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˚⁎⁺˳ . ⊹ epictetus said that the only way to happiness is to "cease worrying about things which are beyond the power of our will." however, since the man clearly never met dean di laurentis, you're going to go ahead and ignore him. maybe the way to happiness is being a stubborn asshole, which you've got pretty down pat.
˚⁎⁺˳ . ⊹ fem!reader, dean di laurentis x reader, smau.
summary: the three times jack abbot compared you to someone else vs. the one time you were exactly who he wanted but couldn't have anymore.
tags: jack abbot x reader, angst, deep insecurities, jack compares you to samira, robby, and his late-wife (I named her alice), a few scene changes but it's for the plot, trying out [name] but if I don't like it, it's back to y/n for all of you, jack is lowkey an asshole on accident (thinks he's meaning well by complimenting others, but tears you apart in the process), medical inaccuracies, hurt/no comfort (at least for jack), eventual breakup, special end scene guest star, age gape (28-32/50), heavily inspired by lacy by olivia rodrigo (which I suggest listening to while you read) and all the feels that come with that, 18+ MDNI
notes: this hurt to write, and this better hurt y'all in the best angsty way possible! just a reminder that my requests for the hatosyverse are open, and that I'm doing smutty blurbs to build my writing abilities, enjoy!
word count: 7.4k
You didn't understand how you'd been able to score Jack Abbot.
Somehow, the universe decided that you'd be his match, the one he chose to go home to at the end of a bad shift, the one who'd been able to give him the most comfort during his darkest days. You knew what you'd be getting into: the PTSD, the depression, shifts where he felt more like your boss than your partner. But you believed you could get through it; Jack was older, and you liked to think you were mature enough to handle anything thrown your way.
For almost a year, your relationship bloomed in stolen glances across the Pitt, hidden moments in supply closets, and late-night baths spent at his house trying to bury yourself next to his heart. Jack was it for you, and you let yourself dream about a future, ring on your finger, possible children running around the house you shared. The two of you rarely fought, often choosing to apologize for anything under the sun before arguments grew too large for your feelings.
Never once did Jack make you feel inadequate, even if you had voiced early on that you truly didn't understand why he picked you. Compared to his gorgeous salt-and-pepper curls and freckled skin and large stature, you felt plain. Your hair was always pulled into a slick ponytail, makeup caused acne breakouts after 12-hour shifts, and what little time you had to yourself, you spent it at home, reading a book, instead of going out with friends and colleagues. People looked at you without so much as a second glance. Jack, on the other hand, made heads turn and nurses blush if they somehow caught his attention long enough for him to send a look their way. You couldn't remember the last time you went through a shift where a female (or sometimes male) patient failed to make a comment about the sexy, silver fox doctor.
You never made it more than it was: harmless flirting from people Jack would never think about again once they got discharged.
After, you and he had gone through the HR meetings, the contract signings, and the swearing that your relationship wouldn't get in the way of saving lives or have Jack start playing favorites. To further this, around the 9-month mark of being Jack's, they plucked you from the safety of the nightshift and dropped you right into Robby's hands. But this was how it was going to be from now on; there was no point in arguing as long as you got to keep Jack.
For three months, you persevered. Finding a groove with an already well-oiled shift proved to be harder than it looked. People talked. Nurses gossiped. Doctors speculated. You, through it all, kept your chin high. Their words didn't get to dictate your relationship. During handoffs, Jack still swept you into his arms and kissed you like a man coming back from war. He still told you that dinner was in the fridge once you got home and napped. He still continued to send updates during his shift, text messages from the separate night-shift group chat made after your departure chiming loudly while you ate. And most important of all, he still loved you.
However, nothing could have prepared you for the three times you felt the most unloved.
I care, I care, I care, like perfume that you wear, I linger all the time, watchin', hidden in plain sight, ooh, I try, I try, I try, but it takes over my life, I see you everywhere, the sweetest torture one could bear
"Hey, Dana," you called out while swimming through the chaos only brought on by a 4th of July shift.
At her name, Dana looked up over the thin frames of her glasses, pausing momentarily to look your way before going back to her board. "Please don't tell me that the 36 hot dog guy is back."
You shook your head, hands coming to rest on top of the vinyl counter. "Not that I'm aware of."
"Thank heavens. What can I do for ya, hun?"
Leaning in, you did a quick glance around the department. "I heard Jack was here early?"
Her eyebrows almost rose to her hairline. "Yeah; he came in with one of his SWAT buddies. GSW to the man's neck, but it looks like he's going to be okay." She reached over and grabbed a tablet. "Actually, can you find Jack for me? He wanted an update ASAP."
Your fingers drummed against the counter anxiously before you took the tablet from her. "I was just about to ask if you'd seen him."
Dana glanced over your shoulder and stuck out her chin in the same direction. "Saw him duck into Room 15. Might be taking a breather; Lord knows he needs one after that raid." She gave you a knowing look, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Maybe you're exactly what he needs."
A rush of heat flooded your face, eyes darting away from hers. "I'll see if I can find him."
You turned away before she could say anything more, hands desperately holding the tablet to your chest. Your shoes squeaked against the tile floor, steps bringing you closer to the room Jack was supposedly in. Once at the door, you raised a hand to draw the curtain away, but the sound of voices—plural—had you stopping. Saliva pooled between your teeth as you listened closely.
"—is the hospital going to pay for it?"
There was a pause before Jack clearly grumbled, "I'll pay for it."
You slowly moved to the side next to the wall where the curtain didn't completely cut the room off. Through the slot, your eyes widened at the sight of a Jack, shirt off, pale chest, wound-care swab twirling in his fingers with Samira sitting in one of the chairs. In the next beat, she stood and walked right past the curtain slot, completely oblivious that you were right behind it. She stopped near the wall and grabbed a pair of gloves before snapping them on.
His brows furrowed. "What are you doing?"
She smiled before rounding to stand behind him. "What you clearly can't."
Begrudgingly, he handed over the swab.
"Did you make a chart?" she asked while dipping the cotton end into a wound cream.
Jack crossed his arms, and his shoulders rolled and dipped. "No. This can stay off the books. Don't need the paperwork from the hospital or police department."
Samira paused. "Would you rather me go get Dr. [Name]? I'm sure she could do this much better than I could."
"No," Jack responded, shaking his head. "She'd just panic about this. There's no need to throw her off her game."
Your stomach flipped. He thought you'd panic? Sure, you'd be worried, but it wasn't like you hadn't seem him hurt before. Whatever wound he had on his back wouldn't be the worst thing he'd come home with after a SWAT shift.
"Isn't she your girlfriend?" She began dabbing at his back, the swab coming back bloodied.
"Yeah, but it's different with you. I don't have to worry about you taking your time or being indifferent about this." He winced at a deeper brush into the graze. "She's not like you, Dr. Mohan. She wears everything on her sleeve. Really, she could learn how to be more level headed like you, Dr. Mohan. I've seen the way you handle traumas. We wouldn't be so in the low if we had about 10 more of you."
He ended with a chuckle like what he just said didn't feel like a knives to your stomach.
Is that what he really thought about you? That you should be more like Samira and her ability to stay cool through anything thrown at her? With a blink, your eyes glossed over.
Jack turned his head, neck twisting to he could meet Samira's eyes. "You won't tell her about this, right? Our little secret?"
You didn't stay to hear what she said, choosing to turn around before you could watch any longer. It was incredible that you were able to stay for so long, submitting yourself to a new kind of torture. Walking back to the nurses station, your steps slowed as if molasses coated the floor, its stickiness clinging to your shoes.
At your oncoming presence, Dana looked over. "Did you find him, hun?"
You forced yourself to not look back at the closed curtain. "Yeah, but he's in the middle of something right now. I'll just catch up with him later."
The tablet gave a small thud as you placed it back into the holder, and you desperately tried to find another patient to busy yourself with, specifically one furthest from Room 15. However, before you could grab one, a hand wrapped around your elbow and tugged.
"Hey, I need you for the incoming trauma," Langdon said as he dragged you with him. "Twenty-year-old female, unconscious for an unknown matter of time."
You nodded silently, allowing him to keep walking you like a dog on a leash until he stopped in front of the ambulance bay sliding doors. Your lungs expanded in a deep, wavering breath.
Now was not the time to panic. You could do this. You could be like Samira. You could show Jack that you could handle a trauma.
During your internal pep talk, the doors slid open, giving way for the gurney and two paramedics.
"BP is 140-over-92 and climbing. No relevant medical history. She woke up once on the way over and vomited before passing out again."
You quickly followed Langdon into the first trauma room and helped transfer her over onto the bed. Immediately, numbers started being shouted while you started your initial exam.
When nothing seemed to blare any red flags, Langdon started impatient as the woman kept deteriorating. Through it all, you willed your hands to stay steady, your mind calm while you mentally went through what could be the matter. You took a step forward, body positioning near her head so you could look at her pupils one more time, and that's when you smelled it: the acrid, fruity smell puffing out of her mouth as she struggled to breath.
You jerked back quickly. "Dr. Langdon, is there a history of diabetes or hyperglycemia? Her breath smells like rotting fruit."
Langdon looked over at you before leaning toward her face. He hissed a curse before barking for a blood sugar test. Your eyes widened when the screen flashed a 450 mg/dL.
"She's experiencing diabetic ketoacidosis," you breathed.
"Let's get her on an insulin drip, now," Langdon hissed, face pinched until he looked over at you with a softer expression. "Great job catching that and staying calm." He chuckled slightly. "Never seen you like this but keep it up."
You knew his words were meant to be encouraging, but all they did was send bile up your throat. Without saying anything more, you tore off the gloves and shoved them deep into a biohazard bin. You wanted to cry, wanted to find the nearest restroom and tug at your hair.
But that's not what Samira would do your mind provided; the thought ugly and green. She'd shrug it all off and keep working like nothing was the matter.
Your teeth ground together, shoulders squaring in tandem. If everyone would rather have you calm, you'd be calm. You'd tuck your heart away rather than show it to the patients who needed someone that wore it on their sleeve. You picked up another tablet at the nurses station and got back to work.
The rest of the fourth went by in a tornado. Systems went down after a cyberattack; fireworks boomed off in the distance; you stayed busy. Each of your patients were in and out at a lightning speed, and by the start of the night shift, you were ready to go home and cry your heart out into a pillow.
You'd seen Samira every so often in between patients and a small lunch break. Like always, she smiled at you and waved and chatted when she could, but her actions made you want to wither up like a dead flower. You couldn't help but stare at her, thinking that you should be more like the woman in front of you, mind comparing your features to hers at a rapid speed you couldn't stop. She somehow looked like an angel in the middle of a place jokingly nicknamed one of the seven layers of hell, skin clear and hair somehow perfectly put in a bun. You tried your best to match her enthusiasm, but the poison had already been drank.
On the contrary, the only time you really saw Jack was at the start of handoffs. He had helped with one trauma before going to the on-call room for a needed nap, and you hadn't wanted to talk to him then, scared of how he'd act around you.
"There you are, sweetheart," you heard him say as you finished up converting with Lena about the man in Room 5. "I've been looking for you. Thought you might have left without saying goodbye."
You winced slightly. "No; I've just been busy."
Jack hummed and smiled warmly at you, but the expression was tainted by his words earlier. "I heard. Langdon's been nothing but praising you for earlier. I'm proud of you."
"Sure you are," you muttered too lowly for him to catch. Your lips thinly stretched into a smile that didn't meet your tired eyes. "Thank you, Jack," you settled on instead.
His hazel eyes scanned over your face, and his smile slightly dropped. "Are you okay, though? You look a little down."
"I'm fine," you shot out. "Today's just been long, and I'm ready to get home."
Jack nodded. "I left food in the fridge for you, so make sure you eat it after you sleep for a bit."
"Got it."
He looked at you expectantly before rolling his eyes. "Come here."
Like it had been etched into your DNA, you listened and fell into his open arms, face tucking into his chest. He squeezed you tightly before placing a kiss to your temple.
"Proud of you," he said. "You do such a good job. We need so many doctors like you, my perfect girl."
Perfect felt like a twist of the knife, because if you were so perfect, why had he told Samira that he wished you were more like her?
I feel your compliments like bullets on skin. Dazzling starlet, Bardot reincarnate, well, aren't you the greatest thing to ever exist?
As the weeks went on, Jack's words never left your soul, the damage irreparable in everything that you did.
Second guessing yourself had been a struggle you'd dealt with since an earlier age. Normally, Jack would be able to quiet all those thoughts; he had chosen you; he loved you. But now, as you second guessed everything you did, you also second guessed everything Jack said. You picked apart every encouragement, every compliment, every sweet promise he whispered in your ear.
What he said now couldn't be taken at face value, and you wondered if that feeling would ever go away. You'd asked him about the bullet graze a few days after the 4th, acting completely oblivious to what you knew. Like you thought, Jack assured you that he got it handled and for you to not worry about it, like that did anything to settle the rolling feelings in your stomach.
You tried your best to move on, knowing you'd only bring yourself down more if you dwelled too long about really how much Jack's words had affected you while he never said anything directly to your face. The idea that he wanted you to be like someone else made your heart clench tightly to the point you often wanted to call off work, hoping that you could just wallow in self pity for hours and hours.
But the Pitt did not care for you like that; it demanded twelve hour shifts and grueling doubles. So every day, you rolled out of bed before Jack got home and pulled up your big girl pants.
You worked through it. You'd learned how to stay calm, how to not panic under duress, and it killed you to admit that you'd become a better doctor because of it. You hardly ever hiccuped during a trauma, gaining compliments from the surgeons and Robby for your techniques that were close to flawless. For the smallest second, you would preen under their words before the ugly, repulsive reminder that they might not be real swallowed you down in a nasty gulp.
"Dr. [Name] follow me please," Robby called as he brushed past the nurses station where you were currently typing away at a chart, hands clutching a chart out in front of him to read. "Quickly."
You pushed up from the desk, chair rolling far behind you from the force of your legs. Not wanting to lose him, you rounded the counter and jumped into his long stride.
"Yes, Dr. Robby?" you asked.
As far as you knew, there weren't any incoming traumas and it was too late in the day for him to have questions about your patients that were currently waiting for a room.
Robby paused in front of an empty trauma room. "Jack just let me know that he found a man in need of medical attention and is bringing him in before handoffs, and I thought you could help him out." He handed you the tablet, already ready to go with updated information.
You took a quick glance over this. "Um, Dr. Robby, it looks like he'll need a pericardiocentesis."
"It's good that you know exactly what he'll need. What's the issue?"
Your eyes looked from the screen to his brown eyes. "I've never done one before."
He simply smiled at you and patted your shoulder. "That's why Jack's going to lead you through it. I would stay, but since he's coming in early, I'm going to head out."
You tried to quirk a smile. "Got a hot date waiting for you?"
A low chuckle shook his shoulders. "You got jokes. My bike needs some repairs, and today's the only day I can get it into the shop. But I know you'll be just fine. Your improvement in traumas will only grow if you step out of your comfort zone."
The automatic sliding doors slid open, and Jack plus a nurse wheeled a man through on a gurney. Jack's eyes lit up at the sight of you, but his brows pinched when he noticed Robby's bag slung over the taller man's shoulder.
"You leaving early, brother?" Jack questioned as he stepped past the two of you.
Robby's hand gently rested on your shoulder. "Yeah, but you two will have this handled."
You inhaled deeply, the weight of his hand and words pushing down on your chest.
Robby was counting on you. Don't fuck this up. Don't panic.
With the tablet tucked under your arm, you walked into the trauma room before pulling on a pair of gloves. Jack had already cut through the man's shirt.
"I need two 18-gage needles, one 9cm and one 15cm, a guidewire, dilator, and 8Fr pigtail catheter." He looked up toward Jesse. "Let's give him 10ml lignocaine 1%."
You quickly gather what he needed and placed him on the dressing that covered the side tray.
"Okay, Dr. [Name]," Jack said, lips twitching upwards at using your official name, "I need you to place an ECG electrode on the pericardiocentesis needle with a crocodile clip and insert. Once the tip touches the myocardium, the trace should show immediate ST elevation. Once that comes up, insert the wire to aspirate the fluid."
His words tumbled through your mind much too fast to the point that you wondered if he didn't know you'd never done this before. You pursed your lips as you tried to remember everything. In the grand scheme of things, your training provided everything that needed to be done.
Yet, there was a big difference between studying and actually doing the procedure.
You kept your breath steady as you readied the needle, clamping on a clip before turning the pointed end toward the man's chest. The first part went smoothly, and the needle went right through. However, instead of the consistent beeping that should have followed if the needle was in properly, an onslaught of alarms sounded through your ears.
You had missed something.
Jack whipped his head toward you and sneered. "You went too deep. I told you that the needle needed to touch the myocardium not go all the way through. Give it here."
He didn't even wait for you to transfer the needle over, hands already grabbing at it. His head bent down so he could see what was happening. With a practiced ease, he maneuvered the needle exactly where it should have been.
"Fuck," he whispered, "Robby wouldn't have done that. I don't know why he handed this off to you if he knew the patient would need a pericardiocentesis for tamponade."
You thickly swallowed pooling saliva to clear your throat. "Sorry."
"Just—" He closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. "I'll finish up here. You go home."
You jolted just a bit. Go home?
"Jack, I can still assist. You're going to need—"
"We have it covered. Catheter is in place, and you'd just be standing around. You're good."
Suddenly, a wave of anguish flowed through your body. It was happening again. Jack had just added fuel to the ever growing fire of jealousy and self-loathing. The feeling sized your chest, and you stepped back from the bed, shaky hands ripping off the nitrile gloves.
You couldn't help the stressed wheeze that pushed from your lungs.
Don't panic. Don't panic. He didn't mean it. He was just stressed. He didn't know that you'd never done that before.
Numbly, you walked back to the nurses station and sat back down in front of the computer, but your hands didn't raise to the keyboard. Your mind had already taken over, spewing rotten things about yourself that you could fix.
Be like Samira. Be like Robby. Jack won't keep wanting you if you aren't like them.
Your tongue ran across your dry lips in an attempt to wet them, but even your mouth had gone parched.
"Is charting really that bad?" you heard Dennis ask you as she sat down at a computer to your left. "You look like someone just told you they flushed your fish down the drain."
In a jerky motion, you turned towards him and did your best to compose yourself. "Oh no. I, uh, I didn't do well on a procedure with Dr. Abbot, and he asked me to leave."
Dennis at least had the decency to look sorry for you. "I bet you didn't do too bad. What was the procedure?"
"A pericardiocentesis," you said shyly.
He nodded slowly. " Shit, that's like one of the first things Robby let us do." He turned towards his own chart. "I could probably do them in my sleep by now."
Because he wasn't looking at you, Dennis missed the way your shoulders dropped and tears welled in your lash line. Jack's comment had been bad, but he just completely shattered any confidence you had left for the day.
"Right," you muttered. "Of course it'd be that easy if Robby taught you."
And you'd be right. On the night shift, patients like that rarely if not ever needed such a complex procedure. You could only think to one time that a woman came through almost needing one before they were able to use a different method to get her stable enough to be transferred to the OR.
With keys clacking loudly, you quickly finished up the chart before turning the whole thing off. You didn't even try to find Jack before you left, choosing to slip out before he even noticed you'd left without saying goodbye.
Once you were home, you stormed past the fridge and went straight to yours and Jack's shared room. Your scrubs hit the floor, and you didn't even bother to put on pajamas. The bed dipped under your weight as you pulled the duvet up over your body in a sad attempt at being comforted by its weight.
Sleep came quickly, only being interrupted by the door opening, a signal that Jack had gotten home. Blearily, you listened to him walk around the room before his edge of the bed sunk after he sat. The familiar hiss and pop of his prosthesis preceded him turning to lie down. You kept still as he scooted closer before wrapping an arm around your middle and molding your back to his chest.
"Sorry if I woke you up," he muttered sleepily. "Tried to find you before you left, but I guess I missed you. Wanted to say good job for that trauma. You helped so much."
You clamped your eyes shut, squeezing a fresh round of tears that dripped down your cheeks to puddle on your pillowcase.
After Samira, you had done your best to convince yourself it had been a slip of his tongue. But now after Robby, you weren't too sure that Jack would keep you around for much longer before finding someone better. Because there was no way you could ever amount to someone like Robby.
It was impossible.
I care, I care, I care, like ribbons in your hair, my stomach's all in knots, you got the one thing that I want. Ooh, I try, I try, I try, try to rationalize people are people, but it's like you're made of angel dust.
You were trying but failing to pretend Jack's words and comparisons hadn't left a giant, bleeding gap in your heart. Before everything happened, you never ever wondered if Jack loved you. Except now, you waited with bated breath for him to just drop the bucket and break up with you. You walked on eggshells around him.
Don't panic. Be put together. Keep your heart to yourself. Be calm like Samira. Don't fuck up. Know how to do your job. Be confident like Robby.
Those thought became your mantra and lifeline. No one seemed to think twice about your recent personality change. They loved the way they could count on you, the way you had an answer ready for everything. To the day and night shift, you were the epitome of composure. But behind closed doors, you were falling apart and into a pit you didn't think you'd be able to climb out of.
Jack didn't help with that either. You guessed he didn't even know what he had done to you, going on with his life like he hadn't given yours so many potholes that you couldn't continue on without falling behind. Everything you did was carefully thought out, every patient you talked to met a version of you that didn't reflect what you felt inside or outside.
You avoided mirrors the most, their reflections showing you exactly what you weren't. You weren't Samira with her lovely thick hair and clear skin. And you weren't Robby who carried years of trauma like it was apart of his body.
You were you, and you loathed it entirely.
You hated the glances you caught between Jack and Samira across the department. You hated the way they looked like they knew what the other was thinking before they spoke. You hated how you felt like on onlooker to a relationship that wasn't even happening.
You also hated the way Robby changed from a mentor to an idol. He had soon morphed into someone you wanted to so desperately be to the point you lost yourself in ambition.
And the worst part? You held nothing against them personally.
They didn't know what Jack had said. They didn't know that you were dying on the inside every time they raised you up during shifts. Bits of you crumbled away while they continued to glow.
Every morning you woke up, you wondered if the day would provide the straw that broke the camel's back with the way you felt like a stretched out rubber band waiting to fly.
A soft, savory aroma wafted through your kitchen. You absentmindedly stirred the spatula through the sauce, eyes glancing back and forth from the pan to the recipe. The instructions were written in beautiful, slanted cursive with curled letters that danced together. You'd found the card mixed in with a bunch of recipes Jack kept in his drawer. With a quick read told you that the owner of this one was his late wife, and the heart next to the title had you guessing if this was a favorite for the two of them.
Without thinking, you plucked it from the drawer and started working. After a week of back to back cases that ended in more loss than wins, a homemade meal was exactly what you and Jack needed after a day off. He was currently out getting his truck washed, and you wanted to be finished by the time he came home.
Quickly, the separate parts of the recipe—the chicken and veggies basting in the oven, the sauce on the stove top, and the wine chilling in the fridge—all came together right as Jack walked through the door.
"Hi, baby!" you called out as you pulled the pan from the oven. "Dinner's almost ready!"
You picked up on Jack's slightly clompy gate as he got farther into the house.
"Smells good," he said, walking over to stand behind you. "What did you make?"
Suddenly, you got nervous. What if it didn't taste correct? What if Jack didn't want you to make something so special between him and his wife. What if you ruined everything.
You didn't meet his eyes and poured the sauce over the top of the chicken. "Uh, a recipe from the drawer. It looked good, and we already had the ingredients."
He grabbed the card and held it up to his face, and you held your breath. When he didn't seem to get angry or sad, you counted it at a win.
"There's a bottle of white in the fridge if you want to get it out," you offered.
Jack stayed quiet. You didn't dare look even as the sound of a cork popping echoed in the room. While his immediate lack of response didn't cause concern to rise, your stomach still churned. To mirror him, you also didn't speak while you set the table.
He sat down, and so did you, your chairs facing the other like you'd done so many times in the past. Your heart pounded against your sternum as he took the first bite.
Loudly, he smacked his lips, setting his fork down at he chewed. The noise felt like nails on a chalkboard in the silence.
After a minute, he finally spoke. "Did you change anything in this?"
Your racing heart plummeted to your feet. "No. I kept it just like the card had it."
His brows furrowed. "Really? It tastes different than how I remembered it last."
You dug your nails into the fabric of the table running. "Does it not taste good?"
Jack looked up from his plate with wide, hazel eyes. "No, no, it's just different."
"But not good," you scoffed.
"I'm just trying to say that maybe you missed something. I know Alice's handwriting isn't the easiest to read."
"I know how to read cursive, Jack," you spat lowly. "I followed every single instruction on the card. It's the exact same recipe."
"It's not that big of a deal, sweetheart," he tried. "Maybe if you had a bit more practice like her, it might have come out the same. You're a good cook, don't get me wrong, but—"
Your hands slammed on the table in frustration, causing Jack's eyebrows to pinch as his words died in his mouth. He went to keep talking but stopped when he noticed the frustrated tears fall from your eyes.
"I'm done," you breathed, eyes darting around the room.
"Done?" Jack echoed. "What are you done with?"
"Everything," you hissed. "I'm done with this—" You gestured to the food with a wave of your hand. "I'm done with-with you. I'm done with it all."
You pushed up from the table and walked away, leaving Jack to scramble out of his chair and follow you.
"Sweetheart, what's going on?" he loudly asked, but you ignored him.
By the time he made it into the bedroom, you had already ripped out a suitcase from the closet and were pushing clothes into it without making them neat.
"Hey," Jack said gently. "Look, I'm sorry for saying that. I didn't think it'd upset you this much, but you don't have to leave."
You paused in a mid-throw of your shirts and spun to face him. A disbelieving laugh bubbled wetly through your throat. "That's the problem," you muttered, "you don't think."
He crossed his arms, biceps resting against his chest. A need to defend himself bloomed in his stomach. "What's that supposed to fucking mean."
You threw your arms up with an exasperated scoff. "Oh, so now you're concerned for what I'm saying. Maybe you should be concerned more with your words." You sucked in a deep breath. "Just go on and say it."
Jack took a step forward. "Say what?"
"That you'd rather me be someone else!" you screamed. "That-that I'm not enough by myself for you anymore." Pants heaved in your chest. "I'm sick and tired of standing here stuck listening to you compare me and wish that I'd be like or act like someone else."
Your words stole the breath from Jack's lungs as confusion and dread washed over him. "What?"
You closed your eyes and dropped your shoulders. "I heard you; I keep hearing you."
In another step forward, Jack was within two feet of you. He swallowed thickly, but you beat him to more words.
"On the fourth," you began to explain through tears, "I saw Samira patch you up, and I heard the way you told her that I could learn how to be more level headed like her."
A chill crept up Jack's spine. "Sweetheart—"
"Don't," you ordered. "Don't do that where you try to make it all better. I heard you loud and clear, Jack. And that's fine. I knew I could be more calm during traumas, so that's exactly what I did, but apparently—" You chocked out a laugh. "That wasn't enough for you."
He shook his head, hazel eyes swimming with guilt already.
"And I really thought that if I could be anything like Samira, your words wouldn't hurt as much. But then you had to go and tell me that you wished Robby had been there instead of me to do a pericardiocentesis." Your breath shuddered in the next exhale. "Did you even know that was the first time I'd ever been asked to do one? And instead of teaching at a teaching hospital, you threw me to the side saying Robby—the fucking chief attending—could have done the job. No fucking duh, Jack."
You threw a hand in the direction of the kitchen. "And now this? I thought that maybe I could be like Samira or study enough to be like Robby, but h-how am I supposed to compare to the woman who had your love first." You turned back toward the bed and haphazardly packed suitcase. "That's unfair to me. So, like I said, I'm done."
A pleading sound ripped from Jack's throat at the sound of your suitcase zipper closing.
"No, sweetheart, please. Let me fix this; tell me how to fix this," he begged.
"That's just it, Jack. I don't think this can be fixed. I've spent weeks with your words in my head wondering how I can be the perfect person for you. And I don't know if I can keep going on pretending."
Jack's body shook under a small sob as everything came crashing down. He absolutely had no clue what he had done to you, but thinking back, he understood that his careless words wracked irreparable damage to you and your personality.
"I'm sorry," he managed, voice breaking in a whisper.
"I know you are,' you responded, "and somehow that makes it hurt worse. Because while you were trying to compliment everyone else, you made me feel inadequate in every aspect of my life." Your fingers wrapped around the suitcase handle and tugged it off the bed. "I can't stay with someone who keeps hoping I'll be a conglomeration of all the best parts of others; that's not me. And I'll be honest, I don't even really know who me is anymore."
He inhaled sharply, eyes tearing from your face to look down at the floor. "So this is it? You're leaving?"
Another round of tears spilled down your cheeks as you choked on a sob of your own. "I don't want to, but I need to."
"But I love you," he croaked, eyes coming back up to meet yours.
"You love the best parts of me, Jack," you said, already moving to walk past him. "And that's never going to be enough to make me stay."
Your shoulder lightly brushed by his as you walked out of the room and all the way out the front door, leaving Jack behind in a house he realized he didn't want empty.
You poison every little thing that I do, Lacy, oh, Lacy, I just loathe you lately, and I despise my jealous eyes and how hard they fell for you, yeah, I despise my rotten mind and how much it worships you
Jack didn't truly realize what he'd done until almost six months after you left him crying in his bedroom.
Your absence in his life gave him a lot to think about, and the only conclusion he could come up with was that you were absolutely right. It didn't matter if he'd compared you to others unconsciously; he made you feel like that: worthless, in need of self change, inadequate; the list went on.
He'd seen the small changes too late.
The next shift he worked with you, Jack tracked every minuscule thing you did, and it felt like one big punch to the gut. He saw the way you constantly checked your hair, ponytail pulled tight enough to give you a headache, skin, and scrubs and the way you straightened your stethoscope so it rested perfectly across your collarbones.
His stomach dropped when he watched you pause before a trauma and gulp down air before heading inside like someone who needed to take control before it could get out of hand. Before him, you weren't like that. Yes, you could be nervous to mess up, but you didn't act like you had to be the smartest person in the room.
He did that to you. He made you feel the need to change. And it killed him. It killed him once he learned you transferred over to a specialty in orthopedics, and his mind made him think you did it just to get away from him.
He was slightly correct, but not entirely.
You needed a fresh start, somewhere where you knew no on had any high expectation of you. And somehow, orthopedics gave you just that. And you thrived in the environment, only coming down to the Pitt when they needed a transfer or second opinion. Sure, you had to accompany Park the Shark more than you'd liked to, but through your time there, the old you was coming back, the one who worked through her panic instead of shutting it down, the one who only got frazzled when she cared about patients and their needs.
It was never weakness you showed, and you had to learn that all over again.
Someone helped you see that along the way as well.
"What do got here?" Park asked while snapping on a pair of gloves, eyes predatory as he walked into Trauma Room 1.
Jack looked up with pinched brows when he realized that you didn't walk in behind the larger man. "Where's Dr. [Name]?"
Park didn't even acknowledge his question. "For fucks sake man, you didn't even pack this right."
"You should know how to put a detached leg together even if I missed the pressure of the wrapping by an inch," Jack shot back.
"Abbot, you should know that I can't fucking put your patient back together after you decided to play Barbies. It's not as easy as popping a joint back in place."
"Dr. [Name] could do it."
Except for the monitors, everyone went quiet. Jack tore his eyes away from Park and looked back down at his blood soaked gloves. Reality crashed down on him as he realized he just did to Park what he'd done to you. Even if he knew he probably didn't hurt Park's feelings at all, it sucked to know that he was still so quit to throw out words like that.
Park's shoulders rose in a shrug. "She could, but she isn't here right now. She switched shifts and won't be in until 7." He smirked. "Think she said she had plans with someone."
An ugly roar of jealousy clawed at Jack's insides, nails sinking deep in his gut.
You were with someone?
He went through the motions of his shift, mind still on the fact that you weren't on call because someone had taken your time and attention away from the hospital. His knuckles turned white around the tablet he held while going through handoffs. He didn't know if his body was still trained to look for you, forever waiting for your soft lips against his, but Jack couldn't help but keep his head on a swivel and ears open to catch the sound of your voice.
Like a laugh in his face from the universe, your laugh fluttered through the ER, and his head whipped hard enough that his neck hurt in order to find you. When he finally saw you walking in, his heart dropped to his feet, because there you were, smiling brighter than he'd seen in a long while, hand enclasped with a man's.
Jack swallowed thickly. He instantly hated the way his blood boiled at the sight. He looked back down at the tablet after your voice seemed to draw closer to where he was standing.
"Andy," you sighed wistfully, "you didn't have to walk me all the way in here. I know you're weary of the germs."
"I know," the man—Andy (you gave him a fucking nickname?)—muttered back, wide, hazel eyes looking down at you like you hung the moon. "But I wanted to."
You pouted playfully. "You're so sweet. Am I going to see you tomorrow morning, or are you working again?"
He hummed. "My morning's yours if you want it."
"You know I always do."
Jack watched the corner of the man's mouth twitch into an almost-there smile, and he had to look away when his head started leaning in toward yours.
The small smack of your lips on his made bile gurgle in Jack's stomach.
"Okay, you gotta go save lives."
You giggled again. "I just put people back together, and technically, Park's the one doing all the procedures. You know my hands start shaking."
From the corner of his eye, Jack watched him lift your hands to his lips and kiss the tops of your knuckles.
"Just breathe and know that you alone can do this. You were the one to get into the program, so they want you, shaky hands and all."
Jack's heart clenched to the point of a physical reaction to the pain. He should have been the one saying that to you, standing in your corner and building you up one compliment at a time.
But now, he had to stand on the sideline and watch a man (someone who scarily looked a bit like him) give you all the praise and love you deserved. And while Jack could do everything in his power to let people know how good of a doctor you were, it wouldn't ever be the same, forever stuck loathing the moment he lost you without knowing.
other than the men he brings home on occasion, you’re the only person who knows that deran cody is gay. when your best friend becomes anxious that people are growing suspicious of his sexuality, you suggest telling people that the two of you are dating. everything is going perfectly…until his brother is released from prison and you start feeling things that you haven’t felt in years.
warnings/tags: 18+ mdni, smut, oral (f receiving), reader is afab, no use of y/n, cheating but not really bc it’s a fake relationship, male masturbation, mentions of an abusive ex, mentions of alcohol, deran struggling with his sexuality, deran buys the bar a little earlier than he does in the show in this fic, description of canon level injuries, fluff, baz and smurf erasure, hurt/comfort, pov switches but mostly reader’s pov, happily ever afters for everyone!
memories are in italics!!
{ 3 months before Pope’s release from prison }
“I think Craig is onto me.”
Blue eyes meet yours in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. Deran stands in the doorway behind you, leaning against the frame with his hands shoved in his pockets.
“Onto you?” You repeat, voice garbled around the head of your toothbrush.
“Yeah,” he huffs, looking down at the floor. “You know…onto me.”
You freeze for a moment before you resume brushing, your eyes still glued to him. He doesn’t need to elaborate. There’s only one thing he could be talking about - only one thing that Deran doesn’t want his brother to know. Something that only you know about him.
Well, you and the men he brings home on occasion.
You spit a mouthful of foamy toothpaste into the sink and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “What makes you think that?”
Deran shrugs and shakes his head. “I don’t know. I was just talking to Adrian on the beach this afternoon and I noticed Craig looking at us like…I don’t even know. Just feel like he suspects something.”
You sigh, turning around to lean against the bathroom counter and crossing your arms over your chest. “Were you giving Adrian a handjob on the beach?”
“What the fuck?” He exclaims, face distorting in indignant horror. “No. Of course not. We were just talking.”
“Then Craig doesn’t know shit.” You shrug, bumping him with your shoulder as you move past him out of the small bathroom. “You’re being paranoid. Again.”
This is the third time he’s claimed that Craig is growing suspicious of his sexuality in the last month. Normally, you would have realized what he meant by Craig is onto me right away, but you’re practically brain dead after working back to back double shifts at the bar.
That’s the only logical explanation for why the following words leave your mouth.
“You should just tell Craig that we’re dating.”
You hear footsteps and laughter follow you down the hallway. “Us? Dating?” Deran snorts. “Yeah, right. Like he’d believe that.”
“Why not?” You shrug, plopping down on the couch in the living room of your shared house to turn on the television. “We live together. Spend the vast majority of our free time together. We even work together, since you bought the bar. You’re single. I’m single. A lot of people already assume we’re together. It makes sense.”
“Well, yeah, but—” He comes to an abrupt pause, like he’s racking his brain for a reason why your idea might not work. He sits down on the ottoman in front of you, forearms braced on his thighs. “Huh,” he hums, clarity blooming across his face. “Maybe it isn’t the worst idea you’ve ever had.”
“Thanks.”
You definitely had not given it any real thought before making the suggestion, but he’s right - maybe it isn’t the worst idea. At least now you’ll have a somewhat kinda true excuse when rejecting the advances of all of your bar regulars that just can’t get the hint that you aren’t interested in them.
Deran clasps his hands together in front of him. “Okay, but seriously. How would this even work? What are the rules or whatever?”
You stare at him and try not to laugh. “You’re overthinking it. There doesn’t need to be rules. We just keep doing what we’re already doing. We go out to eat sometimes, yeah? Go to the beach and the movies? Run errands together? Friends do those things, but so do couples.” You shrug. “So we just keep doing those things, and when anyone asks, we call it dating.”
“Boyfriend and girlfriend,” he clarifies.
You nod. “Boyfriend and girlfriend.”
He squints, shaking his head. “We don’t really act like boyfriend and girlfriend, though. We would need to make it believable. At least around Craig and our other friends. You know, hold hands, cuddle, maybe kiss—”
You cut him off with an exaggerated gagging nose.
“That’s a little harsh.”
You toss a throw pillow at his head that he catches just in time. “I’m fucking with you,” you laugh. “You’re right. There does need to be a little physical affection to make it believable. There’s no reason to stick our tongues down each other’s throats in front of your brothers and our friends, though.” It’s his turn to grimace dramatically at the mental image of that. “Just keep it casual. Holding hands is good, an arm around my shoulder every now and then won’t hurt, and the occasional kiss on the cheek should suffice.”
He tilts his head in consideration. Your words seem to appease some of his uncertainty, though you still get the feeling that he isn’t completely sold on the idea.
“Look, if you aren’t on board, just say so. It was just a suggestion. You won’t hurt my feelings at all if—”
“No, no,” he interjects. “It isn’t that. It’s just…” He trails off, pursing his lips in contemplation. You wait for him to continue with raised brows. “What happens when you meet someone? Someone you want to be with for real?”
You don’t have a quick-witted response for that.
That hasn’t crossed your mind in ages. You’ve been single for so long that you don’t even remember how it feels to truly want to date someone. Your last boyfriend left you with quite the sour taste in your mouth for relationships that still lingers more than two years later.
You’ve gone on the occasional first date here and there, and had a few mostly unsatisfactory hook-ups over the last couple of years, but nothing has ever come from any of them. The thought of a real relationship is at the very bottom of your list of priorities, and you can’t see that changing anytime soon.
“In the rather unlikely event that happens, then we simply end our romantic endeavor. We’re still best friends. No harm done. Sound good?”
Deran considers that for a moment, then shrugs. “Alright. If you’re good with it, I’m good with it.” His words try to play off how much it means that you’d be willing to do something like this, but you know him. His smile and his eyes say what his mouth won’t.
You nudge his thigh with your foot. “Then congratulations, dude. You officially have a girlfriend.”
𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆
Pope doesn’t know all that much about romantic relationships.
Not healthy ones, anyway.
He can’t say that he’s ever even been in one. At least not anything serious - nothing that didn’t fizzle out after a couple months or end in some argument that he can’t remember now.
Everything he really knows about romantic relationships comes from movies and books and the toxicity that he’s witnessed in his personal life. His mother and her goddamn three baby daddies. Baz and Cath. Craig and his ever changing girls of the month.
He can admit that these aren’t the best examples of romantic love, and maybe that’s why he’s having a hard time understanding the dynamic between Deran and his girlfriend.
There’s no screaming. No cursing each other out on a regular basis. As far as Pope can tell, the two of you never even get into minor disagreements.
And there’s no cheating.
One morning, just a few days after Pope gets out of prison, he’s making himself breakfast when he overhears Craig trying to convince Deran to go with him to a party later that night.
“Come on, man,” Craig whines. “Just swing by for a couple hours. Renn’s cousin is going to be there. You know she has a thing for you.”
Pope looks up in time to catch the disgusted grimace on Deran’s face.
“I have a fucking girlfriend, dude. You know that.”
“I keep forgetting you two are serious now,” Craig sighs. “Bring her too, then.”
When Pope meets you the very next day, he understands why Deran had seemed so repulsed at the mere suggestion of going to a party to hang out with some girl who isn’t you.
He stops dead in his tracks when he walks into the backyard and finds you laying by the pool. Strappy bikini a size too small, perfectly polished toenails, and skin glistening in the sun - he can’t help but stare at you until you realize he is standing still as a statue just feet away, watching wordlessly. You didn’t even hear him come out, your eyes closed and music pouring softly from a Bluetooth speaker.
“Shit,” you hiss as soon as you notice his presence, taken off guard. “Uhm - hey,” you laugh awkwardly, sitting up from your position on the foldable lounge chair and pausing whatever upbeat song you’re listening to. “I take it that you’re Pope? Deran told me you might be around today.”
Pope is silent for a moment as he pieces together who you are. His gaze trails over your bare shoulders and down to your thighs before looking you in the eye again.
“You’re Deran’s girlfriend?” He tries to keep his tone neutral, but he can’t hide the incredulity that slips through.
“That’s me.” Another awkward laugh, though you don’t seem offended by the question. You offer a soft smile, but he thinks something about it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Deran should be here pretty soon, but I was about to make myself some lunch. Do you…want a sandwich or something?”
He isn’t hungry. He already ate. But for some reason, he says yes anyway.
You yank on a pair of blue jean shorts over your bikini bottoms and he follows you into the house where you insist on making him a sandwich while he tries not to ogle you too hard.
(At the time, he told himself that he would have taken the opportunity to hang around any pretty girl because he had just spent three fucking years in prison. But that wasn’t it. It was you. He wanted to be around you, even after just meeting you).
“So,” you start, spreading mustard across a piece of bread with a butter knife, “Would you prefer if I called you Andrew or Pope? Deran always calls you Pope, but I guess that’s kind of a family nickname, right?”
The question takes him by surprise. He hasn’t heard anyone call him Pope much in years. It still sounds weird to hear the nickname again. It feels like it’s been forever since anyone has even called him Andrew, too - it’s mostly been “Cody” or “Inmate 87286-923” for the last three years.
He’d forgotten how his name - government name or otherwise - sounds when it isn’t being barked at him. Coming from you, both names sound like music.
You glance up when he doesn’t answer right away, your expression hesitant as if worried you said something wrong.
“Either is fine,” he answers when he remembers how to string two words together. “Call me whatever you want.”
And he meant that. He doesn’t really have a preference. He would be fine with you calling him anything, as long as you call him something - but he got the best of both worlds when you decided that you would call him Pope in the presence of his family but Andrew anytime the two of you find yourselves alone.
It isn’t the lack of fighting or infidelity that perplexes him the most, though. It’s the fact that in the now six months since he’s been back home, he’s never once seen Deran kiss you.
Only ever a peck on the cheek here and there. He’s seen his arm slung around your shoulder, and your feet propped up in his lap when the two of you lounge on the couch at Smurf’s. He’s seen you rub sunscreen on Deran’s shoulders and watched him swim around the pool with you on his back plenty of times.
But in the last half year, he’s never seen either of you kiss the other on the lips.
Not that Pope is complaining. The last thing he wants is to watch you kiss his brother. He experiences more than enough unwelcome thoughts anytime he sees the two of you so much as hold hands.
He just doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand how Deran doesn’t kiss you every chance he gets. You’re over at Smurf’s often enough that he should have witnessed it at least once by now.
He hates that he even pays attention to such a thing. It’s really not any of his business how you two choose to show your affection, but he can’t help the way he feels the slightest jolt of jealousy when you kiss Deran on the forehead anytime you’re leaving Smurf’s - and then relief that’s all it is. A kiss on the forehead and nothing more.
Because if you were his - and he’s painfully aware of the fact that you’re very much not - he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off you as easily as Deran does.
It takes everything in him to stop himself as is.
𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆
“You look like you’re having a blast.”
The familiar voice pulls you out of your trance over the roar of rap music. You glance up from where you sit on the edge of the pool, your legs dangling over and into the lukewarm water. Pope stares down at you, his expression as neutral as ever and beer bottle in hand.
“And you look like you’re going to church instead of a pool party,” you snort. You aren’t surprised in the slightest that he’s wearing one of his typical short sleeve button-ups instead of swim trunks, but you are a little surprised that he’s here right now. Parties with dozens of half-naked shit-faced drunks aren’t really Pope’s thing.
Then again, they aren’t really your thing either, yet here you are - nursing the same piss flavored beer Deran had handed you over an hour ago as you watch him and Craig shotgun beers across the yard.
“What are you doing here?” You ask, patting the concrete beside you in invitation for him to sit down. “Where’s Lena? I thought she was with you tonight.”
“She’s at home. With the sitter.” He crouches down, albeit a little awkwardly due to the fact he’s wearing pants and shoes and can’t dip his feet into the pool like you. Even with his legs bent at the knees and his arms resting across them, he seems stiff. Uncomfortable. Like he’d rather be anywhere else than here. “I had a few things I needed to take care of before the job tomorrow.”
Ah, yes. The job. The job that you definitely don’t know anything about - as far as Smurf and the others are concerned, anyway.
You may not get involved, but you aren’t oblivious to what Pope and his family do to make money. Piecing it together hadn’t exactly been rocket science. Every time a major robbery, heist, or hit-and-run occurs within a fifty mile radius of Oceanside, Deran suddenly seems to have an abundance of cash.
What really made the pieces click into place was the time he asked you to cover his half of the rent and then mysteriously had the funds to completely pay your car off for you less than forty-eight hours later.
“Do I even wanna know where you got this money?” You ask when he hands you a thick envelope with over six thousand dollars in it. The exact amount you need to pay your car loan off.
Deran sighs. “No. You really don’t.”
The following morning, you turned on the news at work and watched coverage of a casino that got hit for over a half million just two towns over.
You aren’t a fucking idiot. His flesh and blood brother was in prison for a bank robbery at the time. Two plus two is four.
Pope’s not an idiot, either. He knows that you know. But you don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to, and he doesn’t volunteer any information that could potentially put you in danger.
“And?” You ask, leaning back on the palms of your hands. You turn your head to look at him and find that he seems particularly interested in the beer bottle in his hand. “Did you get everything taken care of?”
A curt nod. “Everything should be good to go.”
And that’s that. You don’t pry any further.
“I would’ve watched Lena tonight if I had known,” you say lightly.
That gets him to look at you. “It’s your first night off in five days,” he says lowly, bringing the rim of the bottle to his lips. “Didn’t wanna ask that of you.”
“I wouldn't mind,” you murmur, looking away to play off the heat rising on the back of your neck at the realization that he knew it was your first night off this week. “I like spending time with Lena.”
Pope hums, the corners of his lips quirking. “Yeah. She likes spending time with you, too.”
“And I’d much rather be hanging out with her than be…here right now,” you grumble as Deran and Craig emerge from the house with another keg.
“What?” Pope chirps. “You don’t think holding your boyfriend’s hair back as he pukes into Smurf’s three hundred dollar orchid is fun?”
You snort a laugh, but you can’t help the way your fingers clench around the neck of your beer bottle at the word boyfriend. “You saw that, huh?”
“At least a dozen people saw that.”
“Good,” you huff. “That’s what he gets for thinking he can drink all of that on an empty stomach.”
At that exact moment, one of Deran and Craig’s surfer buddies yells “CANNONBALL!” from the roof of the house a second before you and Pope both get drenched in pool water. You’re in a bathing suit, so no big deal - annoying, but not a big deal. Pope, on the other hand, looks like he’s seconds away from jumping in the pool and drowning the guy for soaking his jeans and button-up.
“Jesus,” you grunt. “I’m over this. Wanna get out of here?”
Pope’s expression morphs from annoyance to surprise. He glances around like he isn’t one hundred percent sure you’re talking to him. Then, you stand and offer him a hand up. He hesitates a second longer, staring in Deran’s direction before accepting your hand and getting up.
“Where’re we going?” He asks, a step behind you.
“It’s a surprise.”
It’s not a surprise. You just didn’t think that far ahead before making the proposition - you just know that you want to be somewhere else. Somewhere that you aren’t surrounded by drunk, obnoxious assholes. Somewhere that you don’t look up and see a girl practically humping some douchebag’s leg. Somewhere that you can actually relax on your first Friday off in two months.
And, for reasons that you won’t let yourself dwell on right now, somewhere that you and Pope can be alone.
Somewhere you don’t have to worry that people are looking at you and wondering why is she spending so much time with her boyfriend’s brother while her boyfriend gets plastered twenty feet away?
The answer to that is quite simple, actually. Deran isn’t really your boyfriend. But no one knows that except for you and him. Not even Pope.
As far as he and everyone else knows, you and Deran have been in a committed relationship for well over half a year now.
“Don’t you want to let Deran know that you’re leaving?” He murmurs low enough that only you hear as the two of you make your way through a throng of people near the back door to the house. Deran stands several yards away with his back to you, talking animatedly with Craig and a few of their friends. “I’m sure he’ll worry if you dip without saying anything.”
You have to refrain from laughing at that. You stop to grab your tank top and shorts off the table by the back entrance, quickly cramming your feet into your sandals. “He looks a little occupied at the moment. I’ll send him a text and let him know I decided to head out early.”
You have no real intention of doing so, but Pope doesn’t need to worry about that.
He follows you to your car, gets in the passenger seat, and doesn’t question you any further until you park your car at the first somewhat calm, quiet place that comes to mind.
A quaint cliffside pull-off overlooking the ocean on the outskirts of town. It’s no more than a ten minute drive from the Cody house, but it’s so serene that it feels hundreds of miles away. You roll down both the driver and passenger side windows before turning your car off, and for a moment the only thing you can hear is the crashing of waves against the rocks below.
“Do you come up here often?” Pope murmurs, voice filling the silence.
You shake your head, not taking your eyes off of the moonlight that dances across the water. “I used to. A long time ago. Before Deran.”
From your peripheral vision, you can tell that he’s turned his head to look at you. “How did you two meet, anyway?” He asks after an extended silence.
You huff a humorless laugh. “It’s not exactly a cute story.”
He unbuckles his seatbelt, turning to face you more fully. “Well, now I’m really curious.”
You finally look at him. He’s staring at you with that same look that you’ve been trying and failing to get a read on since the first time you met him six months ago. He looks at you now exactly how he looked at you then, that day by Smurf’s pool.
You exhale, looking back to the black horizon so you might stand a chance of regaining the ability to think clearly. “We met about three years ago. I was still dating my ex boyfriend at the time. I was working the bar one evening when my ex stumbled in drunk and decided to pick a fight with some poor guy he thought was hitting on me. I tried to intervene, and my ex shoved me so hard I fell backwards and hit my head on the counter…” You trail off, shaking your head at the memory. Pope waits silently for you to continue.
“And Deran,” you continue with a soft laugh, “was sitting just two stools down. He didn’t even hesitate. Just grabbed my ex and started beating the ever-loving fuck out of him right in the middle of the bar until he was unconscious. That wasn’t the first time my ex put hands on me but it was the last.”
You look back to Pope to find he’s still staring at you, his jaw clenched and hazel eyes sharp even in the dimly lit car. For once, you’re able to tell exactly what he’s thinking and it sends a shiver up your spine. Without even saying a word, you know that if Deran hadn’t already pulverized your ex, you’d have to stop Pope from going and doing the same.
“Anyway,” you shrug, trying to break the tension brewing in your passenger seat. “That’s how we met. Deran stayed even after the cops showed up to make sure I was okay, walked me to my car when I was leaving…and just kinda stuck around after that, I guess. Been best friends ever since.”
The last words slip out before you can stop them. Best friends. It isn’t a lie. You are best friends - have been ever since that night. But sitting here now, alone with his brother, it’s too easy for you to forget that you’re supposed to be more than just best friends.
If Pope thinks anything of your choice of words, he doesn’t point it out. “Sounds like it was a good thing he was there that night,” he says lowly, his voice clipped. “I’m glad you got away from that.”
You give a small nod. “Yeah. Me too.”
“And Deran…” He starts, trailing off until you glance at him. “He’s good to you?”
You blink, taken off guard by the question. “Deran?” You snort. “Yeah, he’s…I mean, he’s Deran.” You shrug. “He doesn’t show up shit-faced at my job and pick fights with random men, if that’s what you’re asking.”
You laugh, but Pope doesn’t. “No,” he says slowly. “I’m asking if he makes you happy.”
You swallow. The space inside your car suddenly seems infinitely smaller. Even with the windows rolled down, it feels suffocating.
It’s a simple question. It should have a simple answer.
“Yeah,” you breathe. You force a tightlipped smile that feels completely unnatural. “Of course. Like I said, he’s my best friend.”
Those fucking words again. It’s as if you physically can’t stop yourself from saying them. Best friend, best friend, best friend. Not partner, not boyfriend, not lover. Just best friend.
The most fucked up part is that if it were anyone else sitting here beside you, you know you could force yourself to spew some fabricated bullshit about how in love you are. About how Deran makes you the happiest girl in the world and you’re going to spend the rest of your lives together.
But not Pope. Pope, who you most wish you could blurt out the truth to. Pope, who looks at you so intensely that you have to wonder if he can read your mind and already knows.
“Best friend,” he repeats. It doesn’t sound like a question. “That’s sweet.”
The silence that follows is brief but heavy. Then, your phone chimes with a text message, and you’ve never felt more grateful for an interruption in your life.
“It’s Deran,” you mumble, typing back a quick reply. “Just making sure I’m alright.” You press send, then place your phone back in an empty cup holder. “I should probably get home,” you sigh before Pope has the chance to press the subject of you and Deran any further. “I’ve gotta open the bar in the morning.”
He nods, but there’s something about the look on his face that makes you hesitate. You squint at him. “What?”
Pope shakes his head, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Nothing.”
It doesn’t hit you until later - when you’re lying in bed and failing miserably to keep your thoughts from wandering to Pope Cody - that Deran wouldn’t have texted to ask if you were alright if you had messaged him to let him know that you were leaving the party like you had told Pope you were going to.
That peculiar look on Pope’s face that you hadn’t understood at the time suddenly makes sense to you. He had realized, in that moment, that you never bothered to text Deran and tell him you were leaving.
And what kind of girlfriend doesn’t even take two seconds to let her boyfriend know she’s leaving a party they’re both at?
𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆
Pope barely slept a wink last night.
He spent half the night going over the details for today’s heist, and the other half replaying and overanalyzing everything you had said during the short time spent together in your car.
One question. Pope had asked you one fucking question. How did you two meet, anyway?
And you had answered him - somehow leaving him with even more questions than before you whisked him away from the party and took him to some remote cliffside pull-off on the outskirts of town.
Questions he can’t ask quite so casually.
Why didn’t you say goodbye to Deran when we were leaving the party? Why do you seem so reluctant to call him your boyfriend? Why didn’t you text him like you said you were going to?
Add those to the list of questions he already had - the biggest of which being why doesn’t he ever kiss you like I fucking want to kiss you?
He may not have the answers to those questions, but he knows one thing: he’s not crazy.
Well, he supposes that’s debatable. A lot of people would argue otherwise. But he’s not imagining things. Not this time. It’s not just wishful thinking on his part. There’s more than meets the eye to your and Deran’s relationship.
Maybe you don’t feel for Pope what he feels for you. But he doesn’t think you feel it for Deran, either.
But he can’t dwell on that anymore right now. Not when Lena’s babysitter is texting him one hour before he’s supposed to leave for a huge job to tell him that she had something unexpected come up and can’t watch Lena tonight.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he grumbles under his breath. He’s got less than an hour to figure out somewhere safe for Lena to stay tonight.
The last thing he wants is to leave her with Smurf and give her the satisfaction of being needed for anything, and he wouldn’t trust Nicky or Renn either one to watch a fucking dog - so he packs Lena an overnight bag and heads to find one of the only people on the planet that he truly trusts with her.
He breathes a small sigh of relief when he pulls into the parking lot of the bar and sees your car.
“What are we doing here?” Lena asks from the backseat.
“I have to go to work,” he explains gently. “Allison is busy tonight so we’re here to see if you can hang out with uncle Deran’s girlfriend for a while.” He turns around to look at Lena - she’s staring at him with those wide doe eyes that Pope has gotten used to seeing filled with disappointment. “Is that okay with you?”
Lena nods, her face perking up a bit.
Pope had figured she wouldn’t mind. He hadn’t been lying when he told you that Lena enjoys spending time with you. Really, he’d far rather Lena spend time with you than her regular babysitter, but he knows that for whatever reason, you enjoy your job.
(He would be more than willing to pay you significantly more than what you make as a bartender, but that’s besides the point).
Lena practically runs towards you the second that she sees you wiping down a corner booth in the nearly empty bar. Pope trails a few feet behind, carrying her overnight bag on his shoulder. He watches as you glance up when Lena calls your name. You instantly open your arms to her, letting her jump into your embrace. The smile on your face when you realize it’s her lights up the whole damn dingy room, Pope thinks.
You and Pope lock eyes with Lena still in your arms. Your gaze lands on the bright pink bag hanging off of his shoulder, and he looks at you apologetically. Without him even saying a word, he can tell that you already know exactly why he and Lena are here.
“Hey, are you hungry?” You ask Lena, placing her back down on the floor. “You want some cheesy fries?” She nods, a somewhat shy but excited smile growing on her face. “I’ll get you cheesy fries and a lemonade. Just go sit in that little booth while I talk to your uncle Pope for a minute, okay?”
Pope waits until Lena is out of earshot before speaking lowly. “I’m sorry,” he starts, but you’re already shaking your head. “Her sitter canceled at the very last second. I’ve gotta meet Deran and Craig in less than an hour. I just don’t wanna leave her with Smurf—”
“Andrew,” you interrupt him, effectively ending his rambling by simply saying his first name. “It’s okay. Really. I’m only working opening shift today, so I get off soon. It isn’t a big deal.”
Pope glances to where Lena sits in the corner booth, watching something on her iPad, and then back to you. “You’re sure?”
“Of course,” you say, soft but sure. You hold out a hand to take Lena’s bag. “Do what you need to do. Me and Lena will find something fun to do this evening.”
He hesitates a second longer, then hands you the bag. “There’s some money in the side pocket for you two to get dinner.” Then, lowly so the few people sitting at the bar can’t hear, “I should be back no later than eleven o’clock, max. Her bedtime is usually eight but it’s Saturday, so she can stay up a little bit later, if she wants. It’s up to you.”
You smirk. “I’ll try not to keep her up too late.”
He can’t help but think that you look so fucking pretty right now. Even in a simple black t-shirt with the bar’s logo and a server’s apron on. He wonders if Deran has told you how pretty you look today.
Or if Deran has even seen you today. Knowing him, he likely crashed at Smurf’s after the party or stayed out until the sun came up and was too hungover to wake up when you left for work.
“She’ll be fine,” you assure him delicately, seemingly taking his silence for hesitation. “Take your time and just…be safe, okay?” You look like you want to say more, but you bite your bottom lip, crossing your arms over your chest.
Pope gives a brief nod. “I will.”
He starts to walk past you to say goodbye to Lena when you grab him by the forearm. His gaze drops to where your hand grips him and then back up to your worried eyes.
“Promise me,” you whisper. “You won’t take any unnecessary risks. You won’t do anything to get yourself locked back up. Or worse.”
There’s a small, petty part of him that wants to ask if you made Deran make you a similar promise. But he knows how mean that would sound, and he knows he would regret it as soon as the words left his lips.
He settles for a simple I promise instead.
𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆
Spending time with Lena doesn’t feel like spending time with a child. It’s more like spending time with an adult trapped in a child’s body.
She’s more reserved and guarded than any seven year old should ever have to be. Hesitant to get close to anyone for fear that they’ll be the next person that she loses.
It never takes you too long to bring her out of her shell, though. All you had to do was ask if she wanted to go get her nails done, and glimpses of the bright little girl beneath the trauma began to peek through.
Any color she wants, you had told her. Multiple colors. A different color for each finger and toenail. She had said that would look silly - ultimately choosing a bright yellow for her toes and a baby pink for her fingernails.
When you asked if she wanted to come back for another manicure in a few weeks, she looked like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to be excited. She hesitated, asking “really?” in a tiny voice that broke your heart.
You had assured her you were confident that her uncle Pope wouldn’t mind.
Afterwards, it started to rain, so your original plan to take her to the beach got scrapped. You had been driving down the road, trying to brainstorm something else to do to pass the time for a couple hours, when you drove past an arcade that you hadn’t been to in years.
Lena hadn’t, either.
Air hockey, skee ball, Whac-A-Mole, pinball, and every claw machine in the building. With all of her tickets (and yours), she picked out a small stuffed bunny that she is now cuddling in your bed - fast asleep, with a belly full of the pizza that you picked up on your way home.
You tucked her into your bed hours ago and she fell asleep within minutes. You wish you could say the same for yourself.
Right now, it’s a quarter til midnight and you’re trying your hardest not to spiral - and the fact that Pope had said he would be back no later than eleven o'clock and you’ve yet to hear a word from him, Deran, or anyone else is only the second half of the reason why.
The first half is an innocent observation made by a seven year old.
“Why are you uncle Deran’s girlfriend and not uncle Pope’s girlfriend?”
You nearly spit out your drink at the question. It’s so random that at first, you think you must have heard her wrong. The two of you are sitting on your living room couch, eating dinner and watching some cute animated movie on Netflix that Lena chose.
“What - why do you ask that?” You laugh.
She isn’t even looking at you, her attention on the screen in front of her. She gives a small shrug and glances at you. “I don’t know,” she says in a small voice. “Sometimes I just wish you were uncle Pope’s girlfriend instead. Is that bad?”
What the hell are you supposed to say to that? Yeah kid, I wish that, too. All the time, actually. But your uncle Deran is actually gay and if I break up with him to get with his fucking brother then people are going to assume that Pope stole his girl and that I cheated on him. But I can’t say that I didn’t actually cheat on him, because then we’d have to admit to the fact that our relationship has been fake this entire time, and Deran would have to come out before he’s ready, and and and—-
Lena is staring at you.
“No,” you say softly. “I don’t think that’s bad. Sometimes we can’t help what we want. But…you don’t have to wish for your uncle Pope and I to be boyfriend and girlfriend. If you want the three of us to spend more time together, or if you want you and I to spend more time together, we can try to make that happen.”
“It’s not that,” she says meekly, looking down at her hands in her lap.
You tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Then what is it, kiddo?”
She hesitates for a moment. You’re going to drop the subject, because ultimately, it doesn’t really matter - what she wants or what you want - but then she opens her mouth.
“Uncle Deran doesn’t look at you the way uncle Pope does.” She looks up at you with those wide, earnest eyes. It’s at this moment that you have to remind yourself that she has no true blood relation to Pope - because just like him, you think she can see right through you. “And you don’t look at uncle Deran the way you look at uncle Pope.”
“Wow,” you laugh, a little too quickly. “Remind me to never play poker with you.” She scrunches her brows together in confusion. Then, you scoot a bit closer to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “Grown-ups are complicated sometimes. But I promise you don’t need to worry about me, or Uncle Pope, or uncle Deran. That’s between us. All that matters is that we all love you. Okay?”
She nods, accepting that answer far more easily than you expect. She doesn’t press, doesn’t question, just leans into your embrace and goes back to watching her movie.
But her words continue to echo in your mind hours after she has fallen asleep and the small house has gone quiet.
Are you really so transparent that a fucking seven year old can read you like that? And if she’s right about the way you look at Pope…could she be right about the way he looks at you, too?
You’ve never let yourself think about it long enough for it to matter. Pope has never been a possibility.
Even if you wish he was.
And then there’s the more obvious and pressing matter at hand - it’s nearly midnight and you have no idea if the boys are okay.
None of them are answering their phones. After Pope and Deran, you even try to call Craig. All go straight to voicemail. You even send Nicky a short, inconspicuous text - simply asking if she’s heard from J. She has not.
You force yourself to put your phone down after that. If their phones are turned off, there’s nothing else you can do for the time being except wait.
You don’t even realize you’ve dozed off until the sound of a car door slamming shut jolts you awake.
You practically sprint to the door, unlocking and opening it before they have a chance to wake Lena up. Your knees almost give out in relief when you see both Deran and Pope standing upright, walking up the front porch steps.
Then you see a cut across Deran’s cheekbone.
“Oh my god,” you breathe, stepping outside. You reach out on instinct, your fingers hovering over the dried blood smeared across his skin. It’s not deep, but it’s ugly. “Are you okay?”
“It’s nothing,” he mutters, brushing it off but letting you inspect the wound. “It’s already stopped bleeding—”
You can’t help but glance past him to where Pope still stands at the top of the porch steps a few feet away. Your eyes are instantly drawn to a large stain on the side of his shirt, just under his ribcage. Dark red and wet looking. Undeniably blood.
“Holy shit,” you whisper, already stepping past Deran without thinking. “Jesus, what happened to you?”
Before you can think twice, your hands are on him, tugging his shirt up. Your stomach drops when you see the bloody gash across his ribs.
“You got shot,” you hiss.
“I got grazed,” he corrects gently, watching you with an unreadable expression. “I promised you I wouldn’t do anything to get locked up or worse, right? I didn’t break that promise. This is just a flesh wound.”
Behind you, Deran clears his throat. “Don’t worry about me, babe. I’m totally fine. In case you were concerned.”
“I know you’re fine, Deran. You’re not the one bleeding onto our porch.”
Deran is silent for a moment as you crouch down to get a better look at the still-oozing wound on Pope’s side. Then, he sighs, muttering something about going to take a shower.
“Don’t wake Lena up,” you call over your shoulder in a whisper-shout as he disappears into the house without another word.
And then it’s just you and Pope. Pope, with his abdomen still halfway exposed and blood dripping down his side.
“Come on,” you tell him. “Let’s get you patched up.”
He follows you into the house without any protest.
“Shirt off,” you command without looking at him as you gather whatever you can find from around the kitchen and small hallway bathroom.
You’re a bartender - not a doctor. Not a nurse. Not even a CNA. But you have been best friends with Deran Cody for a couple years now, so this isn’t your first time having to patch up a gaping, bloody wound.
It is, however, your first time patching up Pope.
Urgent care or the ER is out of the question, so you have to make do with what you have. A clean washcloth, hydrogen peroxide, Neosporin, gauze pads and tape.
Pope takes a silent seat on the couch and lets you examine the wound up close when you sit down beside him. You hear Deran turn on the shower from the master bathroom down the hallway as you begin wiping the mostly dried blood off of his skin with a damp washcloth.
“So,” you start, your face warming under his stare, “other than the obvious, did everything go okay? Are Craig and J alright?”
“Yeah,” Pope grunts. “They’re fine. Me and Deran got the worst of it.”
“Clearly,” you grumble. “Should’ve made you promise specifically to not get shot.” You glance up at him. “I’ll remember that next time.”
He looks down to where you carefully clean the skin of his abdomen. “How was Lena?” He murmurs. “Did she behave for you?”
“Of course,” you snort. “She always does. We had fun. Got our nails done, went to the arcade, got pizza for dinner, watched a movie about a fox and a bunny who are cops…”
“Wow. Sounds like your evening was far more relaxing than mine.” He pauses. “Did you use the money I put in Lena’s bag?”
You roll your eyes but don’t look away from the task at hand. “Yeah. Five hundred dollars was more than enough for dinner, you know.”
He lets out a low, rough laugh at that. You feel it more than you hear it. It rumbles through his chest beneath your hands, the muscles there jumping with the motion of it. Your eyes drift without meaning to, suddenly very aware of how close you’re sitting to him and the steady rise and fall of his bare, bulky chest only inches away. You force your attention away from the thick muscles, grabbing the hydrogen peroxide.
“This will probably sting,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. He nods, just visible enough to confirm he heard you before you carefully squirt the clear liquid over the gash.
“So, where’s she sleeping?” He asks, barely even wincing.
Your brows scrunch together. “In my bedroom?”
A pause. “And where were you sleeping?” You’re too distracted, and too tired, to pick up on the subtle, curious shift in his tone. With one hand, he pats one of your pillows that you had brought from your room along with a large throw blanket to assemble a makeshift bed on the couch. “Here?”
“Yeah?” You snort. “I let Lena sleep in my bedroom and I took the couch…”
“I thought this place had two bedrooms.”
You shake your head, still not entirely sure what he’s getting at. “It does. My room and Der…”
The words die in your throat. You completely freeze as you blot the clean wound dry with a paper towel.
Shit.
Your room…and Deran’s room.
“I mean—” You clear your throat, tossing the paper towel aside and grabbing the tube of Neosporin and a gauze pad to avoid looking him in the eye while your brain is scrambling to think of some excuse as to why a happy couple would be sleeping in separate bedrooms. You say the very first thing that comes to mind. “Deran snores. Like, really loud. And I’m a light sleeper, so…sometimes I crash in the guest room. It was my bedroom before we started dating.”
It’s a shit excuse. It doesn’t at all address why you didn’t just sleep in your and Deran’s shared bedroom tonight, but it’s the best you can come up with on the spot - with him staring at you like he can read your mind.
Pope doesn’t respond right away. You can practically feel his eyes on you, daring you to look up.
“I didn’t know that Deran snores,” he muses lowly.
Does Deran actually snore? Maybe? Sometimes?
You tear off a piece of cheap medical tape you found in the first aid kit. “Yeah, well, you’re not the one who shares a bed with him.”
The room feels impossibly small and suffocating. You hold the gauze pad up to the wound, your hands trembling more than you’d like as you try to make quick work of securing the bandage to his side.
You start to pull away, to tell him that should be good enough for now, to leave the room and attempt to regain your composure after all but blatantly admitting that your relationship is a sham, when Pope grabs your wrist.
At first, he says nothing. Just stares at you, as intense and unyielding as ever. His hand dwarfs your own, his skin like wildfire against yours.
You know you should pull away - should try your hardest to convince him that yes, of course your brother and I sleep in the same bed. Why wouldn’t we? We’re boyfriend and girlfriend. That’s what boyfriends and girlfriends do when they live together—
But all the words catch and pile up in your throat, making you feel like you’re going into anaphylactic shock.
“No, I don’t share a bed with him,” Pope drawls. “But you don’t share a bed with him, either. Do you?”
Your mouth goes dry. There’s no point in even trying to deny it. The truth may as well be written across your forehead.
Pope releases your wrist. You almost think he’s going to let it go - that he isn’t going to press this subject right here, right now, where Deran could so easily overhear. Instead, his hand settles on the exposed skin of your thigh, just above your knee. His calloused thumb applies just enough pressure to the flesh of your inner thigh to make your stomach knot.
“Not only do I think you don’t share a bed,” he murmurs, voice rough, “but I also think you don’t like calling him your boyfriend very much either, for some reason.”
Your heart is beating so hard you’re sure he can feel it through your skin. His hand slides the slightest bit higher.
“And I don’t think he kisses you,” he continues, leaning closer. “At least not the way I think about kissing you.”
Air leaves your lungs in a shaky breath. Your eyes drop to his lips before you can stop yourself.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath.
Your hand moves before your brain can catch up, coming up to cup his jaw. The rough scrape of stubble against your palm sends a shiver down your spine as your lips hover no more than an inch away from his.
He’s shirtless and wounded. Lena’s sleeping in the next room and Deran is showering just down the hall. You’re supposed to be in a relationship with his brother, but right now you can’t remember why you ever thought that was a good idea.
Right now, you don’t really give a shit about any of that because Pope is right. He’s right about it all. You and Deran don’t share a bed. You do struggle calling him your boyfriend. He doesn’t kiss you, and you don’t kiss him.
Never have. Not in the way that every fiber of your being screams to kiss Pope right now.
“No.”
You aren’t quite sure whether he kisses you or you kiss him. You just know within seconds of your lips touching his, the restraint that you’ve been fighting to maintain for months crumbles. His mouth moves against yours with the kind of urgency that both shows and tells just how much he’s been holding himself back all this time, too.
He exhales against your lips, one hand coming up instinctively to grip your waist while the other tightens on your thigh. The pull of it drags you closer to him on the couch and before you know it, you’re straddling his lap, your hands braced on his broad, freckled shoulders for balance. He fists the hem of your t-shirt, bunching the fabric at your waist just enough for his knuckles to graze the exposed skin of your sides.
The unmistakable flavor of menthol on his tongue from a cigarette he undoubtedly smoked on the drive home with Deran tells you that he couldn’t have predicted this happening right now anymore than you could have.
Your fingers glide over the planes of his shoulders and up the sides of his neck until they weave through his short brunet curls that you’ve longed to run your hands through for longer than you care to admit. You give a gentle tug to the hair at the base of his skull and the sound that vibrates from deep within his chest shoots straight to your core.
It’s nothing short of a miracle that your brain is somehow able to register that Deran has turned the shower off.
As much as it equally physically and emotionally pains you to do so, you scramble off of Pope’s lap, adjusting your t-shirt back into a proper position and wiping any evidence of his kiss from your mouth with the back of your hand. As you scoot to the opposite end of the couch from him, you can’t help but take in the current state of him - lips kiss swollen, chest and neck flushed pink, and clad only in the pair of jeans that he attempts to adjust to conceal the bulge you were able to feel through your sleep pants.
If it weren’t for the fact that you can hear Deran exiting the bathroom at this precise moment, you don’t think you’d be able to stop yourself from taking him right here on this couch.
And that’s a very dangerous thought.
Deran enters the living room wearing only a pair of basketball shorts, sandy blond hair still dripping and his own skin flushed pink for reasons entirely different from Pope. Luckily, he barely spares a glance in your direction, walking past you and Pope to get to the kitchen.
“Bleed out on my couch yet? Or are you gonna make it?” Deran calls from where he rummages through an open fridge. You look to Pope, mentally urging him to play off what had just transpired not even ten seconds before Deran walked in the room.
He doesn’t. He stares at the back of Deran’s head, his jaw clenched so tight that you’re surprised he doesn’t break a tooth.
You answer before the silence can turn (more) weird.
“He’s patched up well enough for now,” you say, voice unnaturally high. Then, as casually as you can manage, “there’s leftover pizza from dinner in there, if you’re hungry.”
“Sick,” Deran grunts. “What about you, man? You hungry?”
You raise your brows at him, shooting him a look that clearly says fucking answer him, act normal, I swear to God if you don’t eat that leftover pizza—
He doesn’t take his eyes off of you when he answers with a singular, emotionless word. “Starving.”
Deran has no reaction, but something about the way he says it while looking at you makes it feel like the back of your neck is on fire.
You clear your throat. “Well, I have to open in the morning, so I should probably get some sleep…” You turn to Pope, trying not to completely melt under his stare. “Um - Lena can just sleep here tonight, if you don’t wanna wake her up this late. You can come back and get her in the morning, or you sleep here on the couch if you want—”
It won’t kill you to actually share a bed with Deran for one night. He is your best friend, after all.
“No, that’s okay.” He shakes his head and reaches for the blood soaked shirt on the coffee table. “It’s probably best if I come back in the morning.” He doesn’t elaborate as he starts to put the stained button-up back on.
“At least let me give you one of Deran’s t-shirts to wear for the time being. That thing is covered in blood.” You don’t wait for a response before you’re rising from the couch and walking down the hallway to Deran’s bedroom.
The second the door shuts behind you, you lean against it - fingertips touching your bottom lip that still tingles from where his mouth had moved so desperately with yours. You take a few deep, steadying breaths before you’re able to force yourself to look for a clean t-shirt in the absolute shit show that is Deran’s bedroom.
Part of you feels relieved that Pope is insisting on coming back to get Lena in the morning so that you won’t have to actually sleep in this mess. As much as you love Deran, you can’t say with confidence that he’s changed his bedsheets anytime in the last six months.
Another part of you is glad that Pope won’t be occupying your couch tonight because you know you wouldn’t stand a chance of getting a decent night’s sleep if he were a mere short walk down the hallway.
At least when Pope leaves you can take the couch and try to process the fact that you straddled his lap, stuck your tongue in his mouth and felt the very obvious evidence of his arousal with only walls separating the two of you from Deran and Lena.
You rummage through Deran’s closet until you find the first t-shirt that passes a sniff test while trying not to spiral until you’re fully alone.
“Here’s a t-shirt. If you want to leave your shirt I can try to get the blood out of it—”
You look around the small living room and kitchen to find that Pope is nowhere to be found. Deran leans against the counter, taking a bite of a slice of leftover pizza.
“Where’s Pope?”
Deran shrugs. “I heated a piece of pizza up for him but he muttered something about going home and dipped.”
“He’s the one wearing a bloody shirt, not me,” you sigh, tossing the t-shirt onto the couch and trying to play off the disappointment you feel at his sudden departure.
“Do you think he was acting kinda strange?”
Your stomach flip flops at the question. You can’t bring yourself to look Deran in the eye, so you take your place on the couch once more, your back turned to him. “I mean, he did technically get shot. I guess anyone would be a little on edge after that.”
The excuse feels sour on your tongue, but it’s all you’ve got.
“I guess,” he agrees with a mouthful of pizza. An awkward pause. “Seemed fine enough on the drive here, though.”
You shrug, grateful that Deran can’t see your face at the moment. “Probably just a combination of blood loss and an adrenaline crash after the job. How did that go, by the way?”
Much to your relief, Deran doesn’t press the subject of Pope any further before telling you he’s going to bed after he’s finished eating.
Unfortunately, that does very little to quiet the chaos in your mind.
When you finally turn off the lights and curl up under your blanket on the couch, you know that sleep won’t come easily. Not with the ghost of Pope’s hands still burning against the skin of your waist, not with the taste of a menthol cigarette still lingering on your tongue, and definitely not with the impossible to ignore realization that you have no earthly idea what the fuck you’re supposed to do now.
𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆
Pope has no issue being celibate. He got used to it during his three years in prison.
Then, almost immediately upon being released, his brothers all but forced him to go to a strip club for his birthday, where he ended up having the most unsatisfactory hook-up of his life. He’s sure the woman - whose name he doesn’t even remember - would say the same of the experience.
All it took was that one brief and underwhelming sexual encounter for him to decide that he would rather remain celibate than have sex that feels so…meaningless and unfulfilling.
Coincidentally or not, he had just met you when he came to that decision.
You, his baby brother’s girlfriend, who patched up his wound as if he’s made of glass one moment and then climbed onto his lap and kissed him breathless the next. You, whose lips taste so honey sweet that you got him hard with just one kiss. You, who whimpered as you broke away from him just seconds before Deran entered the room, leaving him desperate to do whatever necessary to keep drawing sounds like that from you.
It all replayed on a loop the entire drive back to his place.
The way you tasted, the feeling of your skin, and how it took every bit of his self restraint to resist laying you down just so he could feel you squirm beneath him.
He wishes he could say this is the first time that he’s thought of you as he gets himself off in the shower, but that would be a lie. It’s far from it, but it is the first time doing so knowing how it feels to have your hands in his hair and the weight of you grinding down right where he most wants you.
Tonight, it takes him no time at all - all he has to do is think of the sweet smell of your perfume and how good it felt to have your fingers in his hair while your lips moved in synchronicity with his own, and he’s finishing with a groan of your name as warm, white liquid follows the water down the drain.
When he lays down in his bed, he finds it difficult to feel guilty about any of it.
He knows that he should. He doesn’t want to hurt his brother. But he felt every ounce of how you had kissed him. There’s no doubt in his mind that you want him as bad as he wants you. That’s not something a person can fake.
Not you, anyway. Pope knows you. You aren’t a good liar.
If he believed that he was intruding on a happy, healthy relationship, he may feel a shred of remorse. But there’s no part of him that believes that to be the case.
You may care about Deran, but no part of Pope believes that you’ve ever kissed Deran the way you kissed him. You may spend most of your time with him, but Pope knows who’s really on your mind the whole time. And you may have love for his brother, but Pope is more sure than ever you aren’t in love with him.
𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆
That morning, you wake far earlier than you need to.
Lena likes to sleep in on days she doesn’t have school, and you don’t have to be at the bar until eleven, but you still find yourself awake at the crack of dawn.
Busying yourself does little to keep your brain from wandering to Pope. You bake blueberry muffins for when Lena wakes up, start a load of laundry, and clean the kitchen and living room all while thinking about what the hell you’re going to say and do whenever he comes to get Lena.
Should you tell him that last night was a mistake and that it can’t happen again? Probably. That would make everything a lot fucking simpler. Nip it in the bud, before either of you get too invested, someone finds out, and people get hurt.
But you’re already invested. Your heart has been invested in Pope Cody since the day you met him by Smurf’s pool. Kissing him last night was just the dam finally breaking.
So what do you tell him, then? The truth? And completely betray Deran’s trust?
Other than Adrian, and a couple nameless men before him, you’re the only person he’s ever told the truth to. You are the only person he’s ever told who he hasn’t also slept with.
You’re the only person he’s ever told simply out of trust, and you won’t blatantly betray that.
You’re drinking coffee on the front porch when Pope parks in front of your house. Equal parts excitement and anticipation bloom in your gut the second that he gets out of his truck and begins walking in your direction.
He pauses when he reaches the top step. He looks at you like he isn’t sure if he’s allowed to do anything other than look at you.
“Good morning,” you hum, coffee mug pressed against your lips. “How’s your side?”
“Sore. Fine,” he murmurs, hesitantly taking the seat on the opposite side of the small patio table. “I changed the bandage this morning. Lena sleep okay?”
“She’s still snoring,” you say fondly.
“She does that,” he sighs, looking around like he’s expecting to see someone else. “Where’s your boyfriend at?”
You roll your eyes. “Your brother,” you correct, placing your mug on the table but not taking your hands off the sides just so you have something to occupy them, “is out surfing. About that, though…” You trail off, going silent. Pope waits, patient but as expressionless as ever.
Not even ten minutes ago, you swore to yourself that you’d only kiss him again if you also give him some kind of explanation that assures him you’re not actually committing infidelity by doing so.
And fuck, you really want to kiss him again, so it’s now or never.
You nod your head in the direction of the front door. “Let’s go inside.”
He quirks a brow, but doesn’t question or object as he stands to follow you into the house. When he enters, you close the door quietly so as to not wake Lena - she’s a deep sleeper, but you really need her to stay asleep for a little bit longer. Just long enough for you to get this off your chest before you chicken out.
You hesitate in the kitchen. You consider sitting down on the couch, but one vivid flashback of what happened last time the two of you sat on that couch together makes you think twice about that, and you settle for leaning against the counter with your arms crossed over your chest instead.
You’re both silent for a moment, but Pope is the first to break.
“Look, I don’t regret last night,” he says, low. He takes a tentative step towards you. “Not at all. But if you do, it’s okay. We can pretend it never happened, if that’s what you—”
“You were right.”
He freezes. Then, takes another small step, leaving only a few inches of space between you. “About which part?”
You lift your shoulders in a half shrug. “All of it. Me and Deran. We don’t share a bed. We don’t kiss. Never have. Not like you and I did. Not even close.”
He doesn’t look surprised. You didn’t expect him to. He had already said it all himself. You’re only confirming what he already believes to be true.
“I’m not in love with Dean. And he isn’t in love with me, either.”
No, he doesn’t look surprised, but you can’t help but think he does look a little bit relieved - even just to hear you say it out loud. But that tiny smidge of relief written in his features is quickly replaced with confusion.
“Then why the hell are you guys together? What am I missing?”
You look down at the floor, your stare locking onto a blueberry you had dropped while making muffins. This is the part that you know you can’t answer honestly. At least not in a way that will make sense to him. He’s going to have questions…ones that you can’t answer in complete honesty without outing Deran.
“Hey,” Pope says, voice uncharacteristically soft. He closes the remaining bit of distance between you and places a tentative hand on your waist, causing you to look up at him. He braces his other hand against the ledge of the counter that you lean against, caging you between it and his body. His hazel eyes bore into yours, searching for whatever it is that you aren’t saying. “You can talk to me. I’m just…trying to understand.”
“I know,” you whisper. You uncross your arms, placing your palms against his chest. Your gaze drops to the chipped polish on one of your fingernails.
“I do love Deran. A lot. And he loves me, too. But we aren’t in love.” You take a breath. “Our relationship is fake.”
His eyes narrow ever so slightly. “Fake.” He repeats the word, his voice unreadable.
“Mm-hm.” You nod, even though you can tell it wasn’t really a question. “Fake.”
“Why?”
You can’t help but snort a laugh at the bewilderment in his tone. You sigh, rubbing your thumb absentmindedly against the front of his shirt where your hand rests on his chest.
“I know it sounds crazy,” you admit. “But it made sense at the time.” Pope waits, silently giving you the opportunity to keep going. “It was my idea. As you know, I work at a busy bar. Men hit on me…pretty much constantly. Some don’t take no for an answer the first time. Or the second time.”
His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“So being able to say that I have a boyfriend helps,” you continue with a shrug. “Most guys back off quicker if they believe there’s another man involved. And at the time…I wasn’t interested in being with anyone for real anyway. A lot of people already assumed me and Deran were together. I mean, we hang out all the time, we live together…it didn’t really come as a shock to most people.”
You pause, then add more firmly, “As for Deran…he has his own reasons for agreeing to the arrangement. But that’s for him to share, when and if he ever feels ready.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, and then a slow look of realization settles over his face. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Oh.”
He doesn’t ask for clarification. Doesn’t push the boundary. But Pope’s smarter than most people give him credit for. You can see the gears turning behind those hazel eyes and you have no doubt he can read between the lines of what you are saying, and what you aren’t.
His grip on your waist tightens and his gaze intensifies. The air in the kitchen seems to grow heavier. “And what about now?”
Your words come out as a breathy whisper. “What do you mean?”
“You said you weren’t interested in being with anyone. What about now?”
You swallow. “Now…”
Now, you see the pretty hazel eyes that are staring at you in your dreams every night. Now, when the boys go out on jobs, you’re a mess until you know that not only Deran is okay, but Pope, too. Now, you struggle to call Deran your boyfriend when people ask, because you’re secretly wishing it was Pope you were calling your boyfriend instead. Now, you know how Pope tastes and you aren’t really sure how you managed to go so long not knowing how he tastes. Now, you’re staring at his lips and can’t remember how to form a coherent thought, much less a coherent sentence.
So instead of answering him with words, you grab his face in your hands and pull his face to yours.
For a fraction of a second, he freezes. Then, when your tongue sweeps his bottom lip, a sound releases from deep in his chest and he’s kissing you back. He’s kissing you back like Deran won’t be home any given moment and Lena won’t be waking up any minute now.
His hands rub up and down your sides and yours go to his hair, subconsciously remembering how much he seemed to like your fingers tugging on his curls last night. His lips part for you, his tongue quick to dance with yours. He brings one hand to cup your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss.
Everything that follows happens fast. One second, you’re leaning against the counter kissing, and the next, he’s easing your sleep shorts and panties down your thighs and lifting you onto the edge of the counter before kneeling in front of you.
“Andrew,” you breathe. He takes a calf in each calloused hand, parting your legs just far enough to plant kisses on your inner thighs, the light stubble on his jaw tickling the sensitive skin. “We can’t—Lena’s right down the hallway—”
“It’s gonna be fine,” He murmurs the words against your skin in between trailing kisses up your thighs. He stops when his face is only a few inches from your exposed cunt, looking up at you in a way that makes you fight against the urge to clench your thighs around his head.
“Just stay quiet. Can you do that for me?”
You nod. You nod because you know if you speak, you’ll sound every bit as eager and desperate as you are. Three damn years that you’ve been single, and the last time you even had so much as a disappointing one night stand was months before you and Deran began your fake relationship, so it goes without saying that…touch-starved is a bit of an understatement.
You could have fucked someone at any point if you had wanted to. God knows Deran has. But the truth is, you haven’t wanted to. The last few hook-ups you had prior to you and Deran getting “together” had been so underwhelming that you’ve been repulsed at the thought of sex for the longest time.
Then you met Pope. And now here you are, with his head between your legs in the middle of your kitchen.
He all but moans into you when his lips settle over the bundle of nerves at the apex of your folds. You fight the urge to surge forward, bracing yourself on the countertop with one hand as the other shoots to his hair. You have to purse your lips tightly to keep from releasing the noises that threaten to pour from your throat as he tentatively explores you with his mouth.
Strong arms wrap around your thighs, supporting you from below. His fingers dig into the flesh with just enough pressure that you know you’ll later be able to feel tiny, tender bruises in the exact spots where his fingertips press into your skin.
You glance down at him. It’s the kind of sight that would bring you to your knees if you weren’t already perched on the edge of the countertop - the kind of sight that makes you grateful that he’s helping support your weight right now because it turns your legs to jelly.
His eyes are closed and he’s lost in you - alternating between soft strokes of his tongue up your center and sucking your clit between his pretty lips that are wet with you.
Heat rapidly pools low in your belly and your thighs flex around the sides of his head as you inch closer and closer to release. You croon his name, instantly slapping your own hand over your mouth as soon as the word slips out. He chuckles low against you, the vibration of it shooting through you.
The familiar feeling of a hot coil dangerously close to snapping begins to overtake your senses. Your eyes snap shut and your head rolls back, bracing for the climax that is seconds away from washing over you—
Deran’s voice. Craig’s obnoxious fucking laugh. Both coming from directly outside the house.
“Fuck,” you hiss, ignoring the screaming ache between your legs and practically pushing Pope off you. “Fuck, where’s my—”
Pope reacts even quicker than you. He’s grabbing your sleep shorts and panties from where they lay on the floor, shoving your feet into the holes of both at the same time. He stands, face flushed pink and glistening with your slick, and then darts down the hallway without a word, leaving you to pull your clothing into place just moments before Deran and Craig enter the house in their wetsuits.
You turn in the opposite direction of them, unable to look either one in the eye. You grab the hand towel in front of you and pretend to busy yourself with an imaginary spill on the counter.
“Morning,” Deran calls as he makes a beeline for the fridge. “Smells good in here.”
You clear your throat. “Oh, yeah. I made blueberry muffins. They’re on the dining table. Help yourselves.” Your voice comes out too high-pitched and you mentally recoil.
“Where’s Pope?” Craig asks. “I saw his truck out front.”
“Yeah, he’s here,” you say, forcefully casual. You turn to face them, leaning against the counter and hoping your face looks neutral. “He’s in the bathroom. Or…waking Lena up, maybe. Not sure.”
Really smooth, idiot.
Craig nods in response, seemingly oblivious as he grabs a muffin from the tin on the dining room table.
“What are you guys doing back so early?” Then, fearing the questions sounds more accusatory than curious, you add, “I figured you’d be in the water until lunch time.”
A…curious? Suspicious? Look comes over Deran’s face as he takes a step toward you, leaning in to place a hand on your waist and a kiss on your cheek. “We’re gonna go back out. Just wanted to grab a quick bite to eat.” He retreats, joining Craig at the table. “That okay with you?”
Your cheeks warm and you force a laugh. “Yeah, of course.”
For the next few minutes, you attempt to keep yourself busy by unloading clean dishes from the dishwasher. And by attempt to keep yourself busy, you actually mean try to ignore how uncomfortably sticky wet your underwear are.
After what feels like forever but in actuality was likely no more than ten minutes, Pope and Lena appear from the hallway.
“Hey Lena,” Craig greets her with a smile. Then, eyes trailing over Pope he adds, “How you feeling, man? Heard that bullet grazed you pretty damn good last night.”
Pope shrugs, face giving nothing away. “Never been better.”
The three of them converse while eating, but you can’t help but notice the way that Pope barely says a word to Deran. Hardly even looks at him, really. You try to tell yourself that he’s just being…well, Pope, but deep down you know it’s the fact that he had his fucking tongue buried inside you seconds before Deran got home.
And even though Pope knows that Deran isn’t actually your boyfriend, they’re still brothers. He’s still lying to his brother, and that can’t come easily.
It doesn’t come easily to you, either. Even just being here in this room with all of them right now, you feel like if you open your mouth, you’re surely going to blurt out the truth.
“Everything okay with you?” Deran asks, pulling you out of a trancelike state.
You had been staring at Pope’s side profile.
“Me? I’m fine,” you answer a bit too quickly. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. Not looking forward to this shift today.”
There’s a beat of awkward silence, which Pope is the first to break. “Lena? Isn’t there something you wanted to ask?”
You glance from Pope to Lena. She’s staring at Pope with a shy smile on her face, like she isn’t totally sure if she wants to speak or not.
“Go on,” Pope encourages. “You can ask her.”
She looks at you…and then briefly at Deran before back to you once more. “Do you and uncle Deran want to come to my house for dinner tonight?”
You can’t stop your eyes from going wide at the question. You aren’t sure what you were expecting, but Pope encouraging Lena to ask you and Deran over for dinner wasn’t anywhere on the list of possibilities.
Your foot twitches with the urge to kick Pope from beneath the table.
“Oh—”
“Ah, I’m sorry, Lena,” Deran interrupts you. “I’d love to come over but I have to cover a shift at the bar tonight because we’re short staffed.” Deran looks at you, brows slightly raised. “But you’re more than welcome to go, if you want.”
Lena’s looking at you hopefully. “Uncle Pope’s going to make spaghetti.”
“Oh, is he?” You quip, glancing at Pope, who has been staring at you the whole time with an impassive expression. “Well, I do love spaghetti. Of course I’ll come.”
That earns a toothy grin from Lena, and something like a smirk from Pope.
Dinner. It’s just dinner. Lena will be there. And Deran knows about it, too. Even gave you his blessing to go, so it’s not like you’re being secretive.
Dinner is good. Dinner is fine. So why is your heart racing at the thought of it?
When Pope and Lena say their goodbyes and head out to his truck, you spot the small purple bunny that Lena had won at the arcade last night on the kitchen counter. You could just bring it with you to dinner tonight and give it back to her then, but you’re going to take this as an opportunity to interrogate Pope.
By the time you slip on your flip flops and run outside, Lena is already buckled into the backseat and Pope is opening the driver’s door.
“Wait a sec!” You call. He freezes, looking back over his shoulder. “She forgot this.” You toss him the bunny and he catches it. You wait for him to shut the door before you speak again. “What the hell was that?”
“What was what?” He starts to take a step closer to you, but stops himself after a quick glance in the direction of the house.
“That,” you whisper-hiss. “Inviting me and Deran to dinner after eating me ou—” Now it’s your turn to stop yourself. You shake your head. “You’re lucky he’s busy at the bar tonight.”
Pope smirks, the apples of his cheeks turning pink as he appears to be fighting off laughter. “I already knew that Deran is busy tonight. He was complaining last night about being understaffed and having to work tonight.”
“Oh. That’s…oh. That makes sense.”
He shrugs. “Just figured it would be less weird if Lena invited both of you.”
You cock a brow. “So you put her up to that, then?”
“I needed an excuse to see you tonight,” he says simply, opening the door to his truck again. “Do you…actually like spaghetti?”
You laugh, your face warming at the hopefulness in his voice. “Yeah. Spaghetti’s good.”
𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆
“What happens when you meet someone? Someone you want to be with for real?”
The question Deran asked in response to you proposing a fake relationship nine months ago has echoed in your mind all day long. From the moment that Pope and Lena pulled out of your driveway this morning, throughout your shift at the bar, the entire time you’re getting ready to go over to their place for dinner, and with every bite of spaghetti, the question rings louder and louder.
“In the rather unlikely event that happens, then we simply end our romantic endeavor. We’re still best friends. No harm done. Sound good?”
At the time, it did sound good. It sounded so simple. But you never could have predicted that the person you would meet, the person you would want to be with for real, would be his damn brother.
What kind of luck is that? To genuinely fall for someone for the first time in years and it happens to be your best friend’s brother?
No harm done. You can only fucking hope - hope that Deran doesn’t feel betrayed, hope that he still wants to be your friend, and hope that he isn’t angry with Pope whenever you tell him.
Because you are going to tell him. Soon. You’re just still trying to figure out exactly what it is you’re going to tell him.
Pope’s mouth is on your throat.
Dinner was over a while ago, followed by several games of Connect 4 at Lena’s request. Then, you insisted on cleaning the kitchen while Pope helped her get ready for bed. Now, the house is quiet. The curtains are drawn, the doors are locked, the lights are low, and his mouth is on your throat.
An Animal Planet documentary playing on the TV illuminates the otherwise dark living room. You’re flat on your back on the couch with Pope above you, one arm braced next to your head and his other hand resting just under the hem of your shirt, fingers splayed across the skin of your stomach. Your legs are wrapped around his waist, keeping him pressed as closed as possible while still wearing clothes.
He alternates between peppering wet kisses and sucking tiny love bites along the column of your throat. You feel the hard press of him between your legs, unable to resist arching upwards in an attempt to relieve the rapidly growing ache in your core. He lets out a low, throaty groan at the movement, grinding down with enough pressure to make you gasp out in longing.
“Andrew,” you whisper, voice strained with arousal. Your hands shoot to the sides of his head, delicately urging him back. He pulls away instantly, just enough for his face to hover inches above yours.
“What is it?” He murmurs, worry on his face. He removes his hand from beneath your shirt, smoothing the fabric back into place. The simple gesture makes your stomach flutter. “What’s wrong?”
You shake your head quickly. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong, really. I love this. Being here with you. Spending time with you and Lena. This…” You trail off, breathless, glancing down at the very limited amount of space between his chest and yours. “I just can’t help but feel bad about keeping it from Deran. I know I’m not actually cheating on him…but he’s still my best friend. And your brother. I want to be honest with him before this…goes any further.”
His expression is soft as he nods. He maneuvers off of you, sitting up and helping you into a sitting position beside him, one arm wrapped around your shoulder as he pulls you into his side. “What are you gonna tell him, exactly?” He places a tentative hand on your thigh. “What is…this?”
A shaky laugh slips out. “I was hoping we could figure that out together,” you say, eyes dropping to where his hand rests on your leg. “All I know is I don’t want it to end. I just want to tell him first.”
“There’s nothing for me to figure out. You’re it for me.”
Your eyes shoot back up to his. His thumb brushes over your skin in slow circles. He tilts his head, a faint smirk appearing on his lips. “But I’m not going anywhere. So you do whatever you need to do.”
You start to lean in, to kiss him once more, when the front door rattles sharply from a few feet away. The handle twists back and forth, like whoever is on the other side is fully expecting it to open. Pope goes rigid beside you. There’s a brief pause, then the handle jiggles again, followed by a light knock.
“Hey, it’s just me,” Deran’s voice calls from beyond the door. “You guys in there?”
You’re pulling out of Pope’s embrace in an instant, standing to open the door. “Just act casual,” you murmur low, too quiet for Deran to hear.
You unlock the knob and deadbolt with shaky hands, trying your hardest to erase any signs of unease from your face. You’re going to talk to Deran about all of this, and soon - but not in front of Pope.
Tonight. Once the two of you are back at your place, alone.
“Hey,” you greet him cheerfully when you open the door. “How’d you get off work so early? Thought we were short staffed tonight.” It’s only 8:30 - the bar doesn’t normally close until ten o’clock on Sunday nights.
“We were,” Deran huffs, walking past you to enter the house as you hold the door open for him. “But we were also dead tonight, so I decided to close. Let everyone go home a little early. I was driving home and saw that your car’s still here so I thought I’d stop by.”
Deran pauses next to the recliner, hesitating before sitting down - he glances around the room, seemingly noticing how it’s dark except for the muted under the cabinet lights in the kitchen and the TV playing in the small living room. His gaze lingers on the two half empty beer bottles on the coffee table, one directly in front of Pope and the other in front of where you had been sitting moments prior.
Deran gives an awkward clear of his throat when Pope only stares at him wordlessly. “So, where’s Lena?” He asks, looking around for any sign of the girl.
“Asleep,” Pope answers shortly. “She has school in the morning.”
“Right,” Deran says with a click of his tongue, though there’s something in his voice that makes your stomach twist.
You hover awkwardly by the recliner, not eager to reclaim your original seat next to Pope. “She just laid down a few minutes ago,” you add. “We had been playing Connect 4 and watching a show on Animal Planet.” You gesture vaguely to the television and the red and yellow checkers scattered across the coffee table, evidence of your post-dinner activities. “I was uh - I was just getting ready to leave, actually.”
Deran’s eyes dart back and forth between you and Pope before he responds. “Ah. I see.” He pushes himself off the arms of the recliner with his palms, standing back up. “Well, I guess I’ll see you at home then.”
And whether due it’s the look on his face or the tone of his voice, you have no doubt that he knows something is off.
You nod quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
Deran mumbles an emotionless see ya later to Pope, not waiting for a response before he’s opening the front door and stepping back outside. When the door closes behind him, it echoes in the otherwise quiet room.
“Shit,” you grumble under your breath, looking around for where you had put your shoes. “Well, if he wasn’t already suspicious, he definitely fucking is now. I’ve gotta get home and try to explain—”
You don’t even notice that Pope stands up and walks over to you until he’s taking your face in his hands, tilting your head to look at him.
“He may be upset at first,” he says with a half-shrug and sympathetic look. “Probably will be. I know I don’t know all of the details, but I know you love him. He loves you, too. Everything will be okay.”
You nod meekly, trying to believe his words, but your brain is spiraling with worst-case scenarios. You won’t actually believe that things will be okay until they are okay.
And you know there’s only one way to make that happen.
𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆
Deran’s not an idiot, and he sure as hell isn’t blind.
Pope may be a near decade older than him, and he may have spent a good portion of Deran’s twenties in prison, but Deran still knows his brother well.
And he knows you very well.
Well enough to know that in the three years that the two of you have been friends, he’s never seen you look at someone the way that you do Pope.
He doesn’t really understand why you look at Pope the way that you do, but then again, he doesn’t really understand why you’re best friends with him, either. He supposes you see the best in people, even if you could do better.
Whatever the hell is going on between you and his older brother, isn’t a new and shocking revelation to him. He’s noticed Pope staring at you on too many different occasions to count at this point, and he knows you’ve always had a soft spot for Pope.
But he’s noticed a shift over the last few days. Normally, he can ignore Pope’s staring, but it’s more than that now. It’s more than just stolen, longing looks when he thinks you aren’t watching.
Because now, you’re staring back. Maybe not in the exact same creepy, intense way that Pope does, but that’s besides the point.
He accepted that he can no longer play it off as a soft spot when he and Pope got home from their most recent job and you looked like you had seen a ghost when you realized that Pope was bleeding. The second that you noticed the red stain on Pope’s shirt, Deran was suddenly chopped liver.
Maybe he should feel relieved. If you’re going to fall for one of his brothers, at least it isn’t Craig. He loves the guy to death, but he doesn’t exactly have the best track record with women. He’d just cheat on you, or give you some unheard of and incurable STD, or pull a move like he did with Renn and leave you for dead the first chance he gets.
Still. He never expected it to be Pope.
But Deran knows better than most that the heart wants it wants. He can’t fault you for that. He just doesn’t understand why you didn’t tell him.
He’s told you everything. Everything. Things he’s never told anyone else. You know about the family business - well, more or less. He doesn’t exactly try to hide it. You know the truth of what a monster Smurf is. You were the first person he told about his plans to buy the bar you’d been working at for years - the exact place the two of you met. You know he’s gay. He trusts you implicitly, but you’ve kept the fact that you’re seeing his brother from him?
He isn’t angry (he’s trying not to be, anyway) but more than anything else, he’s hurt.
His best friend. His brother. And neither told him.
When you get home less than five minutes after him, he’s nursing a beer on the couch, waiting for you. He doesn’t say anything at first. You enter the house, slowly, leaning against the door and not meeting his eye for a long moment before taking a deep breath in.
“There’s something we need to talk about.”
“Yeah,” Deran snorts a sarcastic laugh. “I’d say so.”
You look up. If you’re surprised by his response, you don’t let it show. You purse your lips, making your way to the living room the two of you have shared for the last few years now, taking a seat on the loveseat directly across from him.
“Listen,” you start, staring down at your hands in your lap. “I should’ve told you. I know that. I’m not gonna sit here and pretend I had some perfect reason, because I didn’t. I was just scared. I didn’t know what this was, or where it was going, and I didn’t want you caught in the middle if it didn’t work out.” You pause, your voice softening. “But still. I’m sorry for not telling you from the start.”
Deran’s silent for a moment, letting your words sink in. The tension in his shoulders eases the slightest bit at the sincerity in your voice.
The two of you never fight. Bicker like children sometimes, sure. Like when he doesn’t rinse his dishes off before putting them in the sink or waits too long to switch the laundry over so it starts to smell musty and you have to restart the load, or when you eat his last protein bar or forget to put the trash on the curb on garbage day.
But you never fight. You’re the one person he never has to fight with. Even now, he doesn’t want to fight with you.
He nods, staring down at the amber colored glass in his hands instead of you. “How long has this been going on?”
You let out a quiet snort of a laugh. “Depends. If you’re asking when the first time we kissed was…not even twenty-four hours ago. If you’re asking how long I’ve had feelings for him, then…I don’t know, really. A while.”
“Not even twenty-four — last night? As in after we got back from the job last night? You mean you guys were sucking face while I was in the shower?”
“Yes,” you moan, hiding your face in your hands. “Oh my god, don’t call it that—”
“I knew it.” Deran shakes his head with a humorless laugh. “I fucking knew he was acting even more off putting than usual last night.”
You spread your fingers apart, peeking out from the cracks. “He is not off putting—”
“Holy shit. You are in love with him.”
You groan dramatically, throwing your head back and staring up at the ceiling. Deran tries not to laugh, but he can’t help it.
You sit up a little, expression completely serious now. “Just so you know, I didn’t…tell Pope. About you. He knows that our relationship is fake, but I only told him my reasons for agreeing to it. Not yours.”
He should feel relieved to hear that, but he doesn’t. He just feels guilt - guilt that you felt you couldn’t confide in him. Guilt that you’ve been in this fake relationship for him all this time while harboring feelings for his brother for “a while.” Guilt that you were willing to prioritize him over your own happiness. Guilt that you and Pope wouldn’t have had to sneak around at all if it weren’t for him.
“Well.” He lifts the beer bottle to his lips, taking one last sip before setting it down. “Guess there’s only one thing left to do.”
Your brows pinch together. “What do you mean?”
“I’m breaking up with you.”
You blink, and then your eyes go wide in surprise. “What? You’re…breaking up with me?”
He shrugs. “Yeah. Consider yourself dumped.”
Your jaw drops. “You can’t dump me. We weren’t really even together.”
He waves a hand at you in dismissal. “I think what you’re actually trying to say is thank you, Deran.”
“But—”
“Jesus Christ,” he groans. “Will you just let me give you my blessing? You’re off the hook. We’re good. Go suck face with Pope or whatever nasty shit you two were probably doing before I showed up.”
You roll your eyes, but your expression softens. Then, you stand, walking over to where Deran sits on the couch to take the empty space beside him.
“You’re really not mad?” You ask in a small voice.
He exhales through his nose, grabbing your hand in his and giving it a firm squeeze. “No,” he says simply. “How could I be? I mean, I’m not thrilled that it’s Pope, but…” He shrugs. “You committed to a fake relationship for nearly a fucking year for me. You deserve to be happy. Even if it is with my brother,” he adds, a tad more dryly.
You nod slowly, your gaze locked on where his hand still holds yours. “People are gonna talk, you know.” You turn your head slightly to look at him. “About why we broke up. About how I’m with Pope now. They’ll think that I left you for him, or that he stole your girl, or that—”
“So?” He cuts you off. “If I hear anyone say anything about you, I’ll knock their teeth out. Pope would do worse than that.”
“It’s not me I’m worried about,” you say gently. “I don’t care what people say about me. I know the truth. I just don’t want you to feel pressured to…explain. You know, admit that it was a fake relationship or come out before you’re ready to…”
He shakes his head, shushing you. He wraps his free arm around your shoulder. “I appreciate the concern, but I’m a big boy. You don’t need to worry about protecting me from rumors anymore. Let people think and say whatever they want. I’ll come out when I’m ready. Not because people are being nosey assholes.”
You seem to relax a bit at his reassurance. You lean into his embrace, resting your head against his shoulder.
“And not because you’re doing my brother, either.”
That gets a laugh from you. The kind of laugh that lets him know that nothing has really changed between the two of you.
Deran gives your hand another squeeze before letting go. “Go on,” he mutters, nodding towards the front door. “He’s probably pacing holes in the floor right now.”
𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆
Pope has typed and erased an embarrassing number of text messages in your chat thread since the moment that you pulled out of his driveway.
Let me know how it goes.
You can come back here for the night, if you need to. You can sleep in the bedroom and I’ll take the couch.
How pissed is he?
He doesn’t send any of them. Instead, he sits on the couch, stares at his phone, and hopes that you’ll text or call or magically reappear beside him.
It’s a good thing that he’s accustomed to running off of very little sleep, because he doubts he’ll be getting much at all tonight. He already knows that his mind will race with thoughts of you until he eventually collapses from exhaustion, and that it’ll probably finally happen just hours before he has to take Lena to school.
Pope tries to pay attention to the documentary about killer whales playing on the screen in front of him, but he can’t control how his thoughts keep drifting to you. He thinks of how badly he wishes to sleep with you curled into his chest.
Sleep. That’s all. You said you wanted to talk to Deran before things went any further between the two of you, and Pope doesn’t mind. He’d be content to hold you all night and nothing more. To be close to you, in any capacity, puts him at ease like nothing else. That’s been true since he first met you by Smurf’s pool the day after he got out of prison.
When you pull back into the driveway no more than an hour after leaving, he’s so zoned out that he doesn’t even hear you until you’re knocking softly on the door.
“Hey,” he greets you lowly, instantly relieved and a little taken aback by the cheeky smile on your face when he opens the door. “Is everything oh—”
But you’re stepping across the threshold and cutting him off by pressing your lips to his before he can get the question out.
He freezes for a split-second and then he’s kissing you back.
It feels familiar and new all at once. Familiar because Pope has already committed the taste and feel of you to memory in less than a full day’s time, and new because the way you’re moving your lips with his is unrestrained in a way that all of the previous kisses have not been. The truth of you and him is out there, now. There’s no second-guessing, no weight on your shoulders, no reason to hesitate, and he can feel the difference.
You urge him backwards with your hands planted on his waist. Without ever breaking the kiss, he pushes the door closed behind you and takes your face in his hands. You guide him backwards until his legs make contact with the couch and gently push him down. He pulls you onto his lap, his hands ghosting down your back as you settle over his thighs.
“Yeah,” you whisper against his lips, breathless as you caress his face in your hands. “Everything’s more than okay.”
“You sure?” He murmurs, looking up at you in the dim blue light of the television. You nod, your nose brushing against his and corners of your lips perking into a soft smile. “What did Deran say?”
“He’s thoroughly repulsed by the thought of us kissing,” you snort. A laugh rumbles deep in Pope’s chest. Your hands drop to his chest, where you smooth the fabric of his button-up before your fingers find the top button. “So we should probably do a lot of that in front of him. Just maybe not right away,” you hum, smirking.
You pop the button, and then move onto the next, and then the next, until each one is undone and you’re pushing the fabric off his shoulders and down his arms.
“He didn’t love the way that he found out,” you answer, more serious now. “But he understands. Just wants me to be happy. And you make me happy.”
His entire body goes warm at the sentiment. He pulls you flush against his chest, his hands slipping beneath your shirt to tease the skin of your back. He holds you, gazes up at you, like you’re worth more than gold to him.
And you are. You, and the little girl asleep in the other room, who will be tickled to wake up and learn that you’re still here. That you aren’t going anywhere, if Pope has any say in it.
He smiles at the thought before capturing your lips in his once more.
𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆
{ Epilogue ~ 2 years later }
“This tie is too tight. It’s cutting off the blood flow to my brain.”
“Oh, come here,” you groan playfully. Pope leans in, letting you adjust the green tie that matches your dress (and complements his eyes) perfectly.
“You didn’t have to wear this, you know.” You give the length of the tie a gentle tug after loosening it. “The dress code is semi-formal. You could have gotten away with just a button-up.”
“I know,” he grumbles. “But I wanted to match you and Lena at least a little bit. And I figured I should probably get used to wearing one before our wedding.”
The response warms you as much as the Southern California summer sun.
A beachfront wedding. Small and intimate, with a total guest count of less than thirty people…you can’t think of anything more perfectly Deran and Adrian.
“You don’t have to wear one at our wedding either,” you snort, raising an arm to play with the curls at the base of his skull in the way that he likes. “If you don’t want to.”
He grabs your other hand in his, glancing down at the ring that glimmers in the midday sun. He’d put it on your finger only a few months ago, and in the general chaos of life - Lena’s spring soccer season and ballet recital, helping Deran plan his wedding, you and Pope closing on your new house and getting settled in - the two of you haven’t had much time to begin planning your own special day yet.
“Thought you said it looks good on me,” he hums low, unserious.
“Oh, it does,” you laugh. “Very much so. But I care that you’re comfortable at our wedding. You’d look good in anything.”
Soft instrumental music begins to pour from speakers at the edges of the makeshift ceremony setup and everyone goes quiet, turning to look down the aisle. Lena appears moments later, wearing a frilly flower girl dress that matches yours in color. She smiles nervously the entire time she walks down the aisle, small wicker basket in hand. Every few steps, she grabs a handful of pink and white petals, scattering them across the sandy path. As soon as she reaches the end of the aisle, she runs to where you and Pope sit in the front row and climbs onto his lap.
And then Deran and Adrian appear. Hand in hand, they walk down the aisle together until they come to where Craig - who became legally ordained in the state of California solely for this occasion - stands beneath the driftwood arch you helped decorate with flowers earlier.
They take turns exchanging handwritten vows. They cry, you cry, even Craig gets misty-eyed. And then they’re pronounced husbands in what you can only think to describe as the most endearingly Craig way possible, and everyone on the beach cheers.
Afterwards, everyone helps themselves to unlimited beer and the taco bar set up back at the bar, which Deran has closed to the public for the day. You’d done what you could to spruce the place up - miniature floral arrangements and tea lights candles on the tables - but it’s still a bar. Deran’s bar, broken surfboards and all.
Low music fills the room as guests mingle and drink into the evening. Pope surprises you when he offers you his hand and guides you to the very small, cramped space carved out in the middle of the room for a makeshift dance floor.
It’s more swaying than slow dancing, but you enjoy it all the same.
“I know you said that I don’t have to wear a tie to our wedding,” Pope murmurs low, “but what about dancing? Do we have to dance in front of everyone at our wedding?”
“We’re dancing in front of everyone right now,” you snort. “What’s the difference?”
He glances around the room. “Yeah, but no one is paying any attention to us right now. Everyone is too drunk and paying attention to Deran and Adrian. At our wedding, all eyes will be on us.”
“As they should be,” you hum. You bring a hand to the side of his face, steering his gaze back to you. “Yes, we’re going to dance at our wedding. But I’ll let you pick the song.”
He smirks, his grip on your waist tightening. “I guess I should take some lessons, then.”
The clinking of silverware against glass draws everyone’s attention to where Deran and Adrian stand side by side. You and Pope pause your swaying as he wraps an arm around you and pulls you into his side.
“Alright,” Deran says, clearing his throat. “I’m supposed to say some heartfelt shit now, so bear with me.” Adrian laughs beside him, bumping their shoulders together.
“Two years ago, if someone had told me that I would be standing here today, I wouldn’t have believed them. I probably would have tried to fight them.” That earns a few laughs, but you know better than anyone that he isn’t joking.
“I’m sure most of you know that I haven’t always been the easiest person to deal with,” he continues. “But Adrian—” Deran glances at his now husband with a kind of softness that he reserves only for him, “—Adrian never gave up on me. He stuck around when a lot of people would’ve dipped. And I can’t tell you all how glad I am for that.”
Then, his eyes find you. “And speaking of people who stick around…this one right here.” He points to you with his beer bottle. You suddenly feel every eye in the building on you. Pope gives your arm a comforting squeeze. “Best girlfriend I ever had.”
The small crowd laughs, and you cover your face with your hands, but he presses on. “I’m serious. She was the first person to ever tell me that it’s okay to be who I am. That there’s nothing wrong with me. And there’s no way that I would have gotten to this point without her. And now…I get a front row seat to watch her marry my brother.”
By the time he finishes, you’ve dropped your hands from your face. Now, you’re actively blinking back happy tears. You can’t find the words, so you hold up your hands to form a small heart and hope the simple gesture is worth a thousand words.
Later, after the crowd has thinned and the sun is setting, you and Pope head back down to the beach with a handful of others to gather the remaining chairs and decorations. Lena is supposed to be helping, but she has wandered to the shoreline, happily dipping her toes in the water.
You both pause at the same moment to watch her - her feet bare, her hair and flower girl dress both blowing in the slight breeze. You can only hope that feels as at peace as she looks right now.
“Seeing Deran and Adrian today…” Pope starts, then trails off like he’s searching for the right words.
You turn towards him. “What about it?” You ask gently.
He’s still staring out towards Lena. “Makes me excited for ours.”
“Yeah?” You hum. “Even if I make you slow dance in front of everyone?”
“Yeah.” He meets your eye, his normal intensity fully present. “Whenever you’re ready. Doesn’t matter when or where. I just want that with you.”
Deran’s toast echoes in your mind. Two years ago, if someone had told me that I would be standing here today, I wouldn’t have believed them.
The words could have been taken from your own mouth. After everything the two of you have been through as individuals, and everything you’ve been through together, you’re marrying the love of your life and raising a beautiful little girl together. You’ve made the most of a tragic situation; turned it into something safe and secure for her - a forever home for the three of you. Maybe more, someday. You can’t help but picture Pope with a tiny baby all his own, soft curls and hazel eyes.
Only time will tell. And you have all the time in the world, now.
𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆
and that’s how the show ended….right?? RIGHT???
thank you so much if you read all 18.7k+ words of this. this fic is my baby. i worked on it for well over a month, and i hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it.
warnings . . . curse words, grinding, lewd conversation, kidnapping????? unserious ofc, is reader overreacting? maybe but u know the drill. want to point out that it’s been a two week timeskip from the cabin/cath coming back. it may seem like the plot shifted but it’s coming…… mwahahahaha
authors note . . . okay.. well.. hi… love you. tell me ur thoughts and I love you and did I tell you I love you also wait.. they’re being vague cause they’re gonna do criminal stuff… not drunk LOL I just don’t want to rework this LMAOAOA
michael robinavitch the type to fuck you absolutely stupid then give you so so many kisses and cuddles afterwards because at the end of the day you're his girl <3
── .✦ MICHAEL 'ROBBY' ROBINAVITCH
★ˎˊ˗ CONTENT 18+ MDNI fem reader, AFAB reader, reader has breasts, descriptive language, aftercare focus (cuddling, praise, etc), hints of possessiveness, fluffity fluff
MASTERLIST | RULES | INBOX
When Robby finally eases the last of his weight off of you, he does so carefully, like you’re an antique he’s terrified of cracking, a jarring contrast to moments ago when he had you folded in half, driving his cock so deep you swore you could taste it, the headboard begging for mercy with every brutal slam.
He groans when the mattress springs back into place. A palm, wide and a little rough, skates down the ridge of your spine as though he needs the touch more than the next breath he’s chasing.
“Christ,” he mutters, half-laughing, half-praying, hair spilled over his brow in damp ringlets. “You all right, sweetheart?”
You mean to answer right away, but your brain is still someone in the rafters, floating among the dust motes he knocked loose out of you.
So what comes out is less words and more a sigh that shivers through every exhausted inch of your body.
His grin spreads, triumphant. “Need a real answer, honey.”
You find your voice, albeit ragged, but present. “M’fine. Floaty.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” He leans in anyway and kisses the corner of your slack mouth, lingering until he feels you kiss back. “Stay right there a sec. Gonna grab water, towel, and and see what I can do about the pretty mess I made of you.”
“Cocky,” you mumble, though there's no bite to it. Really, he’s only stating the obvious. You are a mess, he made you one, and Robby is far too pleased with himself about both.
He chuckles, snagging his boxers from the floor. “Call me whatever you want, sweetheart. You’ll still be asking for more once you recover.”
While he’s gone, you stare at the ceiling fan, counting revolutions until everything sounds less like static and more like your own heartbeat again.
By the time he returns, you’ve made it to an elbow. He sets a glass on the nightstand, drops the towel beside it, then crawls back over you on his knees, trailing the towel like a cape.
“Water first.” He nudges the rim to your lips, waiting until you take a sip. “Attagirl.”
The praise hits harder than the water, but you drink anyway, throat working around the cool relief.
When you stop to breathe, Robby wipes a stray drip off your chin with his thumb. “Good?”
“Better.”
“Anything else you need right now, baby?”
You shake your head, too lazy to hunt for words. You just want him back where he was, wrapped around you, body weight crushing you like a weighted blanket.
He seems to read that want plain as ink. He moves the water, folds the towel under your hips for cushion, then lowers onto his side and drags you into the curve of him. Chest to back, his arm bands over you, palm flattening between your breasts.
“Heartbeat’s settling,” he says into your hair. “Thought I snapped the thing right out of you for a minute.”
You snort, the sound embarrassingly fond. “You tried.”
“Yeah, well.” He peppers kisses across your shoulder, each one a punctuation mark at the end of a sentence only he can read. “Wanted to make sure you remembered whose girl you are.”
Your laugh comes out airy. “Possessive much?”
“Extremely,” he admits without a hint of shame. He noses behind your ear. “Listen, floaty girl — next time you spot that mirror in the hallway, take a good look. There’s a hell of a lot to be possessive of.” His teeth graze your lobe; the hand on your chest gives a gentle squeeze. “And lucky me, I got there first.”
“Think you might be a little biased,” you tease, warmth creeping into your cheeks despite the sleepy little smile pulling at your mouth.
A low laugh rolls out of him, all soft thunder against your back. He lets the sound fade into a lazy trail of kisses, mapping collarbone, shoulder blade, the delicate chain at your throat. Each brush of his lips is slower than the last, until he nuzzles into the crook of your neck.
“Of course I’m biased,” he says, pressing another kiss beneath your ear. “Still know what I’m looking at.”
MARIA NOTE lowkey this is dogshit but fuck it wii ball <3
YOU CAN FIND MY MICHAEL ROBINAVITCH MASTERLIST HERE ⭑.ᐟ
Dennis can do a back flip and has like no fear of heights and this is how the Pitt crew found out.
HR said the day shift needed to build team morale so as soon as it got warm out a lake front Air B&B was rented for a weekend. Dennis was stoked he loved the water. Back home him and his brothers would spend most of their free time at a nearby creek during the summer. He was proud to admit he held the backflip record from the rope swing.
As soon as everyone unpacked and got settled they made their way outside. Mel noticed the 30 something foot tall deck first.
“That doesn’t look particularly safe.” She muttered nervously.
Trinity started grinning wildly. “Let’s go check it out!”
When the pittlings made it to the deck their hearts were crushed. The small ladder that reached to the top was missing several rungs making it impossible to climb.
Dennis started to walk around the deck taking note how it was built. “I can get up to the top.
Victoria looked at him wide eyed. “Are you sure, I mean how do plan on doing that?”
He quickly stripped off his shirt and shoes leaving them at the bottom. “Watch what I do, then copy it.”
Like a monkey Dennis was able to climb to the top using the support beams and questionable methods. By the time he got to the top adult supervision had gathered.
Robby looked at Mel. “Is that Whitaker?”
“Umm, yes. He climbed the side.” She responded not looking away.
“That kid is going to kill himself.” Dana muttered lighting a cigarette.
“I think he’s got it.” Cassie cheered.
From the top Dennis looked at the small group and waved.
“Do a flip!” Trinity shouted.
“Okay!” Was all that was heard before Dennis launched himself off the deck flipping twice before he hit the water.
Everyone waited with bated breath for their favorite farm boy to surface.
Said farm boy came up for air and shook his head like a dog. “I think I can get one more flip in!”
you’re flat on your back, legs hiked up, hands gripping the sheets like you’re about to be launched into orbit. dean is between your thighs, hovering on his elbows, his chest still heaving from the five minutes of frantic kissing that got you here. he’s golden all over—tanned skin, sweat-slick shoulders, that stupidly perfect hair already falling into his eyes. and his dick. hard. thick. pressing against your entrance like it’s trying to negotiate entry.
you haven’t done this in a week. not ‘cause anything’s wrong. he just had a match, a week long one. and now he’s here. saturday morning, sun bleeding through the curtains just right and he’s got that look in his eyes. the one that says:
“did you get bigger?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him.
he blinks down at you. “what, like my dick went to the gym while i was gone?”
you smack his shoulder. “i’m serious! it never felt like a fucking pillar before.”
“maybe your pussy got shy. it missed me. it’s clamping up like a clam.”
“maybe your ego expanded so much it pushed all the blood flow south.”
he grins, slow and lazy, and kisses your collarbone. “god i missed you.”
you soften,smile curling your lips again. “i missed you too. just not...like this. impaled on a pillar.”
he snorts, then drops his forehead to your chest, groaning dramatically.
“this is tragic. my girl can’t take my dick anymore. how will we survive.”
“we could just cuddle. like normal people.”
he lifts his head, scandalised. “cuddle? baby. fuck no. i literally flew nine hours. i ate airplane pasta for you. you can’t take this from me.”
you burst out laughing. “what? what does airplane pasta have to do with anything?”
“everything. it was ass. i suffered. now i need my reward.”
you wipe your eyes, still laughing softly. “you’re so dramatic.”
but then you look at him proper – messy hair, pink cheeks, that sharp jawline, the way his eyes are soft even when he’s teasing. and you want him. even if it hurts a little. even if you’re tight and out of practice and your body forgot how to relax around him.
you bite your lip. “what if...we just leave it in. for a bit.”
his eyebrows shoot up. “you mean cockwarming?”
you roll your eyes. “don’t make it weird.”
“you want to sit on my dick like a lil’ space heater. say it.”
“dean.”
“fine, fine.”
he laughs, but he obliges. slowly – agonisingly slowly – he pushes in just the tip. then a little more. you hiss, and he stops immediately, his voice dropping soft.
“you okay?”
you nod, breathless. “just....thick. too thick. you’re like a freaking light post.”
he snickers. “and you’re a stale croissant. tight and unyielding.”
“that’s not sexy.”
“you’re not sexy.”
“take it back.”
“no.”
but then he leans down and kisses your forehead with a loud smooch. his hand comes up to stroke your hair, fingers threading through the tangles. and he doesn’t move – not a single thrust – just stays there, buried inside you to the hilt, his weight a warm, solid pressure.
“this is kinda nice,” you whisper.
“i know. you’re warm. like a little oven.”
you flick his forehead, but you’re smiling. his eyes are closed, his breathing evening out. you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, and he hums, content.
you fall asleep like that – him still inside, you curled around him, both of you finally still. and when you wake up the next morning?
summary: his wife brings the kids to visit him at work and to show off the new addition to the abbot family, and maybe jack is already itching for another…
wc: 1.3k
warnings: jack and reader are parents, robby flirts with reader (hardly), reader works at ptmc but no job specified, uhh thats it i think? its just fluff hehehe
summary: his wife brings the kids to visit him at work and show off the new addition to the abbot family, and maybe jacks already itching for another…
a/n: dad!jack you will always be famous. if anyone wants to see more of this little family lmk :3 (still trying to decide on names for the babies…)
Jack hears you before he sees you, his ears perking up at the familiar sound of your laugh floating through the chaos of the ED. Any other time it would make his own smile spread across his face, but now it makes his brows pinch together as he makes his way towards the sound.
You’re supposed to be at home, resting. Sure it’s been a couple months since the baby was born, but at the very least you should be as far away from work as possible.
He rounds a corner and finally catches sight of you, along with all three of his children. The baby carrier at your feet is empty, and his eyes search the small crowd of coworkers gathered around his family and find his youngest in Lena’s arms, who’s smiling down at the newborn.
As he walks up to you from behind, his arm is already reaching toward you before he’s even close enough to touch. His gentle and familiar hand on your shoulder has you turning to him with a dazzling smile, and he momentarily forgets his worries when a face that beautiful is grinning at him so lovingly.
“Hiya, handsome,” you greet, pouting your lips for a kiss. He’s quick to give you what you want, always is, and presses his lips to yours. Something you normally rarely allow him to do when you’re both in the Pitt.
“Baby, what’re you doing here?” he cuts straight to the chase. He looks and sees his son and daughter talking animatedly to a kneeling Mateo behind the counter.
“We just wanted to come say ‘hi’ to everyone and take you to breakfast,”
“It’s so early, you should be in bed,” he frets. It’s past 7:00, the scheduled end of his shift. If he had to guess he’d say it’s closer to 8:00, a few last minute traumas delaying shift change. You roll your eyes—not without fondness—and let out a huff.
“Jack, I’m fine,” you insist, a hand on his chest that he immediately covers with his own, “I wanted to get out of the house. I was going stir crazy,” you whisper the last part.
He opens his mouth to argue, to say you still don’t need to come into your place of work when you’re supposed to be relaxing, but Lena’s voice cuts him off.
“How dare you try and hide this cuteness from us, Abbot,” she’s glaring at him over his child in her arms.
It’s Jack’s turn to roll his eyes, “Kid was just in the hospital 2 months ago, figured he didn’t need to be back anytime soon,” he grumbled.
But he can’t deny the soaring in his chest as he takes in his growing family. You are so amazing, and he’s grateful everyday and tells you plenty, but seeing you here and all his kids happy and healthy with this new addition, it’s hard not to feel an overwhelming appreciation.
“Woah, it’s raining Abbots!” Robby’s voice joins the crowd. Your daughter turns and runs toward him and he squats down to scoop her into his arms before standing again.
“Uncle Robby!” She cheers. He grins at her, walking up to where you and Jack lean against the countertop with her on his hip.
“Hi sweetie,” he coos, “have you been good for your mommy?” he winks at you and you huff a dry laugh.
“Don’t start with me, Robby.” you chastise.
“Yeah, don’t.” Jack glares at him and Robby just raises his free hand in surrender.
Lena passes the baby back to you, all the surrounding nurses cooing at him as he fusses at the movement.
“Looks like Abbot’s got another mini me,” Lena smiles.
Jack’s chest swells with pride, glancing at his eldest son who’s a spitting image of a young him; auburn curls and a goofy smile. He thinks it’s too soon to tell who the baby looks more like—you or him—but he has to admit his genes are strong, a twinge of red even showing in your daughter's hair when it catches the sun.
“He is pretty handsome, isn’t he?” He says with a smug smile.
“That’s the last thing we all need; more Jack’s.” Robby teases.
“‘m making the world a better place,” he says gallantly.
He leans down and picks up the carrier, placing it on the counter for you. You give him a grateful smile, transferring your youngest smoothly and buckling him in.
“Mommy, I’m hungry,” your oldest son says softly, looking up at you.
“Okay, my baby,” You coo and brush his hair back, hand coming around to cup his cheek gently, thumb caressing freckled skin, “We’ll go as soon as daddy’s finished,”
“Oh, daddy’s finished,” Robby says, passing your daughter into Jack’s arms, who goes happily.
Jack takes her without a second thought, but his brow pinches, “Robby we still gotta finish handoffs.”
The taller man just shrugs, “I think we got it covered. Go have breakfast with your family.” He claps Jack on the back once.
You gasp in exaggerated excitement, “Say ‘thank you Uncle Robby,’” you tickle your daughter’s tummy who giggles in her father’s arms.
“Thank you, Uncle Robby!” your son, daughter, and Jack chant in unison. Robby offers your son his fist, who bumps it with his own tiny one, and then grabs a tablet from the counter.
He’s already walking towards the first patient room as he calls over his shoulder to you, “Now get out of here, you’re supposed to be anywhere but here.”
Jack gives you a look that says told you so and you narrow your eyes at him.
Your son lifts his arms up to you and Jack doesn’t even give you a second to think about bending down to pick him up—doctor’ orders (him)—before he’s scooping him into his free arm. Your daughter giggles at the jostling, Jack settling a kid on either hip. They’re both still small enough to carry at once, but he knows it’s only a matter of time until his son is too big to be carried. He’ll savor it as long as he can—and start lifting heavier weights to prolong that time, which he’s sure you’ll enjoy. Two for one special, he thinks.
“Got him, baby?” Jack asks. You nod as you pick up the carrier, waving goodbye to all your coworkers who have already scattered around the busy ED back to work.
“Who’s ready for breakfast?” He looks between his two oldest as you all make your way towards the car, the kids shouting in agreement, “Me too, I’m starving. What took you guys so long to come rescue me?” he teases.
The sound of his kids' laughter ringing in his ears fills him with an indescribable warmth. As you all walk through the parking lot, the early morning sun shining bright on your glowing face that’s flashing him your stunning smile, Jack can’t help but fall deeper in love with you.
He thinks for a moment it’s a secret mercy his kids take after him and not you because there’s no way he’d ever deny them a thing if it was your eyes pouting at him. He shakes the thought away—cause who is he kidding? he can’t deny them now; it wouldn’t make a difference.
Still, he can’t help wondering if maybe the next one will be your mini me, and he can’t wait to find out.
You look back at him and squint your eyes at him in suspicion, “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?” He asks suavely, lower lip drawn between his teeth and you straight up laugh at him. It’s a ridiculous question—he knows that—because he only tells you nearly every waking moment.
“Wipe that look off your face, Abbot. Maybe wait till this kid can lift his head on his own before you start thinking that,” you scold, but he sees right through you.
Pervy!Robby who‘s had his eyes on his younger!student since you’d begun your rotation at PTMC.
Pervy!Robby who not-so-subtly took you under his wing, purposefully avoided partnering you up with any of the younger, age-appropriate students, keeping you tucked into his side, glaring possessively any time one of those boys spoke to you.
Pervy!Robby who finds any reason to touch you. Brushing hair out of your face while you focus. Hand at the small of your back, guiding you through the halls. Sitting beside you, every inch of him glued to your side while he goes over charts with you in the quiet of the stairwell. Lips brushing your ear when he leans in to speak onlt to you.
Pervy!Robby who stood unnecessarily close when he walks you through any surgical technique, hardness pressed against your ass while huge hands guided yours, rough voice whispering, “Nice and slow, just like that, good girl.” in your ear.
Pervy!Robby who orders extra lunch, insisting you help yourself because ‘you’re working too hard, need to eat, can’t let that pretty young body wear itself down’.
Pervy!Robby who caught on to your oral fixation almost immediately. Always chewing on your finger or pen, wide eyes lost in thought. He begins carrying little candies and mints that he dishes out when he sees you—most of the time in reward for not shying away when he touches you—relishing in the way it makes your breathe all minty or sweet when he’s near, knowing you like your little treats.
Pervy!Robby who catches you trying to uber home after a long shift, insisting he give you a ride because ‘an uber this time of night would bankrupt a student’, he’s just being nice.
Pervy!Robby who completely ignores your directions to your apartment, smiling at your confused face but you remain silent as he takes the familiar route back to his home. Robby was so nice to you, he would never hurt you, you knew that.
Pervy!Robby who parks you on his couch, returning with some snacks before settling right beside you, arm slug around your shoulders while you mindlessly watch tv with your attending.
Pervy!Robby who watches you nervously chew on your finger, eyes flickering from the tv to Robby, and back again like he couldn’t see you. Robby reached out, brushing your lips before replacing your finger with his own. Smiling at the confused look of awe on your face yet obediently sucking at the thicker digit, tongue curling around it.
Pervy!Robby who unbuckles his belt, pops open his jeans before burying his fingers in your hair, gently and firmly guiding you to settle your head in his lap, hard cock poking at your cheek while he pretends to turn his attention back to the show on tv.
Pervy!Robby who praised you the same way he did in the Pitt when hesitant lips wrapped around his weeping tip, tongue licking up pre-cum, suckling at his cock like it was your thumb, “good girl, just like that…my perfect girl…”
Pervy!Robby who shakes his head disapprovingly when he sees the dating pool being set up, rumor mill working on hyperdrive seeing you return to work after the weekend, marks covering your neck.
Pervy!Robby who scolds his crew for being ‘invasive and nosy’, but quietly makes a bet of his own, “Dr.R—$50—a week”
summary: working at the hospital morgue didn't exactly endear you to the emergency room staff, especially when you're always cracking jokes. you think Jack might be warming up to you, but are quickly proven wrong when he berates you in front of the department after an ill-timed joke.
tags/warnings: sfw just a steamy kiss, big time angst, morgue technician!reader, socially awkward reader, discussions of death and grief (seriously, a lot of talk about death and grieving), mean Jack :(, age gap (not specified, but i wrote her as being between 28-30), mean girl nurses, medical inaccuracies probably
wc: 8.9k
a/n: baby's first request!!! feeling very nervy about this one as its my first time writing angst so please be kind <3 it turned into much more of a meditation on death than i expected but i hope you enjoy the jack angst!! also please go read @nightpitt's take on this request!!! it was incredible <3 (and in the future please don't send me requests that you've sent to multiple other authors, it makes me uncomfy)
credits: gif credits to @vanillarot <3
Majorie Deacons, 83. Survived by her husband, Harold, of 62 years, her three children–Mary, Thomas, and Steven–and 10 grandchildren. Worked as a paralegal for 48 years before retiring to the Poconos with Harold. Moved back to Pittsburgh when she got sick. Died from sepsis as a result of her cancer-weakened immune system.
That was all you knew of the woman laying in front of you, her skin pale and body unnaturally still. You thought about her life as you removed her engagement and wedding ring, the crucifix pendant around her neck, the diamond bracelet around her frail wrist–all logged securely for the family to pick up at their convenience.
You thought about her life, about the 83 years she spent on this earth. Where did she grow up? Was Harold her high-school sweetheart, or did they meet in college, or a bar? Did they travel? What sights did they see, how many sunsets did they share? Did she remember exactly where she was when Kennedy was assassinated, like most older folks did? Did she like red lipstick or pink? When did her hair turn white–did she hate it or did she embrace it?
Did she feel welcomed by death, or did she fight it kicking and screaming?
83 years, such a long life and yet still not long enough for the people who loved her.
You spent a lot of time grieving people you’d never met before as a morgue technician. It was a tough job–one spent with people on the worst days of their lives. Sure, you weren’t the one responsible for saving lives–didn’t have a relationship with the patient while they were living–but sometimes you thought maybe it was worse in a way. You learned about these people from their families, from the people so deeply grieving their loved one that often all you felt was gut-wrenching sadness for the hole that now lived in these people’s hearts. You didn’t get the benefit of seeing them interact with their loved ones, didn’t get to know their personality or see their quirks. All you experienced was the grief their loss wrought, not the joy their life had created.
You liked being there for people, though. Death is not something Americans are accustomed to talking about openly, the aftermath of losing a loved one often impersonal and shrouded in mystery. Especially at the hospital, it often felt more clinical than anything else, with procedure and policy often taking center stage over the deceased.
You liked bringing a sense of humanity to the process; liked to have the families reminisce about their loved ones, liked getting to know them through the people who cherished them the most despite the deep ache it sometimes left in your chest.
You learned about Marjorie upstairs, from the family as you collected the body, and you’re looking forward to learning more about her when the family comes to collect her effects. You found that getting people to talk about the person they lost made it easier to discuss funeral and transport arrangements. You didn’t want them to feel like they were just another box to check off your to-do list.
A knock on the door pulled you from your thoughts.
“Hey, we got another one upstairs. Transport’s been taking forever tonight,” Elise, your boss, said, rolling her eyes. “They have one job: get the body from point A to point B. What gives?”
You shrugged, sighing as you finished cataloging all of Marjorie's effects. “I’ll be back soon,” you said, squeezing her hand gently before making your way to the elevators, up to the emergency department.
Transport was supposed to, well, transport the body. But they were often backed up for one reason or another, and delays in moving the body meant a valuable room remained occupied when it could otherwise be used for another patient. So, more often than not, Elise sent you up to grab the body and bring it back down for processing. It was faster that way, and often gave the family some peace knowing that their loved one wasn’t just sitting in the emergency room.
You didn’t mind, exactly. As much as you enjoyed the quiet and solitude of the mortuary, you liked peaking your head up in the ED and seeing the hustle and bustle there, the way it teemed with life as well as death, even at night.
And it didn’t hurt that the senior night shift attending was perhaps the most handsome man you’d ever laid eyes on. You’d had a crush on him since you met him, your introduction being maybe one of the most embarrassing moments of your life.
It was your first time up in the emergency department, the incessant beeping and constant chatter a stark difference to the quiet morgue–if people were talking down there, something was seriously wrong.
You’d been taken on a brief tour by the charge nurse, Lena, who gave you a rundown of the transport procedure. You met a few of the residents, Dr. Ellis and Dr. Crus, and a handful of nurses, all of whom seemed nice enough.
But you almost stopped dead in your tracks when you met the kind hazel eyes of the graying, curly-haired man standing at the nurses station.
“And this is Dr. Abbot, senior night shift attending. You’ll need his or Dr. Shen’s signature whenever you transport a body,” Lena introduced you, “Dr. Abbot, this is the new morgue technician. She graciously offered to help with transport.”
You held your hand out, brain nearly turning to mush when he shook it. His palm was rough, calloused from many years of working with his hands, and unbelievably warm. His hand also dwarfed yours, which sent a tingle down your spine.
“New morgue technician?” he asked, “Well, no offense, but I hope we don’t see you too much around here,” he joked with an easy smile on his face.
“I guess that remains to be seen,” you said, and followed it up with a ‘ba dum tss’ sound effect and finger guns. Yes, you really did that.
The joke didn’t land; they never did. Jack cocked his head to the side, an almost-smile gracing his lips, and shot you an inquisitive look, like he was trying to figure you out.
His intense stare made your cheeks heat and your tummy swirl. You weren’t sure if you were aroused or uncomfortable, or some combination of both.
You couldn’t get out of there sooner.
It felt like you could never get your foot out of your mouth when Jack Abbot was around. And so the cycle began: get called up to retrieve a body, make an ill-timed joke, embarrass the hell out of yourself, and return back to the safety of the morgue as quickly as possible.
You never made jokes in front of patients or families; you knew that it was something strictly reserved for your peers, people you thought understood the challenges you all face in healthcare–and deathcare.
You weren’t sure why it seemed physically impossible for you not to use humor as a defense mechanism. Part of it was the nature of your job–gallows humor was a coping mechanism you latched onto and couldn’t seem to shake off. It was the same way some people laughed when they were nervous or panicked–a reaction to pent up emotions and stress that manifested as humor instead of as tears.
But you’d also always been like this, trying to diffuse uncomfortable situations with humor instead of meeting them head on, or making a joke at your own expense before someone else could. It hurt less that way, if you could subvert something painful into something lighthearted.
You’d always been admonished for it, by your parents, friends, partners. Had been told that it was inappropriate and that you were too crass, too loud, too much. Which was probably true. It confused you, though, how some people did bond over humor, in the occasional callousness of it, when you were criticized for it. That was something you’d never been able to work out, how it was always wrong when you did it; why you’d never been able to bond with people the same way others did. Well, there was a reason you worked the night shift at a morgue, after all.
You pushed those thoughts away and instead tried to talk yourself up as you stood in the elevator, willing yourself not to be weird.
“Hey, Lena, heard you got another customer for me?” you grinned at her, leaning against the nurses station.
“Sure do, sweets. Her name is Cary West,” she replied with a soft smile. Lena, at least, seemed to like you. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.
She pointed you to the correct room, where Mateo was cleaning up the body. You stood silently as he finished, taking a moment to honor the person they were and the people they’re leaving behind. These moments always felt weird–liminal, in a way. No longer a patient, but not yet ready for the funeral home–they were entrusted in your care in the meantime.
There was no family in the room, which wasn’t abnormal for night shift. Folks had gone home, to sleep or cry or do whatever else one does to process the grief. You always hope you’ll meet the family of the deceased, but you’re not holding on hope on this one. It was 4am, the family would likely be back during the day to take care of funeral arrangements and Ms. West would be long gone by then. Still, though, you thought about her life, her wants, her dreams–tried to insert some humanity where it had been lost.
“Sorry you had to come back up so soon, I know you just got down there with Ms. Deacons,” Mateo said quietly, pulling the sheet over her head.
“Oh no worries, I don’t mind. It's not like she’s gonna talk my ear off.”
He just shook his head at your joke, unimpressed and unamused.
“Looks like Dr. Abbot is at the nurses station. C’mon, and we’ll get the transfer paperwork signed,” he said, holding the door open for you to push the gurney through.
Dr. Abbot looked worn out. His eyes were tired, and the kind smile he usually sported was replaced by a slight frown and a furrow between his brows. His shoulders were drawn up tight, the tension built up there almost looking painful. It must have been a rough night.
You greeted him with a soft smile, and handed over the clipboard for his signature, which he promptly filled out.
He handed you the clipboard before turning his attention back to the gurney. His jaw was clenched tight, a pained look on his face as he squeezed Ms. West’s hand peeking out from the blanket.
“Treat her well for us, please,” he said, voice hoarse.
“Always do, I wouldn’t want to know what the reaper-cussions would be if I didn’t,” you joked before you could think better of it, cringing internally at your lack of tact.
There was a split second of silence, the tension simmering hotly before fully boiling over.
“Jesus fucking christ, can you be serious for one fucking second? This is a hospital, not a fucking comedy club. There are people grieving here. You need to learn to be an adult and keep your fucknig mouth shut,” he boomed, his face red and chest heaving.
He was looming over you now as he spit out, “get the fuck out of my ED.”
Your ears were ringing. You weren’t sure if the department had actually fallen silent or if you’d just temporarily lost the ability to hear.
You couldn’t breathe, oxygen not flowing properly into your lungs. It felt like you’d been punched in the gut, all the air sucked out and replaced with lead.
“S-sorry,” you stuttered out, cheeks burning and throat closing in on itself. Tears were building up quickly in your eyes, but you weren’t going to cry in front of these people; you weren’t going to give them the satisfaction.
You gripped the edge of the gurney and pushed ahead, desperate to get out of there as fast as humanly possible. No one stopped you, no one offered any apologies or sympathies, just watched your humiliated form disappear into the elevator.
The minute the elevator doors closed the tears fell, the hot trails burning your face as you tried to conceal your sobs.
“I’m s-sorry, Ms. West, I shouldn’t be crying like this. I don’t really have much to be upset about in comparison,” you apologized to the corpse, feeling guilty for being so upset when you were literally transporting a dead woman.
You managed to calm yourself down before you reached the morgue. You didn’t want to explain what happened to Elise, didn’t want to recount every embarrassing detail that was already replaying in your head.
You soothed yourself with routine, with the repetitive motions of logging personal effects, filling out reports, and contacting the funeral home to make arrangements.
By the time 7AM rolled around, you were more than ready to get the hell out of there.
The sun is blinding against your puffy eyes. The past two days were a blur, mostly spent crying and replaying the incident over and over. You called out of work, citing a stomach bug. Which wasn’t all that untrue–the thought of encountering anyone in the hospital did make you feel violently ill.
You had already put in for a transfer to day shift, feigning some excuse about your school schedule changing. You couldn’t wait to finish your studies and officially become a mortician. You’d leave the hospital and start your own business, helping people through the grieving and burial process in your own way.
And maybe you’d never have to see Jack Abbot ever again. The thought was as relieving as it was devastating, because you liked him. And you were starting to think maybe he liked you too–at least as a friend or acquaintance.
It was a slow night, which you were thankful for. It meant there weren’t any bodies in the morgue–that there weren’t any deaths so far tonight. So you weren’t too bent out of shape when you got shipped up to the ED to collect a body.
You found Dr. Abbot quickly, signed the necessary paperwork, and wheeled the body out to central.
“Thanks for picking up, I don’t know what the hell’s going on with transpo tonight,” he said.
“Don’t worry about it, we’re actually empty right now. There’s no body there,” you said, a cheeky grin crossing your lips.
And Jack laughed. A full-on, deep-throated laugh. It was one of the most beautiful sounds you’d ever heard. Your chest swelled with pride, and all you could think about was making him do it again.
He shook his head at you, smile still lingering on his face, “what makes a girl like you want to work night shift at the morgue?”
“Girl like me?” you asked coyly, raising your eyebrow at him.
He assessed you, eyes flitting over your face, “yeah, young, smart… pretty.”
You flushed at that, your body getting all warm and tingly, “well, I’m not a mourning person, for one,” you joked, earning another laugh from Jack.
“I, uh, I’m in school for mortuary science,” you continued, giving him a real answer, “I want to be a mortician when I’m done.”
“That’s… admirable,” he said, “you don’t get the glory of saving lives but you do get all the dirty work. Good for you.”
Jack’s attention made you feel like you were on fire–like a white hot ball of flame that would spread given the littlest bit of ammunition. His stare was brazen, unapologetic–you couldn’t look away if you tried.
You cleared your throat, breaking some of the tension, “I guess I should probably get him downstairs,” you said, gesturing to the gurney in front of you.
“I’ll walk you to the elevator,” Jack said, moving to stand by your side. He rested his hand on the small of your back as he guided you to the elevators. The touch was electrifying–you could feel the warmth radiating from him through the layers of scrubs. He was close enough now that you could smell the warm amber of his cologne mixed with his own musky scent. You felt dizzy, and all you wanted to do was press yourself against him, to nestle yourself in the crook of his neck and inhale.
He pressed the button for the elevator when you arrived and helped you wheel the gurney in.
“It was good seein’ you, pretty girl,” he said, and just as the elevator doors were closing, he winked at you.
You were surprised you didn’t turn into a puddle right then and there.
Your chest twisted at the memory. Maybe that’s why his words hurt so much–why they’d sunk into the marrow of your bones, confirming that he thought as lowly of you as you already thought of yourself. He’d given you hope, shown you kindness where no one else in the ED had.
It was stupid, anyway. Thinking that a man like Jack Abbot could feel anything other than disdain for someone like you. Of course the hot, older, accomplished attending wouldn’t want anything to do with the awkward morgue technician.
Every time you thought about it, your heart ached, a dull pang ringing through your chest and reverberating through your body. Tears pooled in your eyes at the mere thought of the incident. It felt like you were back in high school, asking Alex Williams to the school dance just to have him laugh in your face and say he wasn’t going to go with a freak.
You couldn’t dwell on it, though. You had a job to do, bills to pay. You could only hope that day shift was better, or that you could whip yourself into shape and keep your comments to yourself.
“Jesus, why is the body in north 2 still there?” Jack asked, eyes trained on the board ahead of him. Wait times were astronomical and chairs was full to the brim–the sooner they moved the deceased out, the sooner they could move a new patient in.
“Not sure, I called transpo an hour ago, but you know how concerned they are with being timely,” Lena responded.
“What about the morgue? Why haven’t they sent anyone to collect the body?”
Lena looked at him over the top of her glasses, an unimpressed look on her face.
“Oh, you mean that sweet girl who helps us out by transporting bodies when transpo is dicking around? The one you screamed at in front of the entire department? Gosh, I can’t think of a reason she’s not chomping at the bit to come up here,” she deadpanned, fixing Jack with a glare. “Last I heard she switched to day shift. Said she had some personal schedule conflicts, but I think we both know that’s not true.”
Jack winced, guilt coursing through him. He hadn’t meant to make such a scene, to be so cruel. It had just been such a monumentally horrible day, his chest wound so tight and hackles raised that your little joke set him off. It was stupid, too, because Jack had easily made far worse jokes at far more inappropriate times.
It could have easily been anyone else that he snapped at, would have been, if you weren’t there. But you were, and so you bore the brunt of his wrath.
He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been replaying the look on your face, the way it crumpled and tears welled up in your pretty eyes. He remembered how your breath hitched, how you shrunk in on yourself and ran away as fast as you could.
It made his chest ache to think about. He wanted to find you, to apologize, but he thought he might just make it worse. And selfishly, he wasn’t sure he was ready for the conversation that would ensue. He assumed he’d see you up here at some point, where he could take you aside and beg for forgiveness–he didn’t think you’d rearrange your entire work schedule just to avoid seeing him.
He wasn’t sure why he acted so indifferently toward you. Or rather, he did–he just didn’t want to acknowledge the way you made him feel. You made him feel giddy–made his face warm and his heart race, like a teenage boy flirting with a pretty girl for the first time. He briefly tried flirting with you, but he was pretty sure you were oblivious to it–either that or you didn’t feel the same. He was hoping for the former.
He hadn’t felt this way about someone since he started dating his wife. Frankly, it made him uncomfortable to think about, made him feel like he was betraying her in some way. He knew that wasn’t true, knew that his wife would want him to be happy, but he just couldn’t shake the feeling.
He’d been talking about it with his therapist, trying to cope with these feelings–trying to get up the courage to ask you out.
And the kicker was he was going to, he was getting bolder, complimenting you and finding any excuse to, respectfully, put his hands on you. And now he’s fucked it all up.
“Shit,” he muttered, scrubbing his hands down his face.
“Yeah, shit. I suggest you take your ass down there and apologize. Properly.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll handle it,” he said absent-mindedly, already wracking his brain for the right words to say to you.
The change to day shift was brutal. Your body wasn’t used to waking up when you were supposed to be going to bed, and vice versa. You were also working less hours to accommodate your school schedule, which was the reason you were on night shift to begin with. But you took it in stride the best you could. Lemonade out of lemons, and all that.
You’d been up to the ED a couple times since the incident, feeling as awkward as ever even though most of them weren’t on shift when Dr. Abbot berated you. You covered day shift a few times, so you weren’t completely unfamiliar with the staff. Dr. Robby seemed nice enough, though you never stuck around long enough to build rapport. It was in and out from now on, speaking as little as you could before you retreated back to the morgue.
You wished you could flat out refuse to go up there, but you didn’t want to punish innocent people just waiting for a bed. The sooner you got the bodies to the morgue, the sooner someone else could be seen by a doctor.
Right now, though, you were sat at your desk, filling out log reports and finishing up paperwork before you inevitably got another body. It was monotonous work, yes, but calming in a way. The mindless action gave your brain a break between decedents–gave you a chance to mourn the person and compartmentalize it away before it ate away at you.
You faintly heard the door at the end of the hall open and close, and assumed Elise was taking her lunch break.
That is, until you heard a painfully familiar voice call out, “Hello? Anybody in here?”
Oh no, why is he here? Attendings rarely visited the morgue–usually only if there was a particularly complex cause of death that they wanted to further examine. But there were no such cases right now, the only bodies currently in custody being a run of the mill STEMI and a GSW to the head–both pretty self-explanatory.
And the night shift hadn’t started yet, the clock reading 5:34pm. There’s no plausible reason for Jack Abbot to be down here right now.
His steps were getting louder–he was almost at your office now.
You panicked. That is the only explanation you have for scrambling up from your desk and darting into the small storage closet to your left. You pressed yourself against the wall to the side, out of view of the frosted glass window. Was this the mature course of action? Absolutely not. But you weren’t sure you could handle seeing him right now. You hadn’t seen him since the incident, had done everything in your power to avoid any and all interactions.
He called out again, and you could see his silhouette standing in the doorway of your office.
Eyes closed, you took deep breaths to try and calm your rapidly beating heart. Hopefully he’d see the empty room and take his leave quickly.
It was quiet, and for a moment you thought he’d left until–knock knock.
“I could be crazy, but I’m pretty sure I heard someone stumble into this closet and slam the door shut,” he said, a hint of amusement in his tone.
You didn’t answer, hoping maybe you could convince him he was crazy.
The doorknob rattled, and you instinctively grabbed it, pulling it with all the force you could muster to keep it closed. You weren’t sure why–surely he was much stronger than you and could rip the door open if he really wanted to. And god, why was thinking about how strong he was making you flustered?
It’s not that you were scared of him, you were just… woefully unprepared for this conversation. Despite ruminating over the incident itself, you hadn’t actually pictured a scenario where you’d ever speak to him again. Hadn’t had time to go over it a million times in your head, coming up with the best comeback and constructing the perfect barb to lodge in his soft underbelly, the way he’d done to you.
He sighed, resting his forehead against the glass. “Look, I just wanted to apologize for the other day, if you’ll give me the chance.”
You chewed on the inside of your cheek, considering. You’re not sure that an apology will do much for you, not sure that it’ll quell the pit in your stomach that’s opened and doesn’t show any sign of closing.
You nodded to yourself anyway, letting out a quiet, “go ahead.”
He chucked lightly, “face-to-face, if you don’t mind.”
Damn him, you groaned internally. Taking a deep breath, you slowly opened the door. Jack stood opposite you, hands tucked into the pockets of his scrubs. You crossed your arms and fixed your gaze on your scuffed up shoes, the thought of looking him in the eye daunting and exciting at the same time.
He let out a deep breath, “I’m really sorry for how I acted the other night. It was an exceptionally shitty night, and it wasn’t your fault but I took it out on you when I shouldn’t have.”
You nodded, appreciated the effort it took to come down here and apologize. It did little to soothe your bruised heart, though. There was still a painful twinge in your chest, his words having already wormed their way into your brain and confirmed every worst thought you had about yourself.
“Thank you, Dr. Abbot, apology accepted,” you said curtly, moving past him to get back to your desk.
He stopped you, his hand resting on the bare skin just above your elbow. Goosebumps prickled against your skin from the roughness of his palm. You hated how your body craved more, how you wanted him to slide his hand up to your neck, tilt your head back and kiss you. Traitor.
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw, “that woman that night, the one you picked up, she died of ovarian cancer,” he said. He looked conflicted, eyes flinty and mouth twisted to the side like he was warring with himself as he bit out the next words, “that’s how–my wife–she died of ovarian cancer.”
Oh. You didn’t know that, didn’t even know he had a wife. Your eyes drifted to his left hand and saw the slightly lighter patch of skin there. Your heart ached and your defenses softened just a tad at the revelation. You could only imagine what it would feel like to lose a patient in the same manner you lost the person closest to you, could imagine the ugly emotions it would pull out of you. It didn’t make what he said okay, but you understood the circumstances that led him to say it.
“And before that we had a kid who died from drowning, and a couple close calls, and a bunch of Dr. Google bullshit. And your joke was just… the straw that broke the camel’s back. But I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, not like that and not in front of everybody. That wasn’t fair to you, and I’m truly sorry,” he said, and you could feel the sincerity dripping from his words. His eyes were soft and pleading as he looked at you, and once again you found yourself unable to look away.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know that–about your wife,” you said softly, not wanting to make it any more painful than it already was, “and I’m sorry about the joke. I know it’s not appropriate, and I’ve been trying to stop, but you know how hard it is to quit unhealthy coping mechanisms,” a small smile lifting the corner of your lips.
He shook his head, “please don’t, you have nothing to apologize for. Gallows humor is how we all get by; I can’t tell you how many off-color jokes I’ve told in my day. It was really the pot calling the kettle black, if I'm being honest,” he said, “If it wasn’t you who set me off, it would’ve been Ellis or Shen, or some other unsuspecting person. I promise you it had so much more to do with me than it did with you.”
You nodded, accepting his explanation. You felt a little lighter, a little less burdened by his words.
“I’d like to make it up to you, if you’ll let me,” he said, “maybe coffee or dinner, if you’re up for it?”
You shook your head, “That’s really not necessary, Dr. Abbot. I meant it, I accept your apology, you don’t have to do anything else.”
He nodded at that, looking a little deflated but otherwise satisfied that you’d accepted his apology.
Jack felt the need to make it up to you anyway.
It started with coffee after his shift ended. The first time, he brought you the most insane coffee order you’d ever seen–a mocha cappuccino with 5 extra shots of espresso, pistachio syrup, vanilla cold foam, caramel AND white mocha drizzle, and salted caramel topping–a monstrosity borne from a recommendation from the woman ahead of him in line. You’re not sure how you didn’t immediately get cavities in all of your teeth.
You couldn’t lie, though, the fact that he made the effort to go out and get coffee after his 12 hour shift was endearing, and once you gave him your coffee order, he got it right each and every time.
It became routine over the next month for Jack to bring you coffee, and even though you didn’t have much time to talk in the morning, you began looking forward to the 10-15 minutes of conversation you shared with him each morning. You never discussed what this was, if it meant anything or if it was just a kind gesture between friends. You certainly hoped it meant something, but you weren’t going to get your hopes up.
You were catching up on paperwork when his text came through.
Jack: Can’t make it for coffee this morning, sweetheart, how about I bring you lunch later?
Your cheeks heated at the pet name. He hadn’t called you that before, and you hoped you weren’t reading into it.
You: sounds great, see you later :)
You spend the morning counting down the minutes until Jack showed up. It only slightly hindered your progress on your paperwork, your mind only occasionally wandering off to think about his pretty pink lips.
It’s noon before you know it, and someone’s rapping their knuckles on the door frame to your office.
“Knock, knock,” Jack said, shooting you a smile as he walked over to your desk. He set down a truly alarming amount of food. You laughed as he took out container after container, the sack resembling a clown car more than a fast food bag.
“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I got a variety,” he said, a little bashfully, “you can take home whatever’s left for dinner or lunch tomorrow.”
You selected what you wanted from the smorgasbord he presented you with, and settled into the chair next to him.
It was a little awkward at first. Most of the conversations you’d had with him up to this point were pretty surface level. Even your coffee chats were light-hearted affairs that didn’t really go deeper than what you did over the weekend.
But Jack didn’t let it stay awkward for long, as if he knew that once you started talking, he’d be hard-pressed to get you to stop.
“So, I realized that despite our coffee talks, I don’t really know that much about you. How long have you been a mortuary tech?”
“About a year and a half. I got the job after I started school for mortuary science. Before that I taught for a little bit, but I didn’t really like it and I don’t think I was much good at it. I was a bartender for a long time too.”
“So what made you make the jump to mortuary school?”
“I studied anthropology in college and death culture always really fascinated me, especially the way different cultures deal with grief and the burial process. America is so sanitized, so averse to looking at death straight on. We think death needs to be palatable, that the deceased need to look exactly as they did in life to avoid accepting the fact that our bodies are fundamentally different after death–that they are on their way to being absorbed back into the earth.
“I think the way we treat people in death is just as important as how we treat them in life. To some people, that person on the table is just an assemblage of bones and flesh, but to others that was a friend, a mother or daughter, father or son. And I figured as a mortician, I’d be in a position to offer families the kind of support that helps them work through their grief, not just hide it behind pretty floral arrangements.”
You felt a little shy at the rapt expression on Jack’s face. He was giving you his undivided attention, listening intently to every word that came out of your mouth. You’re not sure any man has ever listened to you as attentively as he was now. Yes, the bar was in hell, but it didn’t make it any less hot.
“Sorry, that was a lot, I didn’t mean to info dump on you,” you said sheepishly.
He shook his head, “Please info dump, I could listen to you talk all day,” he said honestly, “do you want to continue working at the hospital when you’re done or do you want to start your own practice?”
“I don’t think I’ll stay here. I mean, I like helping people through the immediate grief, but I think I just want to help grieving families lay their loved ones to rest in a way that honors the life they lived. I don’t care about selling fancy caskets or high-dollar cemetery plots, I just want to narrow it down to what really matters to preserving and celebrating the individual that was lost.”
Jack nodded, “I don’t remember a lot about planning my wife’s funeral–Robby helped a lot with that–but I do remember it being really… almost commercial, in a way? Like, ‘do you want cedar or oak for the coffin? Do you want the casket lined in silk or velvet?’” he said, laughing bitterly, “like it was a fashion show or something, not the vessel my wife was going to be buried in. I couldn’t give less of a fuck what the damn thing was lined in.”
You laid your hand on top of his, giving it a comforting squeeze as he continued. It made your heart swell that he felt comfortable enough to talk about his wife with you.
“I mean, they were very compassionate, but it always felt like a business–which I get, we’re a capitalist society, but that’s not exactly what you want to feel when you’re burying someone,”
You nodded, “that’s probably the thing that bothers me the most about this industry. Sometimes it seems like profit is the priority, and the real, hurting people come second.”
Jack just looked at you with soft eyes, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling as he smiled at you. He turned your hand over in his, tracing the lines of your palm with his thumb.
“I think you’re going to be an amazing mortician,” he said, without an ounce of amusement or teasing, just pure honesty. “I think you’re exactly the kind of person that people want around them when they're going through the worst days of their lives.”
You couldn’t help the tears that pricked at the corners of your eyes. It was the kindest thing someone had said to you about your career path, except maybe Elise. And it was nice to shed happy tears over something Jack Abbot said instead of embarrassed ones.
You talked long after your lunch break was over, but Elise was out and you didn’t have any pressing work to get to at the moment, so you figured there was no harm, no foul.
But eventually he had to leave to get ready for his shift, and you did have work to do, though you’d gladly forsake it for a few more minutes with him.
You got up to dispose of your trash and walked him to the door.
“Lunch was really nice,” he murmured, resting his hand on your arm, right above your elbow.
Your breath hitched at the contact and goosebumps prickled up and down your arms. You gaze was locked on his, unable to look away, “yeah, I really enjoyed it,” you said breathily, your heart already racing.
He moved closer, settling his hands on your waist, and backed you up slowly until the back of your knees hit your desk.
You leaned back against your desk, widening your stance to allow Jack to step between your legs. His body was warm against you, his hands running up and down your sides soothingly.
“Is this okay, sweetheart?” he asked, his hand coming up to cradle your jaw. You could feel his breath against your lips, so close but still so far away.
You nodded, a pathetic mewl leaving your lips without permission. It was embarrassing how badly you wanted to kiss this man.
He pressed closer, his lips just barely grazing yours, his nose slightly bumping your cheek. You wrapped your arms loosely around his neck, eyes fluttering shut as you moved to close the miniscule distance between your lips–
CLANG!
The door down the hall slammed shut, and hurried footsteps approached your office.
You nearly jumped out of your skin and stumbled back onto the desk, out of Jack’s grasp. He seemed just as shocked, his hand clutching his chest in surprise.
A second later Elise came rushing into the room, saying something about a mass casualty event and how you needed to make as much room down here as you could to prepare for the inevitable. You nodded, turning to Jack to apologize, but he beat you to it.
“Shit, I gotta go, sweetheart, they’re probably gonna call all-hands-on-deck,” he said, a genuinely mournful look on his face.
“Yeah, of course. I hope it’s not too bad,” you said, equally as disappointed, but understanding. Duty calls.
He wrapped you up in a tight hug, your cheek resting against his firm chest. You closed your eyes and allowed yourself to savor his embrace for a moment before he had to go.
“We’ll finish this later, yeah?” he asked against your hair, his hand rubbing circles on your back.
You smiled against his chest and nodded, “yes, please.”
He pulled away and planted a chaste kiss to your cheek before heading out.
“What was that all about?” Elise questioned, raising her eyebrows at you.
You didn’t say anything–your hot cheeks and dopey grin were worth a thousand words.
You were called up to the ED several times, each time worse than the last by the looks of the staff. It still felt a little awkward being in the emergency department. Even though most of the people here weren’t on shift when Jack yelled at you, it still felt like the department went still when you walked in, people stopping and staring like you were some sideshow circus freak.
You were back up here collecting yet another soul, waiting for someone to sign off on the transfer. It seemed like things had calmed down, the worst of it over now. You were lost in thought at the nurses station, picking at the skin around your nails anxiously.
You hoped Jack would be the one to come over and sign the paperwork–hoped you’d catch another glimpse of him before your shift was over. All you could think about all day was that almost-kiss you shared with him. You couldn’t help the smile that made its way onto your face every time you thought about it, which meant you basically had a permanent grin affixed to your face.
You’re only pulled out of your thoughts by the sound of hushed voices to your left. You glanced over and saw two nurses you didn’t recognize taking a break and engaging in some friendly workplace gossip. Or so you thought.
“–so happy about?” a nurse whispered incredulously.
“Probably daydreaming about Dr. Abbot,” another said, her tone most likely accompanied by an eye roll.
“God, when is she going to get a grip? Her fawning over him is not cute.”
“Yeah, I think he just doesn’t know how to let her down… I mean when he yelled at her she changed her whole schedule, he probably feels guilty.”
“True. Maybe she’ll realize how embarrassing it is to be so down bad for a man she has no chance with.”
You stopped listening after that, crestfallen and heartbroken all over again. The illusion of the past month shattered and the feelings from before came roaring back full force.
Your chest twisted painfully–like someone had grabbed ahold of your heart and squeezed, the squishy flesh bulging between their fingers. Your throat ached, tears surely not far behind.
You knew you shouldn’t put too much stock in what these two random nurses were saying. You knew that they likely had no idea what they were talking about, that they were just mean girls blowing off steam and you seemed to be the target of it–like always.
But there was the little gremlin in the back of your brain, the one that told you everything they said was true. That Jack just felt guilty, that he was making himself feel better for the way he treated you. Insecurity wrapped itself around you like a vise, squeezing around you like a boa constrictor, until it was the only thing you could feel.
And that almost-kiss? Well, he was a man, after all. Maybe he was just overcome with the physical urge to kiss you, get in your pants if he could. But he wasn’t that kind of man, was he? You didn’t want to think so, but all rational thought was obscured by the hurt blooming in your chest that you couldn’t be sure.
You startled at the hand on your shoulder. You looked up to see Dr. Robby standing there, brows furrowed in concern. Squeaking out an apology, you handed him the transfer paperwork.
“I called your name three times, you okay?” he asked, flipping through the pages and signing where appropriate.
“Fine,” you smiled, not trusting your voice not to break.
He looked skeptical, but didn’t push.
“Alright, all done. Hopefully that’ll be it, at least from the mass cas,” he said, handing back the paperwork. “We have a trauma counsellor available if you need to talk to someone,” he said before backing away to move onto the next patient.
You chuckled at that. Of course he thought you were troubled by the amount of death that occurred today. But no, here you were, post mass casualty, and you were more concerned about a man than you were about the people that had died tonight. How fucked up were you?
Jack showed up with coffee the next morning like usual, setting the paper cup down on your desk, “here you go, sweetheart.”
“Thank you,” you said without looking up from your paperwork. You tasted acid in your throat, the words from the nurses station echoing in your head in an ugly cacophony. You’d memorized them by heart over the past 12 hours, twisting and turning in bed as they invaded your mind against your will.
He just doesn’t know how to let her down.
He probably feels guilty.
Her fawning over him is not cute.
You cleared your throat, “you really don’t have to do this anymore, you know,” you said nonchalantly, like it wasn’t tearing your heart out to say.
He was quiet for a moment. “I know… I do it because I want to, because I like spending time with you,” he said, head cocked and brow furrowed.
“Sure,” you muttered under your breath.
“What was that?”
You sighed and set your pen down, shifting your full attention to him, “I’m just saying you don’t have to prostrate yourself in front of me because you feel guilty, Jack. You’ve done your penance, if that’s all this is. You’re forgiven, no hard feelings.”
Your throat was tight, but your voice didn’t waver. You blinked back tears furiously as he stared at you, mouth agape. He looked a little more disheveled than usual, his eyes tired and the lines on his face a little more pronounced, like he’d been frowning all night. Obviously, he worked like 16 hours last night. You felt another wave of guilt rush over you–he was wasting his much needed rest time to come placate you.
He crossed his arms, shaking his head in confusion, “What the hell are you talking about? Where is this coming from?”
You stood up and started behind your desk, feeling restless and hurt and foolish.
“You just–you don’t have to hang around me because you feel bad or something,” you said, “you’ve more than apologized. I just wish you didn’t make me feel like–like…” you trailed off, ragged breaths tearing through your chest. It was getting harder to force the words out, tears falling down your cheeks in earnest now.
“Like what?”
“Like this means something!” you choked out. God, you felt so silly. Aw, is someone upset that their crush doesn’t like them back?
He looked at you in disbelief, “It does mean something,” he said, rounding your desk and stopping in front of you–effectively ceasing your pacing.
“Please don’t lie to me,” you hiccuped, your bottom lip trembling violently, “I know I’m too much, I know no one at the Pitt likes me–you don’t have to pretend you do.” You fixed your gaze to the floor–you didn’t think you could handle the pitying look that was undoubtedly in his eyes.
“Hey, hey, look at me,” he said, cupping your face between his large hands. You tried to wiggle away, but his grip was unwavering–he wasn’t going to let you look away from him. He brushed away your tears, “I don’t know what ideas you’ve gotten into that pretty little head of yours, but if you think I’m anything but smitten with you, you’re dead wrong.”
You laughed weakly, “who’s making bad jokes now?”
He didn’t take the bait, didn’t let you deflect from the topic at hand. He pinned you with his eyes, his gaze steady as he delivered his next words.
“I’m serious. I need you to know that I’m being honest with you when I say this: I’ve been scared for a long time to make a move on you, and I’m not letting anything–not even you–get in the way now, okay?
“I’ve liked you for a while now, pretty girl. You’re the best part of my day, the only thing keepin’ me going some days. I love your smile, your laugh, the way your face lights up when you talk about something you’re passionate about. I love the way you care about people, alive and dead, and I love your jokes, even if they can be a little off color.
“And I can’t tell you how much I regret how I treated you. The only silver lining is that it kicked my ass into gear, made me realize I’ve been an idiot for waiting so long to make you mine. You’re not too much, and even if you were, I’d want more–I want everything you’re willing to give me.”
You almost couldn’t comprehend the words coming out of his mouth, but he was nothing but sincere. His eyes pleaded with you to believe him, to give him a chance–and you desperately wanted to.
“You mean that?” you asked, gnawing at your lip anxiously. You didn’t want to get your hopes up just to have them crushed again.
“With all my heart,” he said, grabbing your hand and placing it over his heart. It was racing just as fast as yours was. “This is how I feel every time I see you, sweetheart. Feel like I should be hooked up to a monitor sometimes,” he joked.
“I…I like you too. I have since the day I met you. But I’m scared,” you swallowed thickly, voice small as you finished, “I don’t want to get hurt.”
“I know, sweetheart, I am too. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this–haven’t since my wife–and I don’t want to fuck it up. We’re in this together, as long as you’ll have me,”
“I want you,” you whispered, placing your hand on the side of his neck tentatively.
He grabbed your waist and backed you up against your desk, replicating your previous position from yesterday.
“Can I kiss you now, sweetheart? Haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since we were interrupted,” he asked, thumb stroking your cheek.
You nodded, “me either,” you said, heart pounding as he leaned in.
His lips were soft when they met yours. It was tentative–just a slow, gentle press of his lips against yours, like he was trying to maintain some level of decorum.
He started to pull back, and you whined at the loss of contact. You fisted your hands in his scrub top and pulled him back in, your mouths meeting in an uncoordinated mash of teeth. He chuckled against you, “greedy girl,” he murmured, steadying your head in his hands and deepening the kiss.
He tamped down your eagerness but didn’t erase any of the heat building between you–just kept you right where he wanted you. His tongue swiped across your bottom lip and you readily opened your mouth for him, desperate to taste him. He licked into your mouth, tongue hot as it tangled with yours. You were greedy, sucking and lapping and nipping at his tongue and lips, getting messy with it and thoroughly forgetting where you were and how inappropriate a setting this was.
You were like horny teenagers, hands grabbing at whatever bits of flesh they could reach, tangling in each other’s hair, and moaning louder than was appropriate.
When you finally pulled back, you were both gasping for air, chests heaving against each other. Jack rested his forehead against yours as he caught his breath. You didn’t want to waste another moment not kissing him, though, so you began peppering his face with kisses–to his nose, cheeks, chin, wherever you could reach.
He laughed at the onslaught, craning his head to the side to give you access to his neck, which you happily latched onto, “you’re insatiable, aren’t you?”
“I guess you’ll have to find out,” you replied as you pulled away, biting your lip and batting your eyelashes at him.
He shook his head fondly at you, “Now, as much as I’d like to do very, very inappropriate things to you right now, I came here this morning planning to ask you out to dinner. Would you allow me to ask you out properly now, sweetheart? Let me be a gentleman?” he asked, thumbs stroking your jaw.
You nodded, still dizzy from his kiss–still reeling from the fact that Jack actually liked you.
“Would you please make me the happiest man in the world, and accompany me to dinner at Altius tomorrow night at 7?”
“I’d love to,” you grinned, pulling him in for another kiss.
“And after, we'll see just how insatiable you are.”
A/N: shoutout to my fellow anthropology majors lol glad that my degree is coming in handy for something cause its certainly not a job
°⋆ summary: in which jack abbot exposes the secret relationship he's been having with his resident for quite some time (but for a good reason).
°⋆ tags: no use of y/n, irrelevant age gap (reader is 20s and jack is around 50), im terrified of writing medical inaccuracy so the case is a psychiatric one, very brief mention of suicidal ideation/self harm (in the patient), reader is an r4, robby is an asshole, jack saves the day!
°⋆ wc:
°⋆ note: this idea has been needling me for ages and ages, finally got out to writing it! also experimented with writing second person instead of third... if you like it please like/reblog/comment to boost it <3 enjoy!!
"Hey, where do you think you're going?" Robby's voice stops you dead in your tracks as you're exiting the patient's room. It's been a long, hard shift, with multiple traumas, and to top it all off, you were assigned a psych patient to distract. Thank you, Dana.
"I was going to get my next patient, Robby, but I have a feeling that's not going to happen." You answer, turning around to face him. Sure enough, he's got that look on his face - livid for some reason, even though the two of you had just had a fairly basic interaction in a patient's room.
It was a tricky case, sure. 25 year old female brought in by paramedics, called because her neighbour had seen her wandering the street crying. Kiara asked you to join her on the case, and every time Kiara asked for you, you joined. Psychiatry was still a possibility, after all. After getting the poor woman to talk, she'd told the two of you about how much she was struggling at home. It wasn't hard to spot the faint lines on her arms and thighs as soon as she'd changed into her patient gown, and she didn't have trouble opening up either. It seemed all she needed was someone to talk to about her feelings, and it was a relatively slow shift, so you'd had all the time in the world.
Or so you'd thought.
Robby, as always, had a problem with that. He'd barged into the room in the middle of the consultation, into the patient crying into her hands, and decided it was the perfect time to yell at you for spending too much time in this room and not enough time clearing triage. He hadn't noticed the girl until it was too late, of course, but the damage was done. She retreated and wouldn't talk to you or Kiara.
"You should've been doing that already. I shouldn't have had to come and tell you to," He shakes his head, hands linking behind his head. "We don't have the time to sit with patients and listen to their sob stories. That's what we have the psychiatrists for."
"I was helping Kiara because the patient felt safe with me after her intake. Are you sure you don't have anything to say to me, Robby?" You raise your eyebrows, not afraid to step up closer to him. You're a fourth year resident now, after all, and you're confident in your abilities. And sometimes Robby needs to be knocked down a few pegs.
"What could I possibly have to say to you?" He asks, matching your energy. Should've seen it coming.
"I don't know, try sorry? Not only did you humiliate me in front of the patient, and in front of Kiara, but now that poor woman doesn't want to talk to us anymore. It could take days to get her comfortable again." Crossing your arms over your chest, you cock your head to the side, as if goading him. He takes the bait, to your dismay.
"That's not a medical issue. Your only job with that patient was to clear her medically and then move on. There's too much traffic in here to linger on patients for that long." He hangs his head, adjusting his stethoscope. It must've been a long shift for him too. Too bad.
"Look around! I haven't had a new patient in an hour, and my shift is over in-" You check your watch, "15 minutes. Give me a fucking break, Robinavitch."
"I'm getting really sick of your attitude, you know. You may be a senior resident, but I'm still your attending, and you need to watch it."
"My attitude? I'm calling out your insensitive behaviour in front of patients and my attitude is a problem?" This is the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard.
"Yes, your attitude. It drives me fucking crazy- matter of fact, I think it drives everyone crazy. You're gonna need to adjust it, because nobody's ever going to want to deal with it, and you're going to be stuck pulling double shifts for the rest of your li-"
"What's this about her attitude?" All of a sudden, a pair of strong arms wrap around you from behind, and the smell of a pleasantly familiar cologne envelops your senses. Jack Abbot has arrived to save the day. "I've been trying to give her an adjustment, but she's just too stubborn."
Robby stammers for a moment, looking between you and Jack. You, and Jack. You, and Jack. It's then that it hits you that nobody knows about your relationship, and the entire ED is staring in your direction. At least you're not getting yelled at anymore.
"Jack?"
"Yeah, brother?" He grins, turning his head to kiss your cheek, stubble scratching. "You know what, I'll get back to you. Just gonna say goodbye to my girl before handoffs and then we'll talk."
The tone is authoritative, which tells you that Jack heard a lot of that public shaming fest, and Robby is going to get an earful about it later. But Jack is very much a discipline in private type of guy, so you know he won't be nearly as embarrassed as you feel right now.
Before you know it, Jack is pulling you into the (thankfully empty) break room and closing the door behind you both. Arms wrap around you and all of a sudden your head is pressed into his chest, one of his hands cradling it there.
"Wanna tell me why Robby was yelling at you in front of the entire staff?" He murmurs, voice low and rumbly in the way that always makes a shiver go down your spine.
"I didn't have any patients except for this girl who was brought in by an ambulance, in a really bad place mentally, needed someone to talk to. So I stayed with her for a while, but Robby had a problem, and yelled at me in front of her. Now she won’t talk, and Robby refused to admit he was wrong.” It all comes tumbling out at once, your mouth clamping shut as soon as its over.
“As usual.” He grunts, pulling back to look at you. His large hands come up to cradle your face between his palms, and warmth spreads through your body immediately. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Thanks, Jackie.” You coo, leaning up to kiss his cheek now. “I have the day off tomorrow so I’ll sleep in with you and then we can do something fun before your shift.”
“Funny, because I took tomorrow night off as well. Looks like we’ll have a whole day to ourselves, little miss.” He pinches your cheek, and you laugh.
“Couldn’t think of anything better right now.” You sigh, melting into his arms.
“Not even Robby’s head on a stick?” He quirks a brow, head tilting to the side.
“Oh, close second.”
credits to pixopix for the dividers!
i dont have a taglist yet but if you want to be tagged for jack abbot content let me know! js tagging some mooties for now to get this going @pittsick @pyronations @peachyparkerr @gilmrres @pedaltothepetal
summary. After Jack treats you at the emergency department, he learns that you're a camgirl — a very popular camgirl with a public SFW account. Curiosity has him subscribing and he finds himself falling into a very addicting trap of you.
word count. 16.5k (this got away from me)
content warnings. nsfw content, excessive use of 'bunny', medical inaccuracies (of literally almost everything, big shout out to healthline and mayoclinic for iud info), mentions of vaginal bleeding and pain, easter eggs/cameos of other readers from a previous robby fic (👀)
notes. so this was the most absolute fun to write !! i've got a few easter-eggs in here (including other readers from a previous robby fic (👀) and some of my lovely mutuals mentioned) so i hope you like it, my inbox is open for more blurb requests or ideas you have for the dolls-verse! photos above are from pinterest and @deathreverse made the amazing website mock up i included below! (thankyouthankyouiloveyourmassivebrain)
As someone who's made a living off of exposing every inch of your body to the world, you feel horribly exposed sitting on an exam table in just a hospital gown that you had changed into from the cliche trench coat and lacy negligee you had on earlier.
Despite the late hour, the waiting room had been packed and any glance your way felt like something intrusive and prodding. You had been fully ready to wait the whole night before you could be seen but after your vitals had been taken and triaged, the doctor had pushed you to the front of the line and into the next available room.
So here you sit, the paper beneath you crinkling every time you squirm and try to find a far more comfortable position before giving in entirely and leaning over to your side. You support yourself with your elbow and try to ignore the prodding pain in your backside.
"Good evening, I'm Dr. Abbot, what seems to be the problem?"
Your stomach drops; just your luck that the doctor assigned to help you fish out your newest toy is panty-dropping handsome. A silver fox through and through, he looks downright delectable with those large freckled arms that seem to be bursting through those black scrubs. If it had been any other day, you might've turned on the charm, flirt your way to a dinner date or more.
But it's 1:37 AM, you have a fuzzy, bunnytail plug stuck inside you and you're desperate to just get home without your asshole gaping.
"Um." You glance at the iPad in his hand, hoping that whoever saw you first recorded it in your chart so you wouldn't have to repeat yourself. But the handsome doctor is waiting patiently. "I have something… stuck inside me."
"Ah. I'll see what I can do. Roll over for me, sweetheart."
The night shift always brings on the weirdest cases that after all his years of working, nothing could phase him at this point. Seeing you, looking so uncomfortable and startled on the exam table, ranks so low on said weird cases that he misses the note Crus had left on your chart and went right in on the usual greeting.
"… what seems to be the problem—?"
Butt plug lodged in anus, patient reports mild pain and heavy discomfort.
Jack rereads the sentence a few times before he looks up at you. Pretty albeit shy, your cheeks flushed and your gaze seemingly land anywhere but him. When you listen and roll over onto your stomach, he swallows the instinctive 'good girl' that threatens to spill from his lips.
He tugs on a fresh pair of gloves, strengthening his spine and fortifying the usual mask of professionalism he wears. You're laid out on your stomach now, the blankets of the exam table tugged down to right below your ass. Before he could ask you to lift your hips, you do so on your own, knees spread apart.
Face down, ass up.
He swallows thickly as he gently nudges the seam of the hospital gown apart at your spine. What greets him has heat boiling in his gut: a fuzzy pink, bunny cottontail buttplug nestled right in between your asscheeks.
"Alright, I'm gonna touch you back here, see how deep it's in there before we try extraction," he murmurs. You whimper when he gives an experimental but gentle tug. "Is there any stinging sensation?"
"Nuh-uh," you mumble into the pillow.
Jack swallows again as the cottontail plug gives beneath his grip, his other hand pushing your left asscheek aside. "Let me know if I pull too hard, alright?"
You nod and he sees the way your moves against the pillow.
"Words, please."
Your thighs clench as you fight off the simmering heat that your frustratingly hot doctor starts with those two simple words. "Yes, I will." An honorific sits behind your teeth (daddy? sir? whichever, it seems to fit him regardless of what you use) but you swallow it down.
Meanwhile, Jack tries to ignore the tell-tale sheen between your thighs, keeps his gloved hands where they need to be. His mind races through horrific, bloody accidents of the week prior to keep his other head from wandering. "Good," he mutters.
Silence falls between you two as Jack gently adds medical-grade lubricant, apologizing at the cool temperature of it against your heated skin. After a few rotations of the plug, you clamp your teeth around the hospital gown to stifle any wayward moans.
"Mm—" You whimper anyways and Jack stills. "I'm okay—! Just, uh— is it almost out?"
Jack clears his throat; he's grateful you can't see him or the creeping blush up his neck. "Almost. I gotta take it slow to avoid any possible injuries."
The thought makes you lightheaded but you ground yourself back into reality before your mind can start jumping to worst case scenarios. "That makes sense."
He twists the plug and a flare of arousal blooms in your core, more pleasure than pain now. "So," he clears his throat again, an attempt at normalcy. "What do you do for work?" He mentally pats himself on the back at the inane question, hoping it'll be enough to distract you as he attempts at another tug.
You squeak anyways as your ring of muscles expand at the widest part of the plug. Jack adds more lubricant. "This," you manage to say.
Jack's dick gives a willfull throb but he forces it down with the degloving case from the night before. "O-Oh?"
"I… stream? I'm an adult streamer, oh fuck—!"
Your ass is gaping slightly as Jack inadvertently tugs the whole plug out with little warning, an involuntary reaction from your reveal. "Shit— sorry, sweetheart. Don't move—"
The silicone toy hits the metal tray beside you in a dull thud, the fluffy end of it peeking above the lip of the tray, while you feel his gloved digits gently probe around the ring. "Just making sure there aren't any abrasions, any cuts or irritation before we finish up here." He sees your head nod against the pillows so he continues on with his examination.
Your ass is firm beneath his touch. Pilates, maybe. Or strength training. His jaw clenches as he forces his mind to the present again, resumes the exam before carefully covering you up with the hospital gown again. "You're all good, sweetheart, you can turn onto your back now."
A part of him feels a sick sense of satisfaction at the way you squirm from the easy use of petnames. He's always been a natural flirt, that roguish charm that calms patients enough for him to diagnose, but it's a touch more fun when it works on someone as pretty as you.
"Thank you, Dr. Abbot."
But the gentle cadence of your voice cuts through him and shame trickles in like molasses. When did he turn out to be such a perv? Maybe the night shift is getting to him. He clears his throat, assuming his professional stance, but your smile turns wicked and there's something mischievous in your gaze that he can't quite place.
"Really, I can't thank you enough," you say as you carefully roll over to settle in an upright position. "But, um… is it possible if I can keep the toy?"
He lets out a little laugh and nods. With his hands still gloved, he retrieves a plastic bag from one of the cabinets and places the toy in before handing it to you. "'course you can. Just make sure you prep yourself better next time."
Jack nearly winces at the crass statement but you reward him with a bemused giggle. "Don't worry, I learned my lesson. It's a good thing I'm testing it out first before a stream. It'd be so embarrassing if I got it stuck inside me while I was live," you share and he tries not to look too eager as you share more about your unorthodox occupation.
"Do you… do that often?" The question falls flat and he makes up for it with an embarrassed chuckle, discarding his gloves in the nearby waste basket. "Jesus, tell me if I'm overstepping here."
You laugh again and Jack's positive he isn't as funny as you make him to be but he'd gladly make a fool of himself if he got to hear that sound again. "You're fine. Trust me, I've heard worse."
"What if I want to be the best you've heard?"
Your brow rises up in mild surprise. "Was that a line, Dr. Abbot?"
"Maybe."
"It's not very good."
"It's also 2 AM, sweetheart."
You cross your arms, tilt yout head to the side and it feels like he's being taken apart. "Do you make it a habit to flirt with your patients?"
"Just the pretty ones— oh, yikes. Yeah, that one was bad," he concedes with a light laugh. "I may be a flirt, but you're trouble. Now… think you can behave while I go grab your discharge papers?"
Your smile is saccharine sweet. "Of course."
He chuckles and shakes his head, nudging the door open with his hip before he exits. The rest of the evening goes by routinely: you sign off on a few papers before changing back into your clothes. Dr. Abbot is nowhere to be seen until you're walking towards the exit, your gait a tad bit crooked, and he's leaning against the counter by the nurses' station.
"Thanks again, doctor."
The wink you give him nearly stops his heart, your easy demeanor returning now that you aren't battling the embarrassment of having a butt plug stuck inside you. When the door shuts behind you and the chaos of the emergency department resumes around him, Crus Henderson cackles behind his chart.
"What?" Jack frowns.
The smile Henderson gives him is downright sinister. "You're not slick, old man."
"It's fine." Shen materializes beside him with an obnoxiously loud slurp of his perpetually full iced coffee. "Technically, she isn't your patient anymore. And Crus and I won't tell."
"There's nothing to tell—!"
The two share knowing grins before walking off. "Sure, Abbot. Sure. Wait 'til you're off to look her up though."
Jack splutters. "I'm not going to look her up—"
In the quiet of his bedroom, Jack looks you up.
The sun's already filtering through his window blinds and it feels like some social transgression to be searching up porn during the day. But he's showered and clean with his prosthetic off, tucked under his covers and leaned against his headboard. The cursor's blinking up at him, taunting him. He doesn't even know where to begin but he's got your full name, wonders if it's enough to even catch a trace of you on social media.
He types your name in anyway on instagram and his breath leaves him in a rush when your profile sits at the top of the search results. Your profile pic is innocent enough, smiling brightly, but upon further inspection, your shoulders and collarbone is exposed right where the photo is cut off; an implication that you've got nothing on below the edge of your profile. Once he manages to tear his gaze away, his eyes snag onto the amount of followers you have. Four million. An impressed whistle escapes him as he starts to scroll.
Your photos are still pretty tame, nothing more risque than a bikini shot of you at the beach. To anyone that isn't regularly watching adult streamers, you look like any other influencer of the modern age. Wholesome photos of you are attached as well, displaying your interests and hobbies that has Jack falling deeper and deeper into your orbit.
It's nearly noon when he realized he may have spent the previous hours just looking up your social media sites. One thing that did stick out like a sore thumb (aside from your jaw-dropping photos) had been the lack of use of your real name. He understands the reasoning, knows its for safety especially with the kind of career you're in, but the affectionate nickname you use for yourself and what your subscribers use has a lick of jealousy flaring in his chest.
Dollface. Doll. Dolly.
He scrolls back up before the little monster in his chest grows and a nondescript url catches his eye, the hyperlink sitting pretty beneath your bio. Before he could secondguess himself, he taps it and his phone brings him out of instagram and into his browser app where your website loads on his screen.
While Jack isn't some tech-savvy genius, he's confident enough to say that your page must've been done by a professional. Summer pastels greet him, a variation of your profile pic on instagram (more skin, more sultry—) sitting on the top left of the screen with 'DOLL'S CORNER' splashed on the top of the page and a drop down menu that he decides to explore later.
It's arranged like some sort of blog, your most recent status marked as eight hours ago where you're complaining about some ache. He bites back a smirk before he scrolls down your older posts. There's many videos, ranging from 'get ready with me!'s and 'shopping hauls' with pretty thumbnails, but the one that steals his attention are the ones that are grayed out — almost pixelated with a pink heart-lock graphic in the center.
[ UPGRADE YOUR TIER LEVEL TO ACCESS THIS VIDEO! ♡ ]
His thumb hovers over the lock-graphic before he gives in.
The screen loads and he's taken to a new page, marked by different tiers and different price points.
BESTIES — free! access includes:
- get ready with me
- weekly vlogs
- shopping hauls
SWEETHEARTS — weekly subscription. ($)
- everything besties has to offer!
- short-form lewd content
- locked photos from the vault
- audios
LOVERS — monthly subscription. ($$$)
- everything sweethearts and besties has to offer!
- midnight live-streams
- personalized short-form videos
- personalized audios
Jack blinks twice. He continues to scroll before he catches a three-day free trial for all the paid tiers. He bypasses it and taps a single month purchase for access to the LOVERS' vault (after creating a profile and naming it simply with his initials). His dick stirs in his pajamas as the screen loads before it confirms his payment.
All the grayed-out videos are unlocked but rather than an aesthetic thumbnail with pretty collages like your free content, they're blurred out images of you within the video — enough to imply exactly what's going on in each one.
He scrolls on to see another video of you trying on outfits, specifically lingerie. Figuring this is as close as it'll get to dipping his toes in the metaphorical pond of your NSFW content for now, he hits play.
The video starts off with your pretty face adjusting the camera before you settle back on a white rug, surrounded by opened boxes. You greet the camera and it feels like a blow to the gut to see you in your element. If he thought you were pretty in the emergency room, under the garish lighting of the bright fluorescents, you're a goddamn bombshell with perfect makeup and flattering lighting.
As you address the camera, he begins to wonder how exactly you could be an adult streamer when you have content like this until you bring out the haul for the video. White ivory boxes detailed with cream ribbons, baby pink boxes wrapped nicely with ebony lace and tulle. He catches a name on one of the boxes: La Perla.
Jack shifts in his seat, bats away the creeping guilt of watching a young woman try on lingerie, but the charge was confirmed on his card already; it's too late for regret.
(He fears there isn't any regret in the first place.)
Fortunately for his heart (or unfortunately for his twitching cock), you had edited the videos to cut through the actual process of changing into them and rather just show off the full sets.
You didn't seem to have a preference for color, each piece ranging from a monochromatic black to butter yellow lace. Either way, you look gorgeous in all of them and Jack isn't ashamed to admit he's about to blow in his boxers, untouched, at just the sight of you in lingerie.
When the video ends, he replays it but makes it a point to keep his hands out of his pants for now. Instead, he drops a like and a simple comment:
@.swatdoc. — You're magnificent.
Confident in the anonymity of his profile, he puts his phone away to finally catch up on sleep.
Across the city, your phone buzzes with a new notification as you have breakfast on your island counter. Despite the waves of engagement you get on your content, you still keep the notifications on and the newest one brings forth a flutter in your stomach. Compliments are a nickel apiece when it comes to your career but the simplicity of this one and the lack of crudeness that follows steals your attention.
You take a bite of your food as you tap the notif, bringing on the new account profile. While most are kept blank, this man has a profile pic of his back facing a gorgeous sunset. Despite the fact his face is unseen, you recognize those salt and pepper curls.
In the following days, Jack begins to make it a habit to check on your daily statuses. You don't post daily on instagram but you post stories and he enjoys your little activities, likes how everyone seems to be so kind to you. It makes him wonder if your followers are aware of your evening activities, of your content tucked safely away behind a paywall.
Even in the comments section in both the SFW and NSFW side of your content, he realizes you've amassed a loyal following comprised of women that it nearly hides the lewd and desperate remarks from your male subscribers.
@deathreverse : that top is gorggggg!!! ♡
@pearlessance : your makeup is stunning, drop a routine next babes!!
@enam3l: absolutely obsessed w you!! ♡
@mariasont: that shade of pink suits you BEAUTIFULLY
In your last NSFW video, it's you in bed, a thin blanket draped loosely along your frame. There isn't an intro like your lingerie haul, just getting right into it as if the viewer catches you in the middle of the act: your hand sliding beneath the fabric, the camera shaking slightly as you rearrange your position to lay back against the mountain of pillows.
Jack's mimicking the position on his day off, his own back cushioned against his headboard as he watches in rapt attention. His readers are sliding off his nose but he adjusts them as he hits the volume increase button twice. He wants to hear you, addicted to the way you sound so sweet whimpering around your fingers.
Obsessed with the way your moans can sound so goddamn endearing.
He doesn't let the video play on, his hand still sitting obediently above the waist band of his sweatpants as he tries to catch his breath. He scrolls onward instead, stops at a tamer video of you shopping at a boutique.
@.swatdoc. — Gorgeous as always, bunny.
The cursor blinks as he secondguesses the petname. No one's called you anything other than 'doll' or 'dolly' or some iteration of baby or babe. Bunny's innocuous enough, Jack decides, and taps 'comment'. It'll be an inside joke for himself, for the evening you may as well tipped his world upside down when you'd come into the pitt for a stuck bunny buttplug. You get thousands of comments a day, the likelihood of you recognizing him is abysmally low.
The little pep talk he gives himself soothe the minor anxiety spike as he continues to scroll on, amusing himself with the way your bright personality seems to shine through even with the nasty videos that has his cock twitching to life.
He distracts himself with the comments section instead of exiting the video.
@.deathreverse — jesuuus christ, ur so fucking hot
@.deathreverse — let me rip that gorgeous top off you plsplspls
@.pearlessance — let me make your moans my ringtone and i'll never miss a call
The women commenting are far more entertaining to read through, the creativity of it all always taking him aback, despite the usual stab of jealousy. At this point, his parasocial streak of possessiveness is something he's learned to ignore, to let sit beneath a layer of faux indifference.
He's just a fan now among millions, he'll bask in the anonymity your popularity affords him.
You might be obsessed with your most latest subscriber. A Mr. Swatdoc with the silver curls.
Realistically, it may be the hot doctor that had seen you through the most mortifying ordeal of taking out a buttplug at two in the morning but the profile pic doesn't give you much and his profile is blank aside from his chosen screen name (swatdoc) and his age (48).
Regardless, your heart does a funny little twist whenever he appears in your notifications (only on your SFW posts, interestingly enough) whether it's a like or an extra tip but your stomach drops when his newest comment adds a new petname.
Bunny.
You sit up in bed when the notification comes through. Gorgeous as always, bunny. The fucking bunny, cotton-tail buttplug. The same one that Dr. Abbot had all but talked you through it as he gently removed it from your asshole. You glance up to see the damned toy sitting on your dresser right across from your bed, mocking you.
The bed dips beneath as you shift your weight, rolling around in bed as you reread that goddamn nickname over and over again. Bunny.
As your eyes bore into your screen, your phone buzzes.
[@.swatdoc liked your vlog!]
[@.swatdoc commented: Can't get enough of you, bunny.]
A sudden wave of confidence (or perhaps impulsiveness) washes through you and you tap his comment. And in quick succession, you like his comment and tap on his profile. Then his inbox. And finally:
doll : doctor abbot???
Jack drops his phone like it burned him. He sits up, nearly kicks off his blankets in his chaos as his heart falls right out of his ass. He didn't even know there was a messaging system on your website but there it is, that red notification bubble on the top right. He taps it and there's the chatbox.
He contemplates on lying, on playing dumb but he respects you far too much to lie to you. A heavy sigh escapes him as he resettles back into his bed and his cock sheepishly sits limp against his inner thigh.
swatdoc : How did you know it was me?
doll : i'd recognize those silver curls anywhere ♡
Huh. The little heart emoticon blinks up at him, maybe even glows. His cock gives a hopeful twitch.
swatdoc : Let me get this right. You aren't weirded out by me finding your website?
doll : you pulled my buttplug out of my ass, doctor. i think we're even.
swatdoc : Sounds fair.
doll : i do want to ask, strictly as a survey yknow, just to make sure i'm reaching subscriber satisfaction expectations. but is my nsfw stuff not hot enough?
swatdoc : I don't know how to answer that.
doll : you aren't liking any of my nsfw videos…….. am i not your type?
He can imagine it, that wry little grin when you tease the camera, makes him want to fuck it out of you—
swatdoc : Just trying to be respectful. Or as respectful as I can be given the circumstances, sweetheart.
doll : i think you're super respectful, i see the tips you've been leaving….. thank you btw ♡
swatdoc : You're welcome, bunny.
doll liked your message!
The activity light near your name goes off and he figures you might've logged off. His thumb drags up the screen to exit the page, sets his phone down and attempt at sleeping. But in the midst of his dark bedroom, there's a stirring in his gut that he can't seem to shake. An itch he needs scratching.
Time fluctuates, slips through his fingers as he finds himself on a popular porn website, the light of his phone illuminating his hazel eyes. He scrolls and scrolls past countless videos, the thumbnails made to entice anyone in his position, and yet frustration starts to grow larger than the lust that's been simmering beneath his heated skin.
None of the actresses look like you.
The thought floors him and he pauses when he finds a woman with a similar body type as you, wears her hair the same way you do. Her moans are a bit too pitchy but he punches the volume down and when his hand slides beneath his sweatpants, he doesn't feel guilt. And when he cums, it's your name spilling from his lips.
"You seeing anyone?"
Jack doesn't look up from the iPad as Robby settles in beside him, ready to take over for day shift as night shift starts to filter out. "What are you talking about?"
"Y'know. Dating? Getting out there? 'cuz Peaches has someone—"
"Not interested, brother, but I thank you for your service." Jack smiles but it's forced, halfway towards a grimace, and places the iPad down with a little too much force. He stomps off to the locker room. Robby and Dana watch his retreating back before they share a look.
"What's his problem?" Dana mutters, her glasses sitting low on the slope of her nose.
Robby chuckles and shakes his head. "No idea."
The truth is— Jack does have a problem. That problem is you.
He thought he'd been good, kept his hands to himself when he gets to his usual routine of stalking your website, and lets his fantasies run wild when he switches over to another porn site to find an actress that looks like you.
But then you had kept texting him, messaging him on your website that the line he's drawn between staying respectful and admiring you from afar against his baseless desire of wanting to fuck you 'til you cry is starting to blur. Of course you have no idea of this line, no clue of the existence of the boundaries Jack's made for himself.
You have no idea that Jack wants more than a physical interaction with you and he has no idea how to ask you out without coming off like a complete pervert.
doll: dr abbot??
swatdoc: You know you can call me Jack, sweetheart.
doll: take me out first then i'll feel comfortable enough to call you whatever you want.
Jack nearly shortcircuits at your reply and he fights the urge to hide his phone, shove it in his pocket to deal with later. It'd just look too suspicious and with Shen's eyes on him, he knows he'd blab straight to Lena who'd definitely gossip with Dana. While Dana's known to keep a secret, anything involving him and a potential partner is a surefire way for her to tell Robby.
swatdoc: You mean it, bunny?
doll: spending time with you? of course ♡
Jack chuckles and swipes his palm across his stubbly mouth, absolutely incredulous at your gumption.
swatdoc: I meant a date. Not just one night. This old man isn't built for casual.
doll: okay old man. take me out to dinner then ♡ it'd give me a chance to redo the first impression you have of me
swatdoc: I think it was a perfect first impression, bunny.
doll: you saw my ass, of course you thought so!!!
swatdoc: I was actually enamored by your charming personality. Your ass was a bonus.
doll: … flirt. you're smooth dr abbot.
doll: so when's our date?
swatdoc: My next day off is in a couple days. How's saturday night looking for you?
doll: i'm free !!! gonna come pick me up?
swatdoc: If you're comfortable with it, I'd love to. So, saturday at 7?
doll: i trust you ♡ and yes, i'll see you then.
He gets a text from you the following day (you'd admitted filching his number from the profile he's made on your website) and after a brief facetime call to prove your identity, he receives your address with a playful tag of: don't be late, dr. abbot.
Saturday's only a couple days away and yet he's fidgeting. He's got a night shift to get his mind off things but even Lena can see he's distracted. While he managed to wave away his colleagues' concerns, he wonders if he's the only one this anxious or nervous for the date.
A wave of notifications flood your phone despite the simple status update but you couldn't care less— not when you've got every possible combination of a date outfit laid out on your bed and nothing looks good. You have time, of course, there's nothing stopping you from going out shopping but the extra options might just exacerbate your indecision.
A pitiful whine escapes you as the paralysis of all your options land you flat on your back atop your mattress, clothing wrinkles be damned.
Whether or not the both of you are ready, Saturday evening arrives quickly.
The only information Jack had given you about the date aside from taking you out for a nice, classic dinner was to 'look nice'. As charming and handsome as he is, you resent the fact that he's like every other man his age: allergic to details. Somehow you manage to put on something simple but flattering, a black cocktail dress with a hemline that skims above your knee and a sweetheart neckline that teases your cleavage along with a bold, red pair of stilettos. Pairing it with a matching clutch, you deem yourself ready after a final swipe of lip gloss across your pouty lips.
"Here we go…" you murmur to yourself. Just as you dab at your lower lip with the pad of your ring finger, your doorbell rings. Seven on the dot.
Your heels click against the floor as you open your door to be greeted with Jack in slacks and a navy blue button down… as well as a bouquet of your favorite flowers. You gasp first, greetings momentarily forgotten in favor of taking the offered bouquet for a sweet sniff. Jack's compliments die on his tongue when he truly sees you, nose buried in the petals.
"How'd you know these were my favorite?" You ask as you step back, head tipping to wordlessly invite him in as you seek out a vase.
"I watched your vlogs," he shrugs with a shameless little smile. "I picked up a few details."
Maybe he shouldn't be as stunned as he is now — he's seen you in various states of dressed and undressed at this point — but you've truly left him speechless when you had opened the door, wearing that little black dress that hugs your body perfectly.
He's grateful that you notice the flowers first, cooing and gasping at the curated arrangement rather than noticing his thunderstruck stupor. It gives him a moment to clear his throat, admire the way you smile at the bouquet.
"You look divine," he murmurs as he follows you inside, watches you putter around your open space kitchen to place the flowers in water. And maybe it's his ego that's got him this taken by you; knowing that perhaps only he alone gets to see this side of you, bashful and charming. When you blush at his compliment, he feels like the king of the world.
"You don't look so bad yourself," you tease with a playful wink, taking his offered hand as he leads you out the door.
Jack's a gentleman when he helps you into his car, glancing aside momentarily when your dress rides up upon seating. He's a gentleman when you make it to the fine-dining restaurant ("Heard the new executive chef just received two Michelin stars!" you share excitedly), opening doors for you and keeping a respecful hand at the small of your back. He pulls your chair out for you, too. Perhaps the bar is in hell but you're undoubtedly impressed and giddy, basking in his undivided attention as you wear your heart on your sleeve for the rest of the evening.
"… and they all looked at it like it was something alien. It was a fax machine—!" Jack laughs, regaling you with the infamous July 4 analog nightmare from hell at the pitt. Dessert is lain between you two, half-eaten and momentarily forgotten as the two of you had been lost in conversation. He'd been worried that he might gross you out or bore you with his job as an ER physician but you had asked and prodded for more gory details, nose scrunching adorably when he explained what a degloving was.
"Okay, fax machines are basically obsolete," you counter with a giggle, lips parting as he feeds you a bite of cake. He waits patiently for you to chew before you continue on. "No one uses them anymore!"
Jack shakes his head in mock disappointment before you return the favor and feed him a bite from your own fork. "Sweetheart, these are vital skills!" Something warm flutters in his chest when you reach up to absentmindedly wipe away a bit of frosting from the corner of his lips, your painted nail skimming across his skin with the movement.
"How about this, I'll call you on the off chance I'll ever need to use a fax machine," you say dryly. A chuckle escapes Jack, low and grumbly that it has your thighs clenching together beneath the table.
"Sure. Or call me whenever, I'll always answer."
The ease of his flirting never fails to make you flustered and Jack capitalizes on it whenever he gets the chance. Like clockwork, you giggle and glance aside, a pretty blush on your cheeks as you look anywhere but his eyes. It's a wonderful side of you that he's steadily growing obsessed with. Yes, your online persona in your SFW space is charming and enchanting while you're essentially a succubus — sex incarnate — when the sun drops low.
But this is you, unabashedly you, and Jack can't get enough of it. He wants more than what you probably expect from him, a warm body to occupy his bed (judging from the stories you've shared about past experiences), and he's ready to go above and beyond to prove to you that he's willing to do whatever it takes so that he could call all of you his.
"Hey, how are we doing? Dessert's good?" The head-of-house manager of the restaurant cuts in seamlessly; he seems to have a good sense of when to enter a conversation.
You smile brightly and Jack nods. "It's delicious, thank you. Every dish has been fantastic," you gush.
"Wonderful, that's what I like to hear," the manager crows before he straightens out his tie. "You two are a beautiful couple. Are we celebrating an anniversary?"
Now it's Jack's turn to get bashful. "Uh, no, a first date, actually."
The manager looks taken aback but he bounces back with a low chuckle, two hands on his chest in subtle apology. "If it helps, the chemistry you two have is undeniable. Truly. But anyways, I came by to ask if you two would like to join us in the garden party out back or maybe a nice little kitchen tour?"
Your eyes shimmer with excitement and Jack gives a yes, offering his hand for you to take. The manager smiles and claps once. "Perfect, let me take you to where the magic happens."
After meeting the famed head chefs and even sampling a few of the desserts at the pastry station, you're positively glowing as the two of you step out to where a small get together of other guests mingle by picnic tables. A few guys that may be the line cooks are handing out beer and soda, giving off a more relaxed vibe than the one inside. It's pleasant and when you feel a chill, Jack's draping his jacket along your shoulders without a word.
"Thanks," you hum, eyes fluttering as you take in his warm and musky cologne that seeps in from the collar. He chuckles and places a hand on the bottom of your spine.
"Of course," he murmurs then tips his head to wear the drinks are being passed around. "Did you want any—?"
"No, I think I'm stuffed. Did you…?"
Jack shakes his head and the nerves from before the date nearly come back in full force. You aren't naive, you know what kind of expectations your job gives people whenever you go on dates. While Jack's been a gentleman the entire evening, you can't deny the fact that him being a subscriber to your NSFW content does skew the way he must see you.
The drive back to your place is quiet and calm, your hand folded delicately in his as he drives. He walks you to your door but much to your surprise, he doesn't step past the threshold.
"I had an amazing time," he says first, his lined eyes crinkling as he gives you a warm smile. "I'd really like to see you again."
You nod, leaning against your doorway as you realize his hand has found yours again. Your joined fingers sway slightly. "Me too. I… I really liked tonight."
He smiles wider as if you've erased any doubts he's had. "Good. I'll, um. I'll let you get some rest. I'll call you when I get my next day off, alright?"
"Yeah, sounds good."
"Great." And with a smooth and unhurried motion, he leans in for a kiss to your cheek, chaste and sweet. "By the way, I want you to know I'm all in. I'm not trying to waste your time or make you think I'm here for the physical aspect. I like you, sweetheart. Truly."
And with a final pinch of your chin, he steps away and bids you good night before walking off. Later that night, you realize you haven't stopped smiling until you climb into bed, alone but completely content.
When morning comes, Jack sends you a good morning text before he cleans up around the house, settle in before his shift later that evening. He doesn't check his phone 'til noon and when he does, he sees a text back from you and a notification from your website.
[Doll just posted a video!] — 3 hours ago.
His stomach drops. While he truly has no issue with you continuing your camgirl career, something twists inside him at the thought of you getting off the night before without him. Is it that feeling of missing out or is it the fact that he hadn't been there to fulfill that need of yours?
Regardless, his heart is pounding when he taps the notification. The video loads and a breath of relief leaves him in a rush.
[New video!] Get un-ready with me! — Skincare Routine.
He chuckles and leans against the kitchen counter, turns his phone sideways to see you fill his screen in the same dress from the night before. You must be in your bathroom, he notes, as you relay your steps carefully to your audience.
"I know everyone will be asking but I just came back from a wonderful dinner. Food was absolutely divine, I'm already considering going back soon. But…" A bashful smile curls onto your lips and Jack's beaming. "The company was even better. Anyways— moving onto the foam cleanser…"
Your routine ends after you apply your serums and creams, signing off on the camera. The comments section pop up immediately.
@.mariasont — your skin looks so good but you look GLOWINGGG
@.pearlessance — were you on a date?? that dress is fantastic!!
Jack chuckles when he sees that you've dropped a like on that commenter about a date but nothing more. Fan the rumors without confirming anything, looks like you're a tease in more ways than one.
Unable to help himself, he scrolls down his contacts and taps yours. The phone rings once, twice, then—
"Jack?"
"Hey, sweetheart. Is this a bad time?"
You sound a tad bit out of breath but you reassure him nonetheless. "No, no, you're fine. What's up?"
"Well, I—" He interrupts himself with a shy laugh. "I don't know if it's too soon but I'd like to take you out again. My next day off is next week on Friday."
"Oh!" You sound positively pleased and Jack can picture you biting your lower lip to hide that smile he's obsessed with. "Yeah, I can make that happen. Are we doing dinner?"
"No, I was thinking of visiting the aquarium this time around."
"The aquarium…"
He bites back a grin, can picture the excitement simmering beneath the slight trepidation of your words. "That's right. Unless there's something else—"
"No, it's perfect!" You cut in with a little giggle. "Jack, did you watch all my vlogs?"
"Of course I did. And it truly can't be that much of a hardship to learn how much you love the place when you've got vlogs of you there nearly every month," he teases. "But if it's something you like to do on your own—"
"No, no, it's fine, Jack, I'd love to." He can hear the way your voice softens. "I can't wait."
"Alright, it's a date. I'll see you next Friday, sweetheart."
Friday doesn't come fast enough this time around. You've got an outfit bought and ready to go, a simple skirt with a blouse that you might've picked to match his eyes. Jack's on time yet again, two PM on the dot, and while he still keeps his hands to himself, he basks in the way your hand constantly seeks out the crook of his elbow.
You regale him with fish facts throughout each wing of the aquarium and he watches with besotted eyes when you basically glow at the sight of the jellyfish. Conversation ebbs and flows and he's pressing soft kisses into your hair like he can't quite help himself.
By the time you've both made it back to his car, he helps you in while placing the massive jellyfish plushy he bought you at the gift shop onto your lap. It's silly and absolutely wholesome.
It's made you undeniably horny for him.
You appreciate it though, you see how he's gone above and beyond to show you that he wants a relationship out of this. He doesn't expect you to be 'easier' because of your job as a camgirl nor does he think he's entitled to anything more than a kiss on the cheek because of what you show online.
And it's making you want him so bad that you feel like the pervert in this situation.
At your doorway, he's got a hand on your waist this time and your arms are draped loosely around his neck while still holding onto the jellyfish plush that's dangling behind his back.
"Today was lots of fun," you say first, nearly chest to chest with him. He nods, feeling the way you shiver when his thumb rubs circles against your hip bones. Above the fabric of your shirt.
"It was," he agrees as he basks in the sweet scent of your perfume. This close, you're practically intoxicating. "I enjoyed the little fish facts too, didn't know my date was a lovely encyclopedia—"
Your eyes roll playfully at the teasing jab, exaggerating your movements as you unwind your arms to step out of his embrace. "If you hate me, just say so—"
"Now hold on, I never said it was a bad thing," he chuckles and you let out a quiet squeal when his grip tightens, pulling you back into his arms. "Thought it was cute."
"Sure you do," you tease back and you realize he's pulled you even closer now. His voice is a rumble, low and gravelly as the distance between your lips is beginning to diminish.
"I do." He murmurs, his nose brushing against yours. "This okay?"
You nod, throat bobbing. "More than okay," you whisper.
His gaze drops from your eyes, back to your lips, before they close the distance. Your heart thunders in your chest as your arms tighten around his neck to pull him lower. He goes easily, smiling against your lips. He doesn't deepen it, though, just steals a handful of more feather-light kisses that elicits a string of giggles from you, your foot popping up and your back bending slightly backwards as he dips you and showers you in affection.
Eventually, he reluctantly pulls away but not without giving you one more kiss. "Have a good rest of your evening, sweetheart," he murmurs. "Make sure you lock the door behind you, yeah?"
You nod, sighing dramatically as you lean against the back of your door as he steps out to the hallway. "I will. Can I see you again soon, Jack?"
His poor little heart thunders wildly at your adorable expression, half-pleading and half-fond. "Of course, princess. Maybe we can do something like this again, maybe a museum or that fair?"
You perk up with a nod. "That sounds like fun."
"Good. I'll see you soon, darling."
You sigh dreamily and blow him a kiss before shutting the door. You lean against the paneling and groan into your hands.
In the silence of your apartment, you wail— "Why won't he fuck me?!"
The time between your last date to the aquarium to your next one at the museum, you and Jack continue to text. Whether it's you giving him advice for a dish he's making or asking his opinion on which top would look well for a brunch you're attending with your girlfriends, the conversations never slow nor do they ever bore.
And in between those texts, Jack is happily gorging himself on your content while only getting off on actresses that hold resemblance to you. It's twisted and he knows it's wrong but he pictures your face in the shower sometimes, thinks of the way your teeth sink in your plush lower lip as his hand tugs at his cock.
You, however, hold no qualms as you drive the dildo deep in your cunt on late evenings, whimpering for the camera you've got set up. You always make it a habit to just plead, whine and beg more than you might naturally would with a partner, but when Jack's on your mind, you have nothing to exaggerate; you just get way more vocal as you think of his strong hands on your waist. The way he had commanded that kiss without being overbearing.
That kiss alone had wrung out three orgasms from you without the camera on.
Maybe it should've been enough to tide you over but as you start your usual midnight livestream the evening before your next date with Jack, a new title spills past your lips in the throes of your first climax. It shouldn't be a surprise at how easily the name comes to you, especially with how natural it seemed for Jack to take care of you—
"'m cumming, daddy—!"
The pings on your laptop nearby that you use for monitoring the chats go wild, the bell ringing that signified the amount of tips that just flooded your inbox from the title alone. You slump over as you catch your breath from where you've been riding your suction dildo, whining softly to yourself as the toy slides out of you. Your inner thighs are quivering as you lift your gaze to the laptop screen.
"Thanks for stopping by," you croon to the camera before shutting off the stream.
Across the city, Jack palms at his bulge, mouth slightly agape as he tries not to cum in his sweatpants like a teenager. "Fuck."
"I didn't really take you to be a museum kind of guy."
"I'm not. Not really… My friend's fiancée recommended it to us, thought we might like the new exhibit," Jack shrugs as he keeps you near with a hand around your waist. The new exhibit had garnered a sizable crowd and the last thing he wants is to lose you. Especially since you seem preoccupied with the information pamplet, both hands holding it open to read while relying heavily on Jack's firm hand. He likes it, the thought of you trusting him so readily.
You hum in acknowledgment before peering above the page. "The map says the new Caravaggio exhibit is that way… I think." Jack chuckles and peers over your shoulder, both of his hands firmly on your waist. You hold the pamphlet up higher for him.
"You aren't wrong," he muses as he reads over the map. You swallow nervously, you can feel the heat of his body seep against your backless top, the way his voice gets all low and gravelly when he's talking just to you. "It's past the abstract wing. Can you fold that up for me, sweetheart? I wouldn't want you to trip over your feet if you can't see where you're going."
You nod instinctively. "Yes—" You swallow back that title that sits at the back of your throat whenever Jack gets so… passively dominant. "Yeah, of course."
He chuckles and lets his arm fall along your lower back, a hand at the dip of your waist as he leads you towards the exhibit. The entire time as you two parade around the wing, Jack keeps you close. It sparks a light in your core, your inner thighs clenching with need when he unwittingly turns on your desire to be taken care of. But he seems so unbothered by it, humming to himself as his thumb slips beneath your blouse to rub your skin while he reads the information beside the painting.
The two of you are admiring Caravaggio's Narcissus when something comes to mind. "Why'd you call me 'bunny'? In my comments?"
He glances down at you, taken aback by the sudden question. "I… thought it'd be nice to have a nickname of my own for you. It reminded me of our first meeting."
A fond smile curls upon your lips. "Why haven't you called me that since we started dating?"
Something fond crosses over Jack's face, leaves as quickly as it came. His hand squeezes your side. "I didn't think it was appropriate. Thought it might make you uncomfortable if I called you that in public."
"I liked it. Like it. I still do," you trip over your words with a flustered smile. "It's like our own little inside thing. Um—no pun intended."
Jack chuckles and that wide smile he gives you has you pushing against your toes to press your lips to his. He hums fondly, nips at your lower lip. "Alright, I'll keep that in mind, bunny."
You kiss him again.
For the next couple of months, you start to see Jack regularly. Dinner dates (whether it's at the first restaurant he's taken you to or he cooks for you at his place) or movie nights, or even him just coming over to unwind after a long shift. Your posting schedule doesn't shift, only rearranges itself to make room for Jack.
A month in, you'd sat him down and tentatively but firmly told him that you wouldn't be stopping just because of your dates. Jack had accepted it without question, took it as if it was what he expected in the first place.
So you continue your usual schedule. Vlogs and short-form content for your SFW socials and full streams for your NSFW audience. Suggestive photos to tide your subscribers over 'til the next full video.
Jack, on the other hand, looks positively giddy with himself. Sure, he's cumming in his fist nearly every night but he's determined to make sure you know that he wants more with you. Fuck. He sounds like a broken record but he's obsessed; the last thing he wants is his dick to ruin this for his heart.
But his good mood is translated into his night shifts, cracking jokes even with angry patients. It has Shen watching over in confused concern, always taking a double-take when he has the chance. Parker and Crus decide that it's just Jack going through a new wave, a new fixation that's probably tiding him over.
Or a girl— but that's Robby's problem to mull over, not theirs.
They get their chance when Jack's scheduled for a double (something he makes up to you with another extravagant VIP dinner the day before), dropping a hint to their chief that their night-shift attending's been weird all week.
The ambulance bay doors slide open in a 'whoosh' for Dr. Robinavitch, passing by Javadi who's talking to Trinity about making mutuals with some big-shot on her Tiktok and Dennis catching up with Perlah about his weekend, to get to Jack in the locker room.
"So. Shen's said you've been weird."
Jack chuckles lightly, throws his stethescope around his neck, and shuts his locker. "I'm seeing someone."
"What, didn't think I'd admit it so quickly?" Jack grins and pats his shoulder as he steps around his friend.
"No, not really." Robby follows him out, tugging on both ends of his stethoscope. "I'm happy for you. What's her name?"
"Nah, that's all you're getting out of me, Robinavitch."
The sun's setting as Jack turns the page on the novel he's been reading to you. You're sitting between his legs and your back against his warm chest, stretching out on the gingham blanket you've brought as the two of you find cover beneath the large tree.
Today's date had been completely spontaneous. When his schedule had been unwittingly cleared up, he had driven straight to you to take you out for a late lunch picnic at the small fair that's set up for the weekend. With the sandwiches finished off and you'd run off to buy cotton candy for the both of you to share, Jack had fished out a novel in his back seat to pass the time and enjoy the nice weather.
His hand is absentmindedly rubbing your exposed thigh, the skirt of your sundress riding up just enough for him to explore the smooth skin. His cheek is pressed against the top of your hair while you absentmindedly trace shapes atop his jean-clad thighs.
"Feelin' restless, bunny?"
"Hm?" Jack's question draws you out of your stupor, so content in his arms that it takes him a few attempts to get your attention. "No, just… really cozy."
"Yeah?" He presses a line of kisses down your jaw and neck, eliciting a soft squeal from you. Jack would've continued showering you in kisses but he grunts, reluctantly pulling away to rub at his aching prosthesis.
You frown. He's mentioned losing a limb before, knows that he wears a prosthetic leg, but you've never seen him this uncomfortable. "Jack, we could head home if it's hurting—"
"I'm fine—"
"Jack." He pauses and turns his attention to you, your brows furrowed and your lips in a line. "Come on, we can just take it easy at your place. You said you're more comfortable in your crutches, right?"
"Yeah." You can see when he finally gives in, his shoulders rounding out as he presses a kiss to your shoulder. "Yeah, alright. Let's go."
Once the both of you get to your feet, you hold out your hand. "Gimme the keys, I'll drive to give your leg a break."
"I don't think so."
"Jack."
"Bunny."
It takes a second but he concedes there too, pulling you in by the shoulders for a swift kiss to your lips. "You're lucky you're cute, sweetheart."
Jack's place is almost as familiar as yours now. He watches you saunter around his place, dropping his keys into the dish bowl on the table by the door, place your things on the loveseat before rummaging through his fridge for a beer.
When you reach him where he's seated on his couch, prosthesis set aside to hand him a beer, he gently tugs you onto his lap before popping the tab open for your can first. "Thanks," you hum, taking a sip while he opens his. His arm is strong around your waist and the easy strength he holds for you, the possessive touch he's got whenever you're near... it sparks a flicker of heat inside you and as you turn, straddling his lap to kiss along his jaw. His scruff is rough against your glossy lips but it only has you mewling.
"Bunny…" he groans as his large hand splays along the expanse of your back, supporting your weight while you tip back just enough for him to place his beer behind you on the coffee table. His eyes flutter shut, basking in your sweet kisses, as temptation guides his hand lower to cup your perky ass. It's your moan, drawn out and desperate, that pulls him out of the heat that's settling thick in his head. Reluctantly, his hands rise back up and an indignant whine spills from your throat—
"Jack, why won't you fuck me?"
He nearly chokes on his spit at your question and when he looks up, you look adorably put out, lower lip jutting out. Your gaze is glassy, lips kiss-swollen. His thumb comes up, presses against your mouth to drag down your lip slowly. "Bunny, why do you think I won't fuck you?"
"You— you've only ever kissed me. You've only liked my non-sexual content. You—"
"Baby," he shushes you gently, releases your lip to cradle your jaw. "It's not that I'm uninterested in you. Trust me— I am. I just didn't want you to think this was all some ploy to just get you in bed with me."
Another whine rises up within you. "But it's been months, Jack."
"Sweetheart, I wanted to make sure you know I was serious. It wasn't just for you, but for me, too. Had to make it known to you that I'm here for the long haul," he murmurs and when you nod in understanding, his lips find yours for a kiss that's got you clenching your thighs. Your back arches back when he leans further in, lips parting to let his tongue probe against yours.
"Gonna… mm— fuck me now?" You pant against his mouth, lashes kissing the tops of your cheeks when his lips drag down your neck to mark your collarbone with marks.
His chuckle is raspy against your skin. "I'm gonna make love to you, bunny. Come on—"
"Why not here?" You whimper, giving your hips a slow roll against his. You can feel his bulge, stiff through his jeans, against your panties.
"I'm not having you on my couch, darling. Not for our first time. We can defile the rest of my house later."
You giggle as you reluctantly get to your feet, knees nearly knocking together while Jack goes for his crutches. "Do you promise?"
"I promise," he chuckles, following you into his bedroom. His mouth goes dry, easy dominance deflating momentarily when he watches you crawl onto the center of his bed, your sundress hemline rucked up to reveal the pretty white lace panties you've got on beneath. His eyes follow the fabric, disappearing in between your ass cheeks, before they flit back up when you turn and lean against his headboard.
You're in your doll mindset now, your hands dancing across your body to give him a show. But while your videos are choreographed, almost clinical to a certain degree to entertain an audience, Jack sees the way your hand trembles just before you drag the neckline of your dress down, tempting him to just rip the fabric off you.
But he's a patient man, understands that this is just as much for you as it is for him. He can see the way your arousal heightens with each teasing touch. "Take it off for me, bunny, just for me."
He must've said the right thing because a broken moan spills from your lips, nodding as you cross your arms and drag the hem of your dress up to reveal a matching bralette to your panties. The bed dips beneath his weight when he joins you, settling down onto the mattress just as you toss a leg over to straddle his waist again.
"Ah, shit," he hisses when he glances down, sees the way the fabric of your panties are nearly translucent with your slick. His hand creeps down to rub your swollen clit through the damp fabric, tilting his head back up to watch your reaction. He doesn't shut his eyes when your open mouth drags along his cheek, a poor approximation of a kiss as you shut your eyes to savor the way his fingers deftly tug the panties aside to dip within your folds. A pathetic moan escapes you. "This all for me, bunny?"
"Mhm, yes—"
"She's drippin' just for me, fuck," he chuckles as his middle finger teases your entrance, enamored by the way your hips rock clumsily against your palm. "Mm, look at that."
It's filthy, the way Jack leans back against the headboard with his head ducked down to watch your cunt practically suck in his fingers, his other hand keeping your panties tugged aside for his viewing. "Please, I wanna feel you," you beg, voice hitching high in a way he's never heard before.
"You sound so sweet for me, bunny," he murmurs as he redraws his fingers from you, tasting you with a voracity that makes you even wetter. "You've been so good for me, pretty girl, don't worry… I'll give you what you want."
And while Jack sounds so benevolent, your lips finding his in a grateful kiss before you're scrambling off to lay on your back under his guidance while he undresses next, it's all a facade to conceal the way he's barely able to hold it together now that he's got you: heart, soul, and now body.
He settles on top of you, lips finding your shoulder for a brief moment of sweet affection despite the filth that's fallen from his lips from earlier, and makes a home between your thighs. You might've teased him for picking missionary as your first time, giggle at how insistent he is on keeping things old fashioned despite your unorthodox relationship, but then the tip of his cock prods against your entrance, mouth dropping slightly as your head falls back against the pillows— he's huge.
"Ngh— Jack…" you whimper as the stretch leans more towards pain than pleasure at first, eyes shut as you feel Jack's lips skim across the side of your neck. "S'too big…"
His chest rumbling, he chuckles in your ear, nips at your jugular. "Don't worry, bunny. I can make it fit."
Lust and adoration intertwine in your core as he pushes deeper, your walls adjusting for his girth while your nails dig into his freckled shoulders. After what feels like an eternity, Jack's fully sheathed in you, pressing kisses along your brow and temple.
"So fuckin' tight—" he grunts, attempting a shallow thrust that has you two moaning in unison. "You ready for me, bunny? Gonna start movin'."
You feel absolutely full, can feel Jack in your gut, but you nod, legs hooking around his waist. "Ready," you manage to say, releasing one shoulder to cradle his jaw for a searing kiss. He pulls out and thrusts in without hesitation, his lips parting for his tongue to taste yours. The two of you make out like teenagers, sloppy and uncoordinated, while his cock drives into you slowly, your body shifting higher up the bed until his hand comes up to cradle the top of your head before it hits the headboard.
He swallows your moans with a grunt of his own, tasting your desperation with each rock of his hips. But when his lungs start to burn for oxygen, he reluctantly pulls back only to be rewarded with your vocal cries for more. He's heard your noises before, almost four million people have, but he's never witnessed you like this, so gorgeously needy on his cock, your moans more like broken whimpers and hiccups interlaced with his name. So unbelievably vulnerable, laid out just for him.
It has him driving his cock even deeper into you, eager to hear the way your mouth sounds around his name whenever he hits that specific spot.
"No, no, no— don't get shy on me now, bunny," he coos, dropping a hand to cup your cheek to guide your eyes on him. "You sound so sweet for me, let me hear you…"
His words elicit another gasp of his name as one particular thrust has you seeing stars, the coil in your core tightening as his hand comes down to rub your clit in time with each rock of his hips. He can feel his own climax but he keeps it at bay, laser focused on your own pleasure.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck… Jack—!" You wail as the coil snaps, his cock buried to the hilt before he fucks you slow and deep to carry you through your climax. With you taken care of, he chases after his pleasure next, hips snapping against yours in a brutal pace that has your toes curling in sweet ecstasy.
His forehead drops to rest on yours, breaths mingling while his own moans pitch into a needier grunt, veering into whimpers while he talks you through it. "Feels so fuckin' good, bunny… s'like your pretty cunt was made just for me… oh fuck— she's just sucking me in," he pants.
The string of dirty talk kickstarts something inside you and you feel that familiar tightness in your core, hiccuping moans bubbling past your kiss-swollen lips as he drives his cock deeper. "Jack— 'm… hah— gonna cum—!"
"Yeah?" He huffs, a cocky half-grin in his lips as he drags his scruffy jaw along your cheek. "Gonna give me another, bunny? Come on… gimme one more," he coos while his pace starts to falter, losing its steady rhythm as he gets closer and closer to his own edge.
When you cum for the second time, he's quick to follow right after, your convulsing walls eliciting his own release right into your waiting cunt. A part of him panics — he didn't wear a condom nor did you say anything about being on any kind of contraceptive — but he feels your heels dig into his lower spine to keep him from moving. The concern still sits at the back of his mind but he lets himself get lost in the sensation of finishing inside you, his thrusts slowing to a halt before carefully laying on you.
"Holy shit," you breathe out, a blissful smile on your lips with your eyes fluttering shut. When Jack pulls out, you offer a slight wince but curl onto his chest as he rolls over onto his back. Your head nestles onto his pec, his arm winding around your bare shoulders. When you turn your head to kiss his freckled collarbone, he chuckles and squeezes you gently.
Jack hums wordlessly. Basking in the moment, he lets himself sink into the warmth of you beside him. There really isn't any need to talk for now and the both of you would've been content to let the moment settle in…
Had it not been for your growling stomach.
His laughter cuts through your embarrased whine, rolling over to hide your face into his chest completely. "Don't laugh—" you pout but he just jostles you gently, gets you to look up at him where he can kiss your nose.
"Stay here, I'll clean you up first," he promises and rolls out of bed. Grabbing his crutches, he heads over to his attached bathroom for a warm, dampened towelette. He cleans you between the thighs, gentle and careful as he drops a kiss to your knee. "About earlier—"
"I'm clean," you interject. "I don't have any partners and I'm on the pill."
He nods, relieved as he tosses the towelette into his laundry basket. "I'm clean, too. I haven't… not since my late wife."
Your smile is heartachingly tender. He's spoken about his late wife before, wears the ring on a chain close to his heart, and how he and his therapist have decided that he's in the right place to move on.
"We can both get tested if you want," you offer. "I don't want anyone else but you."
It's an invitation to a conversation he's been waiting on for a month now and he dives right in. The bed dips as he sits at the edge, a warm and calloused hand on your thigh. "I only want you, bunny. That's not ever gonna change." He cups your jaw, warm and possessive in a way that'll never fail to light a fire in your heart. "Can I be yours, sweetheart?"
You nod with a giggle bursting past your lips. "Yes—! Of course, yes," you swoon with your arms around his neck, his hand releasing your jaw in favor to hug you 'round the waist.
"Yeah?" His pretty crows' feet deepen when he smiles at you, chuckling when you nod again with an eager bob of your head as you gently scratch at his scruffy jaw. "Gonna go steady with me, bunny?"
A laugh escapes you, nose scrunching up at his dated language. "Always and forever, old man."
Although the months you've spent with Jack before the both of you made it official had you feeling like cloud nine, the next following weeks could only be properly labeled as the honeymoon phase now that you're officially his girlfriend. With Jack's night shift schedule and your unorthodox posting timelines, the two of you manage to make it work.
Speaking of work, you had been adamant that because he's your boyfriend, you had no plans on stopping the camgirl site and told him so the morning after. Jack had blinked and nodded as if it'd been something he had already expected. His only caveat was that you'd at least make your new relationship status public knowledge to your subscribers whether it's as simple as a status post on your website. You went above and beyond by posting a selfie with Jack's arm around your neck, his bicep smushing your cheeks while you grinned dopily at the camera.
While your followers had fawned over your new man, occasionally posting faceless boyfriend pics of Jack, you made sure to keep his identity secret as your highest priority whenever he'd make some sort of cameo in your SFW videos.
"Babe, you gotta stop jumping in the frame, I'll have to edit you out—!" You laugh in your most current video, holding out the camera high and up just enough to capture your hand crooked around Jack's arm as the two of you walk the aisles of the farmer's market.
He chuckles and dutifully stops ducking his head. "Just move the camera when I kiss your cheek, bunny. And even if my face shows, I thought you could just slap on an emoji or something on my face when your assistant edits them."
The camera captures the way you look up, a playfully deadpan expression on your features. "You wanna put more work on Francine?"
"You're right, I'll behave."
The clip ends there and the views skyrocket, nearly matching your most infamous videos on your NSFW side. It's gotten so popular that Victoria's talking about it during work hours, in awe of the fact that she's mutuals with you despite the fact that she's gone viral on Tiktok herself.
For once the pitt has a handle on chairs and triage, allowing Victoria to show Dennis her newest editing style, inspired by Doll's Corner. He perks up, recognizes the voice through the walls of the apartment he shares with Trinity.
"Oh, I think Santos is also subscribed to her," he grins.
Victoria frowns. "Subscribed…? Her website's free, Dennis."
Trinity walks past before circling back. "What's free?"
"Oh, um— Doll's corner." Victoria holds out her phone, displaying your instagram profile. "She has her own website but Dennis mentioned that you're subscribed to her…?"
"She avoids her SFW content, probably because it'd feed the parasocialism since Doll seems to be exactly her type," he grins, always eager to have something over his lovable but prickly roommate.
"She's not my type, she's just hot—"
"Hold on, what do you mean SFW content? Isn't all her stuff SFW…?" Victoria cuts in, eyes wide as she scrolls up and down the webpage. Trinity snatches the phone and taps the top right menu button of the page, scrolls towards the 'PRICING' tab before offering the phone back.
Dennis interrupts. "She doesn't really advertise her adult content, it's more of a… if-you-know-you-know situation. You're cool with that, right?"
Victoria swallows, goes through the 'free' content of your camgirl side while her mind races with the blurred and suggestive content, before nodding with a wide-eyed grin. "'Course I'm cool with it. Just— I didn't expect it. Yeah, I'm cool. Dennis, are you subscribed—?"
"No, no—" Dennis startles with a flustered laugh. "It's not really my thing, but I know Dr. Ellis had found her account too. She's popular."
The youngest MS4 merely nods and wanders off, looking very scandalized. Dennis and Trinity watch her go before shrugging, unaware that the true reason why Victoria's so shocked is that she had suspected Doll's newest boyfriend might be Dr. Jack Abbot.
Your SFW content views continue to skyrocket (especially the shortform video where you had Jack flex his bicep for the camera before placing a piece of dessert on top, eating right off his freckled arm before he's pulling you out of frame for a kiss).
There's already been a few questions asking if your boyfriend (lovingly dubbed as Mr. Doll by your subscribers) would ever participate in your content. You haven't gotten around to answering them, leaving them untouched as you post your usual photos and videos for your loyal subscribers.
The truth is, you aren't even sure how to bring up the topic to Jack nor would you know how to figure out the logistics of including your boyfriend without jeopardizing his identity. But the problem is solved a week later where you're in your bedroom, filming a toy haul with a new PR package from a sex toy company.
You're in the throes of your orgasm, nothing on but a bunny tail plug nestled in your ass while you ride a massive silicone pink dildo with some device that literally creampies you. You've got your back to the camera, the cute plug front and center, when your knees drop and you bottom out on the toy with a final moan.
You'd been so lost in your 'review' that you didn't realize Jack had come by early, leaning against the doorway with a dark little grin that you've come to associate with 'playtime'.
"Havin' fun, bunny?" he asks, the camera picking up on his voice sounding like velvet over gravel.
Your giggle is breathy and sweet. The camera captures the way your neck arches, looking over your shoulder to meet Jack's eyes who stays firmly out of the shot. "Mhm, I am."
"Did that thing… finish in you?" When you give him another resounding giggle and nod, he shakes his head with a fond chuckle. "I'll give you five minutes to catch your breath before it's my turn, sweetheart."
When you'd given the video to Francine, your assistant, to edit, she had sent over the last clip where Jack had come in and asked if you wanted it out. Deciding that it seems safe enough to keep since he's not even within the frame and that people have heard his voice before, you told Francine to keep it in.
Later that night, you receive an tsunami of positive comments, most of them fawning over the way Mr. Doll seems to adore you even while making content for the rest of your depraved audience.
@.pearlessance: holy shit HIS VOICE???
@.deathreverse: i bet he talks you through it omfg
@.mariasont: i just KNOW your man is fine
@.enam3l: give us one audio file of him cumming PLEASE
You're wrapped up in Jack's arms later that evening, your back settled against his chest as you read over the comments with him. He's got his strong arms around your middle, lazy kisses pressed to your bare shoulder as the cold edge of his readers bump along your jaw.
"You're stealing my fans, Jack."
"No, they like the way I make you flustered, bunny. There's a difference."
"Maybe," you hum as you swap apps to your instagram, scrolling mindlessly before you pause. "Jack?"
"Yeah, sweetheart?"
"Would you… want to be in my cam videos? Just as your voice," you clarify with a shy smile. The curve of his smile is pressed against your neck.
"I'd be honored," he croons. "Maybe you could play with yourself for the camera, let me talk you through your orgasms."
Your cheeks burn, thighs clenching as you rub them together. "Mhm."
"Use your words, bunny."
"I'd like that a lot, sir."
That had been a new revelation. You've called Jack 'daddy' jokingly outside of the bedroom before, just something to steal his attention whenever you're particularly needy (whether it's for something sexual or not). And while he liked it, judging by the fond and flustered grin on his lips, he had sat you down and told you what title actually does it for him.
Sir.
It never did anything for you, thought it might've been too simple or even too formal to ever be used in bed, but it fits Jack perfectly. An older man with his experience and status along with a natural inclination to dominance doesn't need something as desperate as 'daddy' to insert control in the bedroom.
"Good girl," he rasps and takes your chin to turn your head, planting a heated kiss onto your lips. "How about we pick a day for it, hm? Put it on your calendar."
When you nod again, he chuckles and nips at your lower lip. "Can we do it now?"
Despite your eagerness, you and Jack had decided on a Sunday evening the following week, opting for a pre-recorded video rather than a live show.
Like always, you've got your tripod set up at the foot of your bed with you front and center. You have mood lighting set up, nothing too garish and bright and classically 'porno' but rather something warm to get you comfortable. The only difference is Jack seated behind the camera, manspreading like it's his fucking job in those grey sweats you've moaned about a week ago.
"You ready, baby?" Jack's voice is caramel sweet but you know it'll dip lower when he hits the record button. When you give a nod, he reaches up to press the button.
The red light blinks at you but Jack clears his throat. "Eyes on me, bunny."
Your gaze is magnetized to your boyfriend's, feeling deliciously exposed with the way his eyes drink you in. Tonight, you've got on a lingerie set he had bought just for you: a babydoll pink bralette with a matching thong and garters. In the hollow of your neck is a delicate, cursive 'j' on a chain.
"You look gorgeous, sit up for me, sweetheart. Let the camera see your new outfit," he drawls lazily and your eyes drop down to his large hand, gripping his bulge through the sweats.
The camera captures the way you look behind it, your gaze unfocused and your cheeks flustered, but you never disobey sir's words as you sit up on your knees. Your hands dance along the lacy straps, brushing across the sheer panels that hold up your tits. Jack's attention is fixed on you, his teeth digging into his lower lip as he strokes himself through his sweatpants.
"That's it, bunny. Play with those pretty titties for the camera," Jack murmurs.
He continues to take the lead and it's almost alarming at how good he is, how easy it is for you to completely forget you're still filming. He eventually has you propped up against your mountain of pillows, knees bent and thighs spread out.
"Add another finger for me, bunny."
You've already got two in, your middle and your ring finger, while your other hand is groping at your exposed tit. "Sir, I can't—"
"Sure you can, pretty girl. You've taken my cock, haven't you?" Jack chuckles meanly, his hand tugging at his cock now. Your eyes are locked on his length and he capitalizes on it, rubbing his thumb across his tip.
"Yes, but—"
"Come on, bunny, one more. You can do it."
The camera captures the way you whimper, gasping around nothing when you add your index finger into your sopping cunt. Even the lighting catches the shine of your slick against your inner thighs; Jack's got you edging yourself and you're ready to beg.
The stretch burns in the best way, not in the same breadth as Jack's cock, but enough that it has you plunging your fingers so fast that it sounds lewd against the camera.
"Can I cum, sir, please—" You choke out, hand beginning to cramp from the speed and angle you have that Jack notices it immediately. If you've been a bit less preoccupied with your own impending orgasm, you would've noticed that your boyfriend had been staving off his own climax, gripping the base of his length until he's finally given you permission.
Behind the camera, he continues to talk you through it but his voice isn't as measured, it's strained and a tad bit pitchy — his tell-tale sign that he's about to cum soon.
"Cum for me, bunny, let me see you make a mess on yourself," he coaxes and once you take the final fall, he's quick to follow, white ropes of his release painting his thighs and the floor beneath. "So fuckin' hot, Jesus Christ—"
Your cramping hand drops from between your legs as you slump against the pillows completely, legs splayed out for the camera to watch the way your clit throbs from the overstimulation. Jack tucks himself back in and takes the camera, detaches it from the tripod mount to approach your bedside.
"Let's see the mess you made, gorgeous," he murmurs, his voice wrecked as he props a knee up to hover above your overstimulated frame. You giggle up at the camera, taking his free hand (the same one that had been wrapped around his cock moments ago) and gently lick the traces of his release clean off his fingers. He curses under his breath before he affectionately pinches your chin. It elicits a soft laugh from you and the look you give him beyond the camera does something to his chest, a word that tastes something sticky sweet (and maybe starts with the letter 'L'), that he suddenly wishes this part is just for him.
But he moves lower, the camera panning down to where your panties are tugged loosely aside where your puffy, slick cunt is on display. It's lewd and nasty, the way his free hand strokes through your folds before he's bringing up his fingers for a taste. The satisfactory moan he lets out sends a thrill up your spine.
His hand travels to the swell of your thigh, to your hip where he tugs your panties off. The camera jostles as he shoves the soiled, lacy fabric into the back pocket of his pants, before he pulls away.
"I think your fans earned enough of you. Say goodbye, bunny, it's my turn for a taste."
The last thing the camera sees is a wave of your hand before it's set aside roughly, filming your ceiling and capturing the way your giggle melts into a breathy moan before the video and audio cuts.
—
"So when are we meeting the lucky lady?"
The sun sits high as Jack lounges on the roof on a chair that he's brought up a few months back. Robby had brought his own chair a week later, pleased to see his best friend behind the railing this time. The two are relaxing, stealing a few moments of solitude before handoffs are completed.
"Not yet," Jack grunts as he takes a sip of the pressed juice you've packed for him. You've been given a massive PR package of some health brand and he'd been willing to take half of the crate off your hands. "Soon."
Robby gives him a sidelong glance. "Are you ashamed of her or somethin'?"
"No. No, definitely not. I just want to keep her to myself a bit longer before you and Peaches poach her off me." Jack chuckles. "Relax, brother. I'll bring her around soon."
"Alright, I'm holding you to that," Robby chortles before he gets to his feet, back cracking while he stretches. "Go home, Abbot."
Before, Jack would've kneedled, maybe dragged his feet a bit longer to keep from returning to an empty house. He's always craved company, even moreso at the passing of his late wife. But this time, he grabs his backpack and rucks it over his shoulder, offering a casual wave of his hand.
"Ain't gotta tell me twice. I got a pretty girl waiting for me at home."
—
Later that evening, Victoria Javadi's sitting outside on the benches with the rest of day shift, drinking a beer she hopes would taste better after every sip. After turning twenty one, she still didn't see the appeal of drinking beer but after her sneaking suspicion that her night shift attending might be dating the influencer she's admired for so long, she realizes she might need it.
Her thumb punches the 'low' volume button on the side of her phone as she pulls up your tiktok account. Your account has only grown since you've started including your mystery man; the tiktok trends that center around playful pranks or cute videos snipped from longer vlogs with your partner are the ones that hit a million views first.
She takes a deep breath and taps your most recent one, a clip that looks like it had been cut from your last get-ready-with-me vlog, judging by the outfit you have on. You greet the camera as usual, holding out two different purses before leaning this way and that to get all angles of your outfit. Your attention is stolen, however, when the voice of 'Mr. Doll' cuts in from behind the camera.
"You ready, sweetheart?"
You pout, your gaze looking beyond the camera. "I don't know which bag to bring."
"What do you need a bag for?"
"My lip gloss…" you reply sheepishly and a throaty chuckle from Mr. Doll follows, soft and fond.
"The second one, bunny. Come on, let's go."
The video loops and Victoria lets it play before her thumb rewinds the video back herself, listening to that voice before her gasp gets caught in her throat.
Mr. Doll is Jack Abbot.
—
In another apartment across the city, Trinity takes advantage of the empty home and hunkers down in bed. It's a guilty pleasure, she knows, but with the stress of residency along with Garcia's emotional unavailability, she figures a bit of her wage going to one of the most hottest camgirls couldn't be the worst vice in the world.
She scrolls through the paid content of yours with a soft sigh, sinking deeper into her mattress before opting for one of the newer POV content. It's a new series you've started, something that kicked up in popularity from a couple weeks ago when your partner had taken the camera to film you himself after he talked you through your orgasm.
Trinity hasn't had the chance to check it out herself, a bit hesitant considering the POV shots may ick her out if she actually sees a penis when she's been thinking of inserting herself as the viewer on top of you. But curiosity kicks in as she plays the most recent one, heat simmering low in her core as it starts out with you undressing as always, straddling your partner this time as he films you from below.
"I can feel you—" you gasp, your hands braced on the stomach beneath you as it pushes your tits together. Your hips roll, sinfully smooth while the strap of your sheer tanktop drops off one shoulder. It keeps falling, revealing a single breast, but you pay it no mind, too busy dry-humping the body beneath you.
"You're soaked for me, bunny… am I gonna feel you through my boxers?" The man grunts and something tugs at the back of Trinity's mind, a sick sense of deja vu or familiarity. She ignores it, eyes straining to try and focus only on you.
You giggle. "Maybe… can't help it, daddy gets me so wet—" You pause, eyes wide at your little slip.
"'Daddy'?" The familiar male voice repeats and the camera catches the man's hands travel up, sliding between the valley of your breasts to curl around your throat possessively. A ditzy grin spreads across your lips, eyes nearly rolling back as you lean your neck forwards into his palm.. "Is that my name now, bunny? Want me to be your daddy?"
The video plays on but Trinity couldn't focus, not when horror sets in alongside disgust and mortification when her brain finally places where she's heard that voice before. Once it clicks, she gags and pauses the video, tosses her phone across the room as full-body shudders wrack her whole frame.
When Dennis comes home late, it's to find Trinity on the couch, spacing out with a security blanket swaddling her prone frame. Panic sets in and he rushes forward, his fist rubbing her chest out of habit tp see if there's any response to pain—
"Ow, fuckin' quit it—!" Trinity snaps, smacking his hand away as she glares up at him.
He lets out a sigh of relief before crossing his arms. "What the hell happened to you? Was it Garcia—"
"No." A haunted look passes over his roommate's eyes. "Worse. I think I found Dr. Abbot's girlfriend."
—
With your six-month-iversary fast approaching, you and Jack are running out of excuses to keep putting off the inevitable 'meeting of the friends' ceremony. Your own friends are eager to meet the older man that's been starring in most of your content and Robby's starting to threaten break-ins and impromptu dinners if he doesn't get to meet the woman that's made his best friend so happy.
It isn't that you're scared Jack's friends and colleagues won't like you or that he's ashamed of you— it's just the fact that the two of you are becoming grossly codependent, refusing to let the other one out of each other's sight for too long. Inviting friends into your circle would only lessen the amount of time you two have for each other and the two of you would much rather prefer extending your honeymoon period first.
Unfortunately, the decision is taken out of yours and Jack's hands when you wake in the morning to an abnormal amount of bleeding. Your period's supposed to start soon but with the sudden heavy flow and the sharp pain in your abdominal, fear licks up your spine.
Something isn't right.
You carefully bring yourself out of Jack's bed, whimpering at the massive stain you've left, before hobbling over to your phone. What awful timing— your actual doctor boyfriend isn't in to check you out himself but rather he's stuck at the ER working a double.
With the amount of time you've spent with Jack, he's ingrained it into you to always listen to your body, to get help rather than attempting to self-diagnose or to undermine your pain level, so you call 9-1-1 with a shaky voice.
When the operator confirms that an ambulance is on the way, you remember to add one final thing: "Can you take me to PTMC, please?"
—
"Female, mid to late 20s, heavy vaginal bleeding and sharp abdominal pain. Reports of nausea and vomiting with a fever of 102 degrees," the EMT barks out, pushing your gurney through the ambulance bay as the cacophany of the emergency department greets you. When the ambulance had arrived at Jack's place, you'd been barely able to stand upright, chills racking your frame.
Your mind is fuzzy, the fluorescent lights above you spinning like soup while you're pushed into an available room. A couple of nurses trail after a doctor, a penlight flashing in your eyes as said doctor introduces herself.
"Hi, I'm Dr. King, are you taking any kind of birth control or—"
"My IUD," you whimper, eyes squeezing shut as you try to fight through the pain that seems to steadily increase with each passing moment. "Is it—I heard it can be displaced?"
Fast paced conversation erupts around you, swapping differentials and possible diagnoses before scissors are cutting through your pajamas to reveal your bloody panties. A hand presses against your upper abdomen, a gentle palpating movement that tears out a cry of pain from you.
"Order a CT," a doctor barks. "Can't do much until we see what's going on in there."
Dr. King nods and promises to take care of you after you've been pushed some painkillers to tide you over until it's your turn. As you get wheeled off, she notices a delicate cursive 'j' tattooed right above your hip bone.
—
After some time, you're dressed in a hospital gown, waiting for your CT results as the painkillers they've given you keep the pain at bay for the meantime. Your phone sits in your lap, screen on to your text thread with Jack. You know he's somewhere in the department, most likely saving lives, but your texts are unread and it's gnawing at the pit of your stomach.
"Hi," a voice calls out and it's a sweet looking young man, around your age as he rubs in the hand sanitizer. "I'm Dr. Whitaker. We have your CT results and it looks like a displaced IUD. Did anything happen recently or…?"
Your cheeks burn bright red. "Um. Rough sex, I guess?"
Dr. Whitaker's face colors red as well. "Oh—! Um, well, yeah. That'll do it. The CT scans revealed some slight perforation in your uterine lining so we'll go ahead and get that out for you, it'd be a minor procedure so you'll be up and walking in just a few hours."
"Great, thank you," you sigh in quiet relief but as you ponder something, Whitaker sticks around, like he knows you've got a request. "Um, is there a Dr. Abbot in?"
He nods. "Yeah, he's one of my attendings. Has he treated you before?"
"No, actually—"
"Bunny—?!" The curtains slide open and Jack rushes in, concern choking up his syllables when he sees you looking slightly gaunt and exhausted in a hospital gown. Dennis' eyes widen as he steps aside; he's never seen his attending look so disheveled and unkempt. "What happened?"
"Jack, I'm fine, it was my IUD," you explain, looking up while he checks over your vitals. "It… got displaced. I wonder whose fault is that." Your dry tone has Jack looking sheepish and Whitaker looking everywhere but the both of you. It's already taken all of his professionalism to keep from reacting when he recognized you as Trinity's past obsession. She still wouldn't say why she unsubscribed until he realizes the secret boyfriend is Dr. Abbot.
"Sorry, sweetheart," Jack murmurs into your hair as he kisses your forehead. "I'll make sure they'll bump you forward so you can get out of here faster."
You nod and your lower lip juts out, slipping into that sweet mindset that Jack can't get enough of; cotton candy delicate and adorably delectable. "Promise?"
"Yeah, I promise, bunny." His voice takes on that gravelly tone that you've become obsessed with and when you tip your head up, he closes the distance and kisses you briefly.
At that moment, the curtain slides open again. "Whoa— sorry for interrupting, folks." You pull away, fiery cheeks on display, to see another taller doctor enter. "Dr. Whitaker, can you go help Dr. Santos in Central 13? I'm Dr. Robinavitch, you can call me Dr. Robby. You must be the infamous 'Bunny'."
Jack groans and playfully hides his face into the top of your hair as the name registers as your boyfriend's best friend. You smile prettily and offer your hand to shake when Dr. Robby approaches, giving your name instead. The man seems nice but only Jack has the privilege of calling you 'bunny'. "It's nice to meet you, Dr. Robby."
"Just Robby," he insists before he flips through your chart. "Looks like you're up next for the laparascopy. Do I wanna know what happened?"
Your blush deepens. "No, not really. This is an awful first impression."
Robby chuckles, scratches the back of his head. "It's not so bad, all things considered. But now that I finally have both of you here, what do you say to dinner with my partner and I? She's been eager to meet you."
You give Jack a sidelong glance. "Who else did you tell about me?"
"Nearly everyone," Robby cuts in while Jack gives a shrug.
"I didn't give details. I just liked talking about you, sweetheart. That so bad?"
A pleased smile curves upon your lips. "Not at all. I love how obsessed you are with me," you tease. Your boyfriend's eyes roll before patting his friend's chest.
"Alright, come on. Let's get her rolled into the OR so I can take my girl home."
—
As promised, recovery goes by swiftly and a new IUD is put in place. Discharge is expedited when you're dating one of the attendings and soon, Jack's coming into your room with a fresh set of clothes from his locker.
"I liked those panties," you huff as you step into Jack's black sweatpants, leaning against the bed as he kneels down to roll the legs up for you.
When he stands to full height, he helps you into the faded 'ARMY' sweater. "I'll buy you more, bunny." He tugs you in by the waist to steal a few more kisses. "Just glad you're okay. You almost gave me a heart attack when I saw your name on the board."
"Sorry," you pout as Jack sweeps a thumb across your cheekbone. "I tried texting but I—"
"No, baby, you're fine." He hushes you with another soft kiss. "It's good you came in when you did. Come on, I'll take you home."
His arm is thrown around your shoulder as he guides you out through the ambulance bay. The both of you are lost in your own little world, exchanging soft laughter and playful kisses, that you don't see the haunted look in Santos' eyes as she scurries out of the way or Javadi watching in the way someone can't look away from a car crash.
When the ambulance doors shut, Dana leans over the counter to address Robby.
"That the girlfriend?"
"Sure is."
An amused grin curls onto the nurse's lips. "I think I remember her. I see where the nickname 'bunny' comes from."
"What's it mean?"
"I'm not saying a damn thing, Robinavitch."
thank you so much for reading! likes / reblogs / comments are highly appreciated! if you guys want to see more of bunny!reader in this dolly-verse, my inbox is open for blurb requests and ideas! ♡
summary: when your ex-boyfriend makes a surprise visit to ptmc, your boyfriend and the rest of your co-workers realise you might have a type…
pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader & ex bf!mark sloan x fem!reader
warnings/tags: established relationship, implied age gap between abbot & reader and mark & reader, flirting, fluff, swearing, mark don’t give a fuck that the reader is in a relationship, but reader is respectful of boundaries, defs a bit of jealous and insecure Jack if you squint
notes: hot hot hot hot hot give them both to me now thanks!! also massive shoutout to the anon that requested this 🙂↕️
likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!
Enjoy my work? Tip me! 🤍
masterlist
“Ew.”
The word left you before you could stop it as you sunk your teeth into a granola bar.
You grimaced as you turned over the wrapper, examining it like it might explain why you felt like you were currently eating a stick of glue.
“Are these expired?” You asked through the mouthful.
McKay barely glanced up from where she had half her body buried in the fridge, rummaging past several abandoned containers and a suspiciously wet paper bag.
“Nope, they’re just a by product of the drywall factory down the road.” She answered.
You stared at the bar for another second, trying to muster up enough willpower to finish it given you hadn’t eaten lunch.
After abandoning that mission in under 10 seconds, you leant over the bin and spat out the mouthful with as much decorum as you could before unceremoniously dumping the rest of the bar after it.
“Those things aren’t that bad.” Whitaker mused as he wandered into the breakroom with Santos hot on his heels.
“That’s because you were raised on hay.” Santos remarked dryly.
“They’re raspberry flavoured.”
“That’s not helping you Huckleberry.”
You huffed a laugh as the two of them started bickering just as your phone buzzed in your pocket. You leant against the wall, only half listening as you pulled it out of your scrubs and saw a notification from Jack.
He must have just woken up from his pre-shift nap. The corner of your mouth lifted as you read his reply.
You: Are you coming in early today?
JA ❤️: Always.
You quickly typed out another message.
You: any chance u could bring in a protein bar for me? the ones at work are inedible
The reply came almost instantly.
JA ❤️: I know. I’ve told Robby they are a serious health hazard.
You smiled at that as you watched the three dots blink back at you.
JA ❤️: I’ll be in soon. I already have some in my bag for you.
You: are you psychic?
JA ❤️: Just good at pattern recognition.
Your smile widened as his reply came through.
You: thank u 🩷
JA ❤️: 👍
“What are you smiling at?”
You looked up to find McKay watching you over the fridge door.
“What?”
“That.” She pointed vaguely at your face. “Whatever that was.”
“Nothing.”
Santos and Whitaker paused their arguing to focus on you.
Santos studied you, her face contorting into a grimace. “Gross.”
“What?”
“I just can’t get over the fact that Abott reduces you to…” She trailed off, waving vaguely at you.
“That?” Whitaker supplied.
“Yeah.” Santos nodded gravely. “That.”
You rolled your eyes, sliding your phone back into your scrub pocket.
“I think the two of you are starting to fuse into one brain cell.”
Santos’ expression went still. “….that was genuinely hurtful.”
You turned to Whitaker. “There’s your new button to press.”
Whitaker’s grin widened as he crossed his arms over his chest and turned to Santos. “Oh I cannot wait to bring this up multiple times a day.”
Santos glared at you. "You're a traitor."
You pushed off the wall, shaking your head as you made your way towards the door.
“Never give your triggers away Santos.”
“You’re still a traitor!” She called out.
You waved her off without looking back, escaping before she could start another argument.
You barely made it two steps before nearly colliding with Samira.
“Oh sorry.” She came to an abrupt halt, the usual frazzled expression etched onto her features as she looked up at you.
“You all good?”
“Yeah um- have you seen Joy?”
“Not for a little while.”
“No worries, if you see her can you tell her I need her in Room 3?”
“Sure.” You nodded, tilting your head slightly as you studied her. “Are you sure you’re ok?”
“Yeah fine.” She brushed you off as she tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “Haven’t had lunch so I’m a bit cranky.”
You nodded in understanding. “Word of warning, don’t eat the protein bars.”
Samira’s nose wrinkled as she stepped around you. “Why on earth would I do that?”
You threw your arms up dramatically. “Am I the only one who didn’t know they were inedible?”
“Apparently so.”
You huffed, pulling your hair out from under your collar as you made your way over to the status board which was currently glowing above the chaos that was the ED like a cruel little scoreboard.
Your hands settled on your stethoscope as you scanned the board. Less than an hour till your shift was over, at least officially. Which given your track record of overtime, meant close to nothing.
“Hey.”
You glanced over to see Perlah leaning against one of the desks.
“What?” You asked warily.
Her smirk widened. “Have you seen the hot visitor?”
“The what?”
Princess appeared beside her, equally delighted.
“Absolute smoke show.”
Princess nodded towards the far end of the station. “Follow the sounds of Joy giggling.”
Your brows knitted together.
“Joy? As in our intern, Joy? As in the complete antithesis of her name, Joy?” You queried.
“See for yourself.” Perlah grinned.
You followed their line of sight to the other end of the nurses station where a tall figure stood, leaning an arm on one of the benches.
At first, all you saw was the back of a leather jacket, familiar in a way that made your stomach drop before your brain had fully caught up. The man shifted slightly, turning just enough for a familiar profile to come into view. The same hair coifed to perfection, the same self-satisfied slant of his mouth.
And sure enough standing beside him, blushing furiously as she giggled, actually giggled, at whatever he had just said, was Joy.
“I didn’t even know she was capable of laughter.” Princess remarked.
You closed your eyes for one brief, pained second. “You have got to be kidding me.” You grumbled.
Before either Princess or Perlah could ask what was wrong, you were already moving, making a beeline towards them.
Princess and Perlah exchanged a look behind your back. “What just happened?” Princess asked in Tagalog.
“I don’t know." Perlah muttered. "But I think it’s going to be good.”
By the time you were close enough to hear the familiar deep drawl of his voice, Mark Sloan had inched in just enough to make Joy look like she might pass out.
“So, is that the only piercing you have or...?”
You rolled your eyes.
“Still shamelessly hitting on interns I see.”
Mark turned at the sound of your voice. For half a second, there was nothing but surprise. And then his eyes lit up in recognition.
“Well I’ll be.”
That familiar grin spread slowly across his face as his eyes travelled down your body with the same shameless appreciation he’d had years ago, like he was undressing you from memory.
“Cupid.” He said the nickname lowly, like he’d never stopped saying it. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”
You shot him a fake smile. “Wish I could say the same.”
Joy looked between the two of you, blinking rapidly, as if she was trying to decipher a complex math problem. You turned your attention to her, offering her a polite smile.
“Dr Mohan's looking for you, something to do with your patient in room 3.”
“Oh right.” Joy nodded, adjusting her glasses as she glanced at Mark. “On it.”
“Bye Joy.” Mark called out lazily, watching her blush as she scurried away, nearly walking into a wall in the process.
He turned to you, looking pleased with himself as he leant forward. “Why do you always have to ruin my fun?” He pouted once she was out of earshot.
"Someone has to."
Meanwhile, McKay, Whitaker and Santos had exited the breakroom, not even bothering to conceal their ogling as they clustered around a monitor.
“Ok who on earth is that?” Santos queried.
"And why does he look like he just walked off a photoshoot?" McKay muttered.
“And how do they know eachother?” Whitaker added.
“He called her Cupid.” Joy casually commented as she walked past them.
Whitaker’s brow furrowed. "....Cupid?"
Santos froze. The faint amusement dropped away, replaced by the sharp, dawning horror of someone remembering a detail they were never supposed to need.
“Oh my god.”
“What?” McKay and Whitaker asked simultaneously.
"Do you guys remember that time at karaoke?"
"....the one where she sang No Scrubs at Abbot?"
"No. The one when she accidentally admitted she had an ex at Seattle Grace that used to call her Cupid."
McKay and Whitaker both slowly turned to stare at Mark, then at you, then back at Mark.
Back at the nurses’ station, you folded your arms, ignoring Mark's attempts at getting under your skin.
“What are you doing here?”
“Oh some conference.” He waived his hand dismissively. “Thought I’d take the opportunity to come see Robinavitch.”
You blinked. “You know Dr Robby.” You said slowly.
“Since med school.” He answered smoothly. “Why? Hoping I was here to see you?”
You snorted. “Please.”
“Oh c’mon Cupid don’t act like you don’t miss me.” He smirked as he stepped closer. “You wouldn’t have moved across the other side of the country to forget about me if you didn’t.”
You leant in slightly, shooting him a dry smile. “I wouldn’t touch you again even if my life depended on it Sloan.”
He let out a genuine chuckle. “I’ve missed this.” He gestured between the two of you. “Us."
He placed his chin in the palm of his hand, leaning even closer. "Why did it ever end?”
You pretended to think for a moment. "Maybe because you’re physiologically incapable of staying monogamous?”
“Oh yeah right that.” He nodded. “Speaking of monogamous..."
"No."
"... I’ve heard you’ve got a new boy toy right here at PTMC.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Jesus Christ Meredith needs to learn to keep her mouth shut.”
“Well in her defence she told Derek who then told me so….” Mark trailed off, turning his body around to survey the room. “Which one is he?”
"I'm not playing this game." You answered, folding your arms over your chest.
“Wait let me guess.”
Before you could stop him, Mark placed both hands on your shoulders and gently turned you so you were both facing the floor of the pitt.
His eyes landed on Frank first. “Too pretty boy.”
He guided your shoulders slightly towards Whitaker. “Too scrawny.”
From across the room, Whitaker stiffened. “…Why is he looking at me?”
Santos didn’t look away. “Don’t wave.” She murmured.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it.”
Then the ambulance bay doors opened. Jack walked in with a thermos in one hand, his bicep bulging as he shifted the backpack slung over his other shoulder on full display under his dark fitted shirt.
Your stomach dropped as his eyes scanned the room, no doubt looking for you. It didn't take long for his eyes to find yours. You watched as they shifted to Mark, then dropped to Mark's hands resting on your shoulders.
For a moment, his expression barely changed, only the faintest tightening around his jaw gave him away. Then he kept walking.
Mark smiled slowly. “….bingo.”
Your body stiffened as Mark glanced sideways at you.
“I’m right."
You didn't answer.
"I am."
“I’m not talking about my love life with you of all people.”
“Cupid, don’t be like that.” He nudged your shoulder. "Come on, what’s he like?”
“Well for starters, he volunteers as a medic for the SWAT team.” You said sweetly. “So he’s got at least one gun on him at all times.”
Mark nodded slowly, dropping his hands from your shoulders. "Noted."
"He also has excellent aim."
"Message received." Mark held his hands up. "I'll behave."
And then, for the first time since he had appeared, the teasing faded.
"But seriously..." His face softened slightly as his eyes settled on your face properly, no longer performing for the room.
“You’re happy?”
You exhaled slowly, your defences lowering slightly by the unexpected tone of his voice.
“I am.”
“He good to you?"
You smiled softly despite yourself. “He is.”
Something flickered across Mark’s face then, softening the usual sharp lines of his smirk, scarily close to being something sincere. “Good.”
For a moment, the years between you settled there. It didn’t feel painful or bitter or even sad. In fact, it seemed absurd to think that you'd cried over him once upon a time. Now he was just a story you told after one too many drinks, something you reflected on and shook your head, chalking it up to the foolishness of youth.
You cleared your throat, looking away first. “How’s work?”
“Busy, chaotic, dramatic.” Mark shrugged.
"So the usual then?"
“The usual.”
He glanced around the emergency department, frowing slightly as he took in the noise, the movement, the organised disaster of it all. “How’s the ED?”
“Busy, chaotic.” You echoed. “Somehow still much less dramatic than Seattle Grace."
Mark barked out a laugh. “Yeah that checks out.”
“Sloan.”
The two of you turned to see Robby making his way towards you, Jack beside him.
Mark's grin returned instantly.
“Robinavitch.” He broke away from you and pulled Robby into a hug with the force of someone who had never respected personal space in his life.
"A lot less hair since I last saw you."
Robby snorted, clapping him on the back. "The Pitt will do that to you.”
Jack caught your eye over Robby’s shoulder, his expression running a fine line between faint amusement and annoyance.
Robby stepped back, shaking his head before gesturing to Jack.
“This is Jack Abbot, night attending.”
“Nice to meet you. Mark Sloan.” Mark stuck his hand out. “Head of Plastic Surgery at Seattle Grace.”
“Plastic surgery?” Jack's brow lifted slightly as he shook Mark’s hand. “Explains the soft hands.”
Mark laughed loudly enough that several people looked over.
“Oh my god.” Whitaker mumbled as he watched Jack and Mark shake hands. “It’s like I’m seeing double.”
Santos shook her head. “She’s got some serious issues.”
McKay folded her arms over her chest as she studied the two men. “Or just good taste.”
“I second the good taste thing.” Princess murmured as she appeared beside McKay.
Perlah took a sip of her drink and nodded. “I third that.”
The handshake lasted just a fraction longer than necessary as Mark glanced over at you. “I get it."
Robby’s eyes narrowed as he gestured between you and Mark.
“You two know eachother?”
“I was an intern at Seattle Grace." You supplied quickly.
“Oh yes, Cupid and I go wayyy back.” Mark smirked.
Robby's confusion only deepened. “Cupid…?”
You shot Mark a warning glare, which he very intentionally ignored.
“Yeah Cupid.” He answered smoothly. “'cause you know she’s got these little angel wings tattooed right above her-“
“Okayyy you know what.” Robby clapped his hands letting out a bark of awkward laughter. “I think a hospital tour sounds like a great idea right about now."
Mark's eyes gleamed as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "I was going to say shoulder blade."
“You are going to walk with me." Robby said, already steering him away, “And tell me absolutely none of the rest of that story.”
Mark let himself be guided down the hall, still grinning smugly as he glanced back over his shoulder at you and winked, making you roll your eyes once more.
You dragged your eyes away from him to look at Jack who was yet to move. He watched Mark disappear down the corridor, then looked back at you.
He slowly stepped forward, eyes scanning your figure as he placed his hands casually behind his back.
"Ex?"
You sighed. "...Ex."
Jack nodded curtly. “Got it.”
“Abbot.” You looked over to see Dana studying both of you. “Dr King needs an attending in Room 8.”
Jack's eyes never left you. You watched him intently, waiting to see if he would say anything further. Instead he simply reached into his pocket and produced a protein bar.
You swallowed as he slid it into the front pocket of your scrub top, his fingers lightly against your side subtly.
“Eat.” Was all he said, unable to hide the affection in his voice.
Your throat tightened around a smile as you nodded. He held your gaze for one more second, then turned and headed in the direction of Room 8.
You watched him go, your hand subconsciously brushing over the side that he’d just touched.
When you looked back, Dana was still standing there, one hand on her hip as she watched you over her glasses with an expression far too knowing for your liking.
“Don’t you dare say a word.”
She raised her hands up in mock surrender. “Wasn’t gonna.”
You huffed as you turned, suddenly desperate to busy yourself in order to keep your mind off the cluster fuck that was your two worlds colliding.
For the next twenty minutes, you threw yourself back into work. Every few minutes though, your gaze betrayed you, either drifting towards the corridor where Robby had taken Mark or towards Room 8, where Jack had disappeared. The protein bar sat heavily in your pocket, your appetite now completely non-existent.
By the time you ended up at a computer to finish off your charting, your shift was close enough to ending that you had started to believe you might actually survive it.
“Oh damn, the patient in room 7 died.”
You glanced up to see Whitaker staring at a chart from the workstation beside you.
“The old lady with the chest pain?”
“Yeah.” Whitaker sighed.
You frowned. "That sucks."
“She had a husband right?” Santos chimed in from across from you, not bothering to look up from her own computer.
“Yeah she did, married nearly fifty years."
Without missing a beat, Santos glanced up at you. “Abbot better watch out.”
Your eyes narrowed.
"Nice. Very respectful." Whitaker shook his head, although you could see he was trying not to laugh.
"What?" Santos shrugged. "Our girl clearly has a type."
"Silver foxes?" McKay suggested as she walked past grinning like a cheshire cat.
"I hate all of you."
Whitaker looked over at you like he was genuinely offended. "What did I do?!"
Across the hallway, Jack had just emerged from Room 8. Your eyes met his. He didn’t react beyond the faintest lift of one eyebrow, but you could tell he'd heard every word.
You tipped your head slightly towards the supply closet. Jack looked at you for half a beat, then gave the smallest nod.
You waited a couple minutes before moving.
The supply closet was narrow, overstocked, and smelled faintly of antiseptic and cardboard. You shut the door behind you and leaned against a shelf, exhaling slowly for what felt like the first time in an hour.
A few minutes later, the handle turned. Jack stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind him. He leaned back against the opposite shelf, folding his arms loosely across his chest as the two of you studied eachother.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“So… that’s your ex.”
“That’s my ex.”
He nodded. "You left out a few details."
"Such as?"
His gaze dropped briefly, then returned to your face.
“Well first of all I wasn’t expecting Mark Sloan.”
Your brows lifted in surprise. “You know who he is?”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“Of course you have.” You paused for a moment before your voice dropped slightly, unable to hide the insecurity in your tone. "Do you think less of me because I dated someone like him?"
Jack's brows knitted together. "Absolutely not." He said immediately. "It's just that I wasn't expecting your ex to be..."
Your brow furrowed. “Be what?”
“…old.” Was what Jack settled on.
You let out a disbelieving laugh. “He’s not old, he’s like your age.”
“Exactly.” Jack nodded. “I'm practically from the stone age compared to you.”
“You’re not.” You insisted.
Jack’s mouth twitched, but the smile didn’t quite hold as he looked down at the floor.
You studied him for a moment, admiring the lines etched deep into his face that you’d had memorised for as long as you’d known him. “Does it bother you that he’s older?”
“No it doesn’t bother me it’s just...” He sighed. “I thought I was the exception.” He confessed.
Your face softened instantly as you pushed off the wall and took a step towards him.
"Jack."
"I know it’s irrational.” He said, giving a small, self-deprecating shrug. “I just thought I was the first older doctor you’d made questionable life choices over.”
You huffed a small laugh as you closed the gap between the two of you, reaching up to cradle his jaw.
“Hey.” You said gently, guiding his eyes up to meet yours.
“When I met Mark I was young and overwhelmed and had just moved to a new city and he was…” You trailed off, glancing at the door like Mark might somehow materialise on cue.
“…well you’ve seen what he’s like.”
You brushed a thumb over his stubble that lined his jaw. “It barely even qualified as a relationship. And then it ended and we worked together for months. And then I moved.”
Jack leant into your touch slightly, his eyes never leaving your face as you spoke, attentive in the way that always made your heart ache a little.
“And then on my first day here I met a grumpy doctor up on the roof while I was mid meltdown.”
His brows drew together in feigned disbelief. “I don’t think he was grumpy.”
“He told me if I was thinking of jumping I shouldn’t because it’d be a shame to ruin a face like mine.”
The frown that had a hold on his face loosened just a fraction. “Why on earth would he think that line would work.”
“In his defence, I think he was a little out of practice.”
His hands settled at your waist, warm and steady through the thin fabric of your scrubs. “Or his brain short circuited when he saw you.”
Your smile widened as you slid your arms around the back of his neck, entwining your fingers absentmindedly around the silver curls at the nape of his neck.
“Well, lucky for him it worked.”
The reluctant smile finally reached his eyes. “Very lucky.” He corrected.
He glanced down, playing with the tie of your scrub pants.
“I just can’t believe you dated a plastic surgeon.”
You snorted softly. “Is that seriously what’s bothering you the most?”
“Yes.” He answered plainly.
You shook your head, a wry smile on your lips. “Not the stupid nickname?”
Jack glanced down at you, his grip on your hips tightening ever so slightly.
“If he calls you that again I may have no choice but to punch him.” He conceded casually as he brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.
His head tilted slightly as he studied you for a moment. “But at least he can fix his own nose up after.”
You let out a laugh, running a hand over his chest. “Don’t worry.” You soothed. “I already told him you volunteer with the SWAT team.”
Jack smirked down at you proudly. “Atta girl.”
Then he leant down and finally pressed his lips to yours in a slow, reverent kiss. When he pulled back, his eyes narrowed immediately.
“Did you eat?”
You winced slightly. “Not yet.” You patted the pocket that contained the protein bar. “I’ll eat this and then go.”
Jack frowned, clearly unsatisfied with your solution. “Go home and eat something more substantial.”
“I will.”
“There’s pasta in the fridge for you, all you have to do is chuck it in the microwave.”
Your interest piqued immediately. “The pesto one I love?”
“Of course.”
You grinned, pressing your forehead against his. “You’re very good to me Dr Abbot.”
His smile softened into something private, something reserved just for you. “Anything for my girl.”
You kissed him again, deeper this time, enjoying the feeling of his warmth seeping into you.
“Alright.” He muttered reluctantly against your lips as he pulled away. “Get going before I end up locking you in here.”
You smirked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
He shot you a warning glare with absolutely no bite to it.
You huffed dramatically, “alright alright.”
You reached for the door, then paused, glancing back at him.
“And for the record, if you’re worried about feeling old…”
Jack raised a brow.
“You should meet my other ex, he checked into the nursing home down the road last week.”
“Very funny.” He muttered, trying but failing to look unamused.
“I know I am.”
“Go.” He urged as he tapped your backside affectionately.
You raised your hands in mock defeat, slipping back into the pitt without another word.
Jack shook his head as the door shut softly behind you, a lovesick smile spreading across his face.
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