband?" Gloria—your patient—asks.
Turning back to her, you blink stupidly while your cheeks warm. Not in embarrassment, but rather upset. "No," you say with a shake of your head while smoothing the bottom of her top-most blanket into place. He used to be, in a manner of speaking. "Just a—" Friend? Maybe not anymore... "Coworker."
She grabs her cup and pinches the straw between her thumb and forefinger before taking a sip—studying you all the while with a knowing look. Setting the beverage back down, she leans back. "Sure looks at you like he is."
Glancing toward the doorway, she hums in interest. "I'd climb that man like a damn tree."
Your eyes widen and you laugh nervously. "Well—"
She shoos you with her hand. "You go. Find this Jack fellow. And give that tall drink of water a kiss. Just say it's from me if he asks," she finishes with a wink.
A grin blooms upon your face. "I, uh..." You shake your head. "Someone will be in to see you soon, Gloria. Promise."
"Robby told me that you were looking for me?"
Jack studies you from over his glasses. "We need to talk about him," he says while clicking through various panels on the computer he stands at.
Crossing your arms, you wait for him to continue.
Straightening, Jack places a hand against the small of your back while leading you outside. "Not a conversation we should be having in here." He shakes his head slightly. "Should have it at home instead, but why wait?"
Your mouth now agape, all you can manage to do is stare at your husband. "You want to what?"
"You have feelings for him," he states with palms outstretched. "And he for you. Look, Robby is going down a dangerous road that I don't know how to pull him back from. I want him in our lives again. What I want more than anything is to fix what the hell I broke. And offering him a place in our home and—"
"In our bed?!" You exclaim.
He rolls his head to the side while crossing his arms and pursing his lips. "Because you've never thought about it. While I've been inside of you, at that."
You open your mouth to retort, until he cuts you off.
"It's been happening pretty regularly as of late: us having sex while you're off somewhere else in your head. Or with someone else." He stands. "You wanna tell me who, or just admit that I'm on the money to save yourself some time?"
You narrow your eyes at him. "Yeah, well..." You chew the inside of your cheek. Go for the jugular. "You stare at him more than you look at me when we're here."
His lips tug into a smirk. "That's my entire point, sweetheart." He chuckles while cupping your cheek. "I spent so long being afraid of losing the both of you to each other. And like a self-fulfilling prophecy..." He shrugs. "Happened anyway by me trying to prevent it."
You rest your hands against his chest. "Jack," you slide a palm upward to his cheek. "What're you trying to say, exactly?"
His eyes grow glassy and he glances away. "You're not the only one who has feelings for him."
Relief washing over you.
Finally, the truth has been laid bare.
Not one you're wholly surprised to hear, either. At least it doesn't take you by surprise, because you're sure this is hard enough as it is for him to admit to.
"He—we were best friends first, and then you came along and I gained a wife. You both grew close and every time I saw you together, this feeling settled into the pit of my stomach like a fucking stone," he says while gesturing to it. "Like it was inevitable: me fading into the background so that you each could be happy. So that Robby could. Because I would've been willing to let it happen just to save him from himself."
He shakes his head in irritation while looking to the right and nodding. "This helmetless motorcycle bullshit is going to cost us everything." His chin wobbles. "And I'll have driven him to it."
Throwing your arms around his neck, you card your fingers in his soft silver hair. "Jack, just talk to him. Tell him everything you've told me. He deserves to hear it."
He wraps his arms around you. "I'll fucking lose him," he mumbles against your shoulder.
"You will anyway, baby. If you don't do it, I will."
Robby finds himself unable to tear his gaze away from Jack's trembling hands. Something which has always been so steady on his person, he now seems unable to control.
"Just...come home with us, Robby. We can talk about it there—"
He shakes his head. "Nope. You made it clear that was a place I'm no longer welcome. Whatever you need to say, you can do it here."
Jack frowns and hangs his head. "She's in love with you, Robby," he mutters. "It was just...stupid jealously that I let force my hand when I drove you away. And I have regretted it every goddamn day since."
Robby sinks his hands into the pockets of his hoody. "It's just who she is, Jack. She has a heart the size of Texas. Every person who crosses her path in there she comes to care for. It isn't about me—"
Jack lifts his head. "You're wrong and you know it. She told me about the night the two of you talked."
Robby's brows lift and he takes a step back. He shouldn't blame you for disclosing it to him. He's your husband. But for some reason, it still cuts deep: that this secret he thought the two of you shared strictly between you has now been laid bare before another.
Running his hand down the back of his head, Robby looks toward the ED. "I don't know what the hell we're talking about. I need to get back inside."
Turning, he only makes it a few steps before Jack blurts out the truth he wish he otherwise knew how to bury like a dead dog. "She isn't the only one who has fucking feelings, alright?"
Robby stalls and looks back to him. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Tell you the same thing I told her: I was afraid. That the two people I love most in the world were growing closer, and maybe in time I'd," he runs a hand down the side of his face, "Get left behind or—" He squeezes his eyes shut.
Robby turns fully back to where he sits then.
"How many men died next to me overseas? How many patients have I lost here? I finally gain two people—two fucking people—who I love more than anything in the world, and all my mind can do is catastrophize the situation. She'll leave you for him. He'll leave you for her. You're being goddamn selfish, but dammit, if you aren't, just think of what might happen. All things I told myself," he says with an outward swipe of his hand.
Jack stares up at Robby with bloodshot eyes.
Robby snorts with a smirk. "You tryin' to tell me that you're in love with me, Jack?"
When Jack doesn't match his sarcastic demeanor, the smile disappears.
Shit.
If nothing else, Jack is grateful for his change in attitude; the lighter look found upon Robby's face and within his eyes.
With a sigh, Robby seats himself heavily next to Jack.
"Maybe I've felt this way for awhile. And I didn't know how to address it. I just let shit snowball and look where it's gotten all of us. I'm trying to have sex with my wife, but can't get my shit to work because I'm riddled with guilt, she's lying there thinking about you, and you're—" He looks at the stupid hunk of metal that's leaning against a kickstand a few feet away that he'd like nothing more than to take a sledgehammer to. "Just going to disappear."
Robby plants a hand atop Jack's shoulder and gives it a squeeze. "It's just a sabbatical, Abbot."
"That's bullshit and you know it." Jack looks at him. "Stay. We'll take care of you, Robby. You have two people who want you back. Who love you. I am begging you, brother, please."
Robby's eyes flit between Jack's, and he wavers.
Robby shifts uncertainly on his feet, watching as you turn down your and Jack's king-sized bed. "I shouldn't be here."
You pad over to him and caress his stubbled cheek in your palm. "This is where you belong, Robby. It's okay."
His eyes flit from you, to Jack, who's seated on the opposite side of the bed massaging his leg, and then finally back to you. "This doesn't freak the two of you out?"
"Freaked me out more not having you around," Jack throws over his shoulder.
Standing on tiptoes, you brush a kiss over his lips. "You're right where you belong."
You press soft kitten kisses to his cheek before settling on flat feet again. "Is this where you wanna be?"
With gathering tears in his eyes, he silently nods. "Yeah," he replies while swiping at his nose. "As long as you'll have me."
You pant against Jack's chest while Robby fucks you from behind. From between hot, cum-slick walls, his cock eases easily in and out of you. He grips the fleshy skin that surrounds your hips, grunting against the back of your head while Jack strokes himself between your thighs.
This is the third time in a week they've both had you in bed between them. How many times it's happened in the last month...? You stopped keeping tracking of your threesomes awhile ago, they've become such a regular, but nevertheless, beloved occurrence.
"Fuck," Robby growls while lifting your right leg over his hip.
Reaching behind you, you cup the back of his head in your palm. "S—So good," you whine.
He slides his hand upward to squeeze your breast.
Jack scooches closer and wedges his cock between Robby's and the crook of your thigh. "Fuck, that's good," he groans.
Crushing his lips to yours, Jack explores your open mouth greedily with his salivating tongue.
"Mmm," you whimper while groping his chest.
"God, I love you both so fuckin' much," Jack mutters while you tug gingerly at his swollen testicles.
Robby reaches around through your all's mess of sweaty limbs to cup his cheek. "So do we," he rasps.
Slipping himself out of you, Robby begins stroking himself against your back; favoring the mushroom tip of his red, swollen cock.
"Please," you cry, desperate to be filled again. "More. I want more."
Jack lines his cock up against your slick, messy entrance.
"Your turn, brother," Robby mumbles before scratching his beard against the heated skin of your neck.
He slides a hand over the curve of your waist and between your legs. Spreading you open with his fingers, he gazes at Jack from beneath hooded lids while teasing your clit with his middle and index fingers, causing your hips to buck back against him. "All yours."
Jack eases inside of you with painstaking tenderness. Once he's bottomed out against your cunt, you begin to weep from satisfaction.
"Shh," Robby hushes against the shell of your ear. "I know, sweetheart. We're here." He chuckles darkly while circling his hand around your throat. "Both your husbands are right here," he drawls while smirking at Jack.
Jack angles himself upward; making an effort to find that hard to reach place which gives you so much pleasure at their hands. Clawing at his shoulder, you slide your leg over his side instead. "Ah, right there," you whisper while your eyes roll back in your head. "God, please, don't stop, Jack."
With you begging him for more, and Robby's calloused hand roaming his upper arm and bare leg, Jack finds himself unable to prevent what's coming.
Finishing quickly with guttural moan—and for the second time inside of you—Jack throws his head back in relief.
Not but a moment later, Robby eagerly returns his cock to being wedged between your fluttering walls. "You ready for round four?" He questions.
You nod slowly. "Y-Yes. Please, Robby."
Jack guides your hand to his cock that's wet from your mixed arousal. "Good. Because we're not done yet."
Robby sinks his teeth into your shoulder as he begins to feverishly rut away.
You can no longer remember why you were ever hesitant about this arrangement now. For it's worked out so well for you—entirely in all your favors.
There'd been a question posed by you to Jack at one time, in regards to paternity if your endeavors to conceive become fruitful. He'd simply smiled, held you close, and said that so long as the baby was loved, nothing else truly mattered.
Lying between them like this, you think you agree.
And it's given Robby something to hold onto as well. Your love affair, yes, but also the prospect of soon becoming a father. Something which he'd begun to believe he'd never have—a possibility too far gone from his reach.
You believe it to be why he's the one who's always most eager to initiate intimacy between the three of you: to fill a void that PTMC has carved into him through repeated losses he blames himself for. All that pain he couldn't outrun, or outdrive, he now pours into every word he confides to you and Jack in his darker moments, every kiss he grants in his lighter ones, and every touch in-between.
Sliding his hand over your belly, Robby moves his lips close your ear. "You've given me so much, sweetheart."
You slide back against the soft, pliant skin of his belly.
"Let me try and repay it," he murmurs before pouring himself inside of you.
