“I could give a potato a heartbeat with enough epinephrine,” Jack mutters under his breath. He’d kept a vial in his IFAK and a few pre-dosed autoinjectors strapped to the front of his vest back when he was in the shit, because when the right moment called for it, the stuff did fucking wonders.
It must come out a little louder than he’d planned, because the corners of Dr. Robinavitch’s mouth twitch down like he’s trying to suppress a laugh, bright eyes dancing behind the lenses of his glasses as he surreptitiously glances at Jack. A quick flick of an eyebrow is the only other sign his comment was overheard; Dr. Robinavitch carries on speaking without a misstep, and Jack is struck, suddenly, with the urge to ruin this man’s composure.
Jack takes the scenic route to becoming an MD, enrolling in medical school after a tragic accident brings his career in the Army to an abrupt end after twenty years in the service. Robby isn’t looking for a relationship, let alone one with a student, but when Jack propositions him after listening to him give a guest lecture, he never says anything about dating.
They both end up finding more than they bargained for in each other.
wot a weekend. bros talking about shitting in drawers. govball. affairs. knicks in 4? 2 day headache. conor oberst. watching all of baby reindeer in 1 sitting. spit takes. etc etc
i love it when im rereading a story and i find these little breadcrumbs of foreshadowing the author left. everytime im like “ohoho!!!! i wouldve gotten that before if i had the big picture!!! and now i do!!! delightful!!!” and idk i just love being able to read the same story twice but have two different experiences. i like when a story has so many layers that it can keep you entertained for a long time as you unravel all its secret nooks and crannies. thats a good story.
tagged by @meriwetherwrites for fuck it friday but that was yesterday, so, uh,
…suck it saturday?
“Can’t exactly kill a corpse any more dead.” Raylan shrugs, then gestures carelessly. The bourbon in his glass sloshes up and over the side, spilling out and dripping onto his fingers. “I always thought it’d make me feel better, but…” he trails off, mouth flattening into a firm line before he tilts his head back to slug the rest of his drink.
“Anyone ever tell you, don’t waste an 89 cent bullet on a 29 cent asshole?” Tim asks, eyes flicking down to follow the flex of Raylan’s throat as he swallows. “If you really wanted, though, we could go down to the morgue and give it the old college try.”
Raylan sucks on his teeth, staring at the empty glass in his hand for a long moment. “Desecratin’ is beneath me, I think.”
Tim licks his lips, and figures what the hell. “You want something else beneath you instead?”
if you are reading this and want to share anything you’re working on, consider yourself tagged
Reporter, what the fuck was that? Serpentine, shell, serpentine. You know, the movie The In-laws. Peter Falk tells Alan Arkin, "Always run in a serpentine fashion." I was running evasively. The next time we come under fire, run in a straight line. You'll live longer.
every day of my goddamn life i am haunted by the metamorphosis of baby kyle dubas and twinky little princess william nylander on the marlies to how now willy just looks like? That? like do you think kyle is okay. do you think he has any blood left in his brain. how does he function.
anyway my point is that twunk needs to absolutely fuck that nerd UP.
willykyle snippet that probably won't turn into a full fic because i don't want to jinx my willy-to-the-pens agenda. but i said id try posting more fic fragments instead of letting them languish in the notes app so pls enjoy 🫡
"And of course, Pennsylvania state income tax being what it is - "
"Yeah," William says, a smug slow grin spreading across his face. "Talk dirty to me, babe."
Kyle rolls his eyes and reaches down to nudge the corners of his three-page printout back into a neat stack. He had a whole fifteen-point plan for how he wanted this conversation to go, but of course William had other ideas. "Hardy har."
William shrugs his tanned shoulders. They're toned and bare. He's the kind of guy to show up to a business meeting in an artfully tattered wife beater.
Well, he is now. Kyle still remembers him at nineteen, eager and mostly dressed in team sweats all the time, still growing into his body, not yet grown into his style. He'd been sweet then, and hungry, and he'd smiled at Kyle like -
Like he's still smiling at him now. With a secret joke behind it that only William gets to know, that he never shares with you, never lets you in on.
He arches a smooth blonde eyebrow. "Well, you're here to seduce me, aren't you?"
Kyle clears his throat, and shifts in his seat in the dark leather booth. He'd picked this place because it's private, the booths tall and close, less likely to have them seen by Toronto insiders who can leak to the press that William Nylander was spotted taking an off-season meeting with the GM of the Pittsburgh Penguins.
But, of course, they've also been here before, years ago, and sat in this same booth, and William had looked at him across this same table and told Kyle casually, I think you should come back to my place.
So, all right, maybe this reads as a ploy on Kyle's part, an appeal to the old way they were, which is sleazy and completely unprofessional and not at all what Kyle was intending by inviting William here.
Unless, the conniving bastard that lives in the back of Kyle's brain says, in a rough and merry old voice that sounds a little like his grandfather, unless it works.
Kyle's career has taught him a lot of things, and one of the main ones is that sometimes you have to put down the stats sheet and the nice-guy-in-glasses act and just follow that nasty ruthless little voice instead.
"Well," Kyle clears his throat. "Well, is it working?"
Willy laughs, loud and bright and happy. He picks up the glass in front of him and downs the rest of his beer.
