I reblogged this yesterday, but I want to reblog it again. Diabetic ketoacidosis turns your blood acidic and will essentially burn you from the inside out.
The stories you hear of people dying from rationing, this is what happens to their body.
Affordable insulin isn’t just a right, it’s a necessity.
No one should have to die like that when it’s preventable with access to proper medication.
"Affordable" should be the lowest fucking bar. Pharmaceutical companies should be tripping over themselves to offer insulin at "affordable". That shit deserves to be fucking free
*doom music starts to play*
I actually kindof like scheduling these kinds of appointments now...
but seriously Fellas, don't forget to schedule a pap smear every couple of years just in case. If you still have a cervix you can still get cervical cancer. ilu
tags | angst, abusive relationships, reader is married to another man, religious guilt, infidelity, oral sex male receiving, face fucking, smut, a little derogatory, 18+ MDNI
ch. 6 | ao3 | masterlist
──────────────
The door is too loud when you close it behind you, wincing when the floorboards creak under you, toeing your shoes off to place them at the entrance like they were there the whole night.
Like you weren’t two orgasms in and too many kisses to account for from a man that wasn’t your husband.
Your husband’s there, on the couch, some show blaring on the TV that you hate. You pause behind the couch, eyes trained on the back of his head, the shape of something you’ve grown to despise. You try to steady your breath, grasp onto any control before it shifts entirely, but you sound louder than the TV speakers.
You cross the distance, counting each step you take like a ticking time bomb. One. Two. Three. You turn to face him, prepare for the look of disgust he must wear. Prepare for the way your world is about to crumble underneath you.
Except when you lift your eyes, he’s dead asleep, passed out from drinks at the pub, and a twisted part in you wants to laugh. An ugly maniacal cackle, one that will make you keel over and make it hard to breathe.
You think it’s the only time this God has looked out for you. The only time you’ve believed in fate.
It becomes a routine every week after that, laid out on the butcher block like you’re the raw poultry Simon slices into.
You feel like you are.
He rakes his eyes down your frame, slowly, calculated like he’s thinking of every reference point to press his knife into your flesh. Drags his knuckles over your throat so he can feel you gulp, count how many breaths you manage to wheeze between your lungs. Digs his fingers into your breasts and presses his palm against your heartbeat like he’s measuring your pulse and imagining all the blood thrashing under your skin. Strokes your ribs with feather-light touches, counting each one down to the fat of your hips.
That's when he really grips, dimpling your flesh and watching as it gives under his fingertips. He does the same to your thighs, reverence only a butcher could have for warm flesh and fat. And when he parts your legs, he takes his time, like he’s committed to touching every part of your body, split you in two, and make you bleed.
You should hate it. A sacrificial lamb on the altar. But you don’t. Can’t really when it’s the first time anyone’s looked at you, all your sins and broken promises pushed aside, stripped you bare until all that was left was your bleeding layers, heartbeat, and quivering lungs that barely fill with air.
And he never asks for more, gives you his tongue and fingers without having to ask. Eats you out like you are a feast to be had, lingering between your folds like you are delectable. Two, three orgasms before your clit is so swollen and throbbing and you have to push weakly at his shoulders to stop.
He always comes back up with a smirk, lips and chin glimmering with your slick. Makes you taste it too, kissing you breathless like you weren’t already dizzy. Sends you home with a dazed smile on your lips, knees wobbly, thighs raw from hid stubble, and a pussy so drenched from his torment.
You use your mother as an excuse for your late-night returns, and it works, by some metric. Your husband believes it too.
It’s enough. It should be enough. It’s not. Not when you come home wanting more. Gluttony is a sin, but isn’t infidelity?
It takes weeks of coming home and hiding in your closet, burying your face into his coat, and imagining the taste of his cock before you act on it. Pressing your fingers to your tongue and picturing the weight of him in your mouth. You haven’t even seen it, just felt it through the seams of his jeans when he grinds it against the back of your thigh.
And it feels big. God, does it feel big.
You’re sure it drives you crazy more than it does him to be tightly confined, throbbing and leaking for attention. You think you want it more than he does because he doesn’t even touch it, doesn’t even palm himself when he’s got your thighs on either side of his cheeks.
Disciplined and controlled just for your pleasure. He even pauses when you finally work up the courage to ask, an expression on his face you can’t read because you can never quite read him. You think you overstepped your boundaries when you fall to your knees and he just walks away without a word, dragging a chair, so the legs scrape loudly against the floor.
You gulp when he sits and spreads his thighs wide before patting his lap twice.
“Come ‘ere.”
It’s unfair the way the sentence, the command, goes straight between your legs. And for some awful reason, you crawl your way over. Knees and palms hitting the concrete floor as you inch closer.
You should feel like the predator in this situation, stalking your prey with hunter eyes, except you feel like much less. An animal trapped in a cage, crawling towards the danger instead of running away in fear like you should. Towards the danger that wants to eat you whole, the danger that’s so fucking big that his thighs dwarf your shoulders with eyes so heavy as he watches you.
Possessive. Covetous. You’re not his to be had.
You look up at him through your lashes, lips parted as you glide your palms up the inside of his thighs. He cups your jaw, thumb running along your bottom lip as his face turns nasty when he sees silver glimmer on your finger.
“Take tha’ fuckin’ ring off if yer gonna suck my cock.”
You move so quickly your knuckles hit his balls and he grits his teeth, fingers tensing at your jaw. You stammer out an apology, face warming as you rush to stuff your ring in your pocket. It’s the first time he’s sounded jealous about it, and not just amused by the fact that your husband’s not meeting your needs.
He pushes his thumb into your mouth a little angry, stamping down onto your tongue until your mouth opens wide. He unbuttons his jeans with his other hand, pushes his boxers down just enough to free his already hard cock.
He’s big. Awfully big.
It’s the first thing you thought when you initially saw him and it rings true down to the girth of his cock. Thick and fat and veiny and red and so fucking big it makes your mouth water. Curly tufts of blonde hair peek through the base and something in your gut almost makes you groan at the sight. It’s a little ugly, and a little crooked, but you like that. It’s him.
You hate doing this for your husband, all you can taste is disgust when he has you on your knees, but Simon, Simon has you salivating like a dog, crawling across the floor like his pet, eager to be sat on your heels with a promise of something more.
And you must be taking a long time, sitting there staring wide-eyed at his angry tip because his hand curls around your hair and tugs you forward lightly. He tilts his head expectantly, jutting his chin up and then down as a silent command to go on.
He guides you forward with the thumb in your mouth, hooking in your cheek, and pulling you until your lips brush the tip, replacing it with his cock instead.
You breathe on it first, panting softly to catch your breath, and you haven’t even had it in the back of your throat yet. You’re hesitant, despite how badly you wanted this, licking from base to tip before swirling around the fattened tip. Your lips follow, dragging along slowly as your ring-free hand wraps around the base, pressed against his blonde pubes.
Your restraint slips away when a bead of precum dribbles from his tip and you catch it with your tongue. You moan as you taste it, salty and a little bitter, but all Simon. It ignites something hot and searing in your core, animalistic pride or maybe it’s possession that this is Simon’s cock on your tongue, his hands in your hair and digging into your chin.
Your lips wrap around him then, sliding just slightly past the tip. His grip tightens in your hair at that, but his face remains still, a silent tell. It’s a tight fit, lips spread wide around his girth so much so that it stings, but you push further. Until you can’t anymore and your throat starts to constrict.
You come back up for air, and he tsks like he’s disappointed you didn’t take him whole.
You try again, tears welling in your lash line as you take him deeper, and you attempt to bob back up, but his hand are quicker, pushing you deeper until his head notches against the back of your throat. You gag, nails digging crescents into the hair in his thighs, but he forces you down, somehow by some miracle, until your nose presses into the blonde hair.
It hurts, and you’re gurgling around him, saliva dripping down his length, but it’s not enough for him.
“Jesus, bird, jus’ gotta breathe through yer nose.”
He says it like it’s so easy, and you’re trying really, but his shaft is so heavy against your tongue, and you like it, god, you like how suffocating it feels to have him stuffed between your cheeks. Your eyes roll to the back of your skull, and you groan obscenely around him.
He chuffs a laugh, “You like tha’?”
You nod, brows pinched as you look pathetically up at him. He just blinks, a smirk on his face like he isn’t buried to the hilt in your mouth.
Then, he rolls his hips, once, and you scratch at his thighs, tears spilling onto your cheeks, but the sick part that takes over when you’re around Simon makes you moan again like your body likes having him there, that deep, pressing into places your husband hasn’t even touched.
When he finally releases you, you scramble for air, lungs filling so rapidly it burns. And you’re a little dizzy from the mixture of tasting him and the lack of oxygen. Then he starts talking and all you can do is press your thighs together weakly at the deep cadence.
“Act all innocent, don’t you? Whole time yer moanin’ while someone fucks yer mouth.”
He guides you down again, tongue gliding along, but he lifts you back up, repeating it once, twice, again and again, until there’s a steady rhythm of bobbing. He lets up on your head when you follow the pace he sets, coating him in so much of your saliva that it collects at the base of his cock and makes his hair wet.
It’s a mess, you’re a mess of tears and saliva, and a neglected pussy that’s throbbing around nothing, but he doesn’t understand. Doesn’t understand that you only like because it’s him. Because it’s his cock in your throat making it near impossible to breathe.
“Suck yer husband off like thi’?”
And his voice sounds so steady, no inflection to it like he isn’t getting his dick sucked. The sentence hurts, landing somewhere hard in your chest. A reminder. Something permanently burned into your skin like a scarlet letter.
He pulls you off, “Huh? Can’t hear you.”
The words scald even more because you don’t and he knows that, knows that this version of you is reserved just for him. And he wants to hear it, some form of jealousy twisted in his own chest. But you don’t even get the chance because he pulls you back down and your response is just a choked noise.
All you can do is shake your head, and he smiles, scars on his lips and cheeks straining at the tug.
“That’s my girl.”
He draws it out like he means it, patting your cheek twice, thumb pressing into your cheek to feel the curve of his cock in your mouth. Eyes dilated and heavy. And you feel that, tuck it into the cavity of your chest to chew on later.
It’s a few more pumps before he presses deep again, before he groans low and guttural, holding you tight, and finishes in your throat. You swallow it, as best you can, gulping it down, and taking it for your own as he stays put in your throat.
When he finally pulls out, he’s gone soft, and there’s a sticky amount of saliva and spunk beading from your lips and his tip. You lick it clean, greedy, and maybe a little filthy, but you can’t find it in yourself to care.
“That’s myyy girl.”
He says it again, a little breathless this time. Repeating it like he’s hammering it into your chest, so you don’t forget.
It’s the first time you’ve felt proud to be someone’s.
☆ SUMMARY: After a series of bad dates, mid-conversation ghostings and a week straight of rejections– you need some good ol’ fashioned fun. Unfortunately, you end up drunk-dialing your hot, older boss– the one you’ve been crushing on since starting your residency. For some reason, he picks up.
☆ CONTAINS: Younger, fem!reader, descriptions of throwing up (sorry emetophobes), medical inaccuracies, blood, mentions of gunshot wounds, a girl who can’t hold her liquor and is annoying while drunk!
☆AUTHORS NOTE: DING DING DING– we have a winner! In all honesty guys, this ended up getting way out of hand and longer than I initially wanted it to be– it always gets like that when I involve multiple characters. Hopefully you guys feel happy with the final result of your vote and enjoy this fic<333
☆ PAGE DIVIDERS BY: @sweetmelodygraphics
“Come on, it’s just one more drink!” you slur, holding your glass out of reach from Samira, who sends a helpless look back at the rest of the group.
“O-kay, I think you’ve had enough–” Dennis says nervously, reaching for your other side.
Trinity rolls her eyes, standing up from her seat as she starts tugging on your arm as well, while Victoria nervously glances around the bar, trying not to get kicked out because you’ve had too much to drink.
You stand up abruptly, faster than a drunk person should be able to move, which sends them tumbling into each other. Chugging down the rest of your drink, the dayshifters can only watch in horror as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand– a loopy grin forming on your face.
"Whadd’ya say this is called? Blue Lagoon? Get me anotha’ round of ‘em– for the ‘lot!” you exclaim, and Mel quickly shoots a glance at the bartender, shaking her head as she does a cutting motion with her hand.
“No, no– she- she doesn't mean that!”
“Yup, I defffinitely do– mmph!” A hand clamps over your mouth before you can continue bankrupting yourself at 10 PM on a Tuesday. Blinking, you’re met with Dennis’ sweaty face, a painful smile forced onto his face.
Of course, staying silent while a hand is physically blocking your mouth is only optional.
Licking his palm, you sigh in content when he finally lets go.
Dennis jerks his hand back, eyes widening in horror at the slick trail of saliva now streaked across it.
“Oh what the fu–”
“I wanna’ dance,” you garble, stumbling on your feet as you shake off the hands gripping your frame.
“Absolutely not,” Trinity snaps immediately, already bracing herself as you attempt a very ambitious spin that ends in you nearly concussing yourself and her.
You pout, swaying awkwardly as you roll your eyes dramatically.
“But I feel the music!” you exclaim, and do a…shimmy?
“There’s literally no music playing,” Victoria mutters quietly, shrugging when Samira shoves her shoulder lightly. “What? It’s true, I mean– it’s a Tuesday– who gets blackout drunk on a–”
“Well…she did say she’s been having a rough week at work,” Mel softly interrupts, a gentle frown on her face as she watches Trinity wrestle yet another drink you’ve magically gotten, out of your hands.
Victoria grows silent, a slight regretful look on her face.
Though whatever apology you might have gotten is long forgotten when you start doing the robot.
“There’s music in my bones– c’mon fruitcake, dance with me!” you holler, and Dennis sinks further into the wall, unable to watch anymore.
He needed to look away if he wanted to be able to give you a semblance of respect tomorrow.
Samira sighs, giving you a pitiful smile.
“New plan– how about we head home, honey?” she speaks as gently as she can, slowly lowering your flailing arms, trying to preserve some of your dignity.
“No!” you gasp like she was suggesting something criminal, “We just got here–”
“No, we just got here– you’ve been here since 7 PM,” Trinity mutters, already reaching for your bag.
You can feel her irritation, despite the overflow of alcohol in your system right now.
Suddenly– you halt– slumping back in your chair as your lower lip wobbles, pathetic sniffles escaping you.
A collective, panicked rambling ensues, trying to prevent a drunken disaster.
“Oh no–”
“Hey, come on– you’re fine!”
“We– we were just joking–” Samira rushes, immediately crouching in front of you, hands cupping your face as your expression crumples further.
Your eyes glass over, lashes clumping together as your breathing hitches– dramatic and shaky, a complete overreaction.
“No you weren’t,” you mumble while shaking your head adamantly, voice thick. “You guys hate me!”
“We do not hate you,” Trinity says quickly, crouching beside you now too, her usual bite completely gone. “You’re just like, really drunk,”
“And kind of embarrassing,” Victoria adds quickly, before shrugging helplessly at the glares she receives “...But like, in a cute way!” she amends weakly.
That does not help.
A sob wracks through your body, and Mel looks about three seconds away from getting an Uber home and spending the entire ride looking at lava lamps.
“I– I just–” you whimper, breath catching in your throat, “I’ve had a bad week–”
Dennis exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face before stepping closer. “Yeah, we know–”
You shake your head again, sniffing loudly.
“No– everyone keeps, like, leaving mid-conversation, or saying they’ll text and then not texting and– and I think this one guy blocked me before I even finished writing–” you babble, hiccuping in between words.
“Honey, that’s not on you,” Samira quickly responds, her patient satisfaction skills working overtime. “They’re idiots– you’re a total catch!”
Despite your tear streaked face and bloodshot eyes– with mascara running down your face and your sorry attempt of reapplying your lipstick smudged way past the lines of your lips– a soft, hopeful smile wobbles onto your face.
“Really?”
The four remaining dayshifters quickly perk up at the glare Samira, once again, sends them over her shoulder, a chorus of agreements suddenly being heard.
“Of course!”
“You’re, like, super smart too–”
“Y-yes, you’re a stunner!”
“Beautiful, honestly–”
You sniff, eyes darting between them like you’re trying to decide if they’re lying or telling the truth. Not that you would be able to tell anyways.
“…You’re not just saying that?” you ask, voice small, hesitant in a way that makes all of them soften instantly, despite the one man circus you’ve been running for the past few hours.
“Of course not!” Samira reassures, wiping the makeup smudging under your eyes. The rest of the group nods adamantly, Mel reaching for your bag, while Victoria grabbed your jacket, Trinity and Dennis already taking hold of each of your arms
You squirm out of their grip, stumbling on your feet.
“Okay…we can go, I just– I really need to pee…” you swallow thickly, wiping the snot from your nose.
Once they see the queasy look on your face and the drops of sweat forming on your forehead, they stop fussing– keeping you at arms length while they lead you towards the bathroom in the back.
“Are you sure you’re okay in there?” you hear Mel call out, though slightly muffled from the door you slammed shut in your hunt to find the nearest toilet to spill your guts into.
“Mmph– m’fine–” you manage to force out, before another wave of nausea washes over you, forcing your head back into the toilet bowl.
You hear the footsteps retreating over the sound of your heart beating in your ears, and end up slumping against the cool tile wall, sitting on the disgusting bathroom floor.
Groaning, you weakly tug on your phone that's currently digging into your hip– making the position even more uncomfortable than it already is.
You sink back against the cold porcelain, gaze unfocused when they land back on your phone.
Rubbing your bleary eyes, you grab it staring at the apparatus in your hands.
“Piece of crap, stupid assholes…” you snivel, angrily tapping on your screen as you scroll through the endless amounts of names in your contact list. “You–you’re all jerks!”
Your thumb keeps sliding across the screen, vision blurring every few seconds as fresh tears gather.
“Don’t need any of you,” you mumble stubbornly, hiccuping as your head thunks back against the toilet seat. “I have plenty of options,”
Your phone nearly slips from your grip before you fumble it back, squinting at the glowing names that refuse to stay still.
One contact catches your eye.
Jake.
One of your recent failures that spent the entirety of the date rambling about his failed career as an professional athlete, because of an injury he got in high school.
When you explained to him that a sprained finger doesn’t result in never being able to play soccer again, he– for some reason– got upset and stormed off, leaving you with the bill.
You suspect he did it on purpose.
“Tch…he had the nerve to tell me I’m boring? I- I’m a fucking doctor– I need to tell that piece of shit he’s the boring one, I’m not boring at all–” you mutter lowly, a sudden determination in your veins as you tap on the call button.
Bringing it to your ear, you listen to the ringback– and the call connects within seconds.
Oh. You didn’t think he’d actually pick up.
“Hello–”
“Pfft…don’t ‘hello’ me you…you boring asshole!” you slur, words sticking together as you try and sit up straighter against the wall.
“I think you have the wrong numb–”
“Oh yeah? Real mature Jake– I have the wrong number? I can’t believe you left me with the bill after I went with a salad and you ordered the fucking steak–”
“I think you should take another look at who you’re speaking to right now,” a gruff voice interrupts, and you falter for a moment.
Huh, you think to yourself, Jake’s voice managed to get a lot deeper in a week.
You scoff, struggling to keep yourself upright as you start sliding down the wall again.
“Geez, that sooooo scary– “
“I’m not Jake,” the voice huffs out, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was laughing at you.
You groan as you pull the phone from your ear, only doing it so that you can prove your point, before staring down at the called ID.
Jack Abbot.
“It literally says–” the words die on your tongue as you do a double take, bringing the phone back down from your ear and blinking at the screen
Jack Abbot–
You scramble to press the phone back to your ear, nearly dropping it in the process.
“I– Doctor Abbot?”
The line goes quiet for a few seconds, and in your drunken state of mind, you almost think he’s hung up on you. But then, you hear the sounds of sheets rustling on the other end, and a soft grunt as he speaks into the phone again.
“So, this Jake guy, huh? Seems like a real jerk,”
You sniffle softly slowly letting yourself sink down against the wall again.
“Yeah…he was,”
“You okay, kid?”
“M’fine, my head’s just pounding” you mutter slowly, before sighing– immediately bouncing to the next subject. “You know, you have it so much easier, Doctor Abbot–”
“Jack,” he reprimands softly, and you adjust promptly, scoffing into the speaker.
“Whatever, Jack– you– you have, like, women throwing themselves at you from every corner!”
“Where did you get that idea from?” Jack replies, voice low, rough with sleep but unmistakably amused.
“Uhm, hello– do we not work at the same hospital? I’ve seen the way people go– Oh yes handsome doctor man– please save me–“ you say, voice pitching up as you reenact an overdramatized interaction that Jack can’t recall ever having.
“And you’ve witnessed this happening?” his raspy voice crackles through the speaker and you subconsciously find yourself pressing yourself closer to the device, blinking sluggishly where you’re draped across the floor.
“I’m a victim of it, baby–” your voice comes through in a horrible southern accent, and Jack lets out a surprised laugh, which in turn makes you giggle as well, the sound echoing around the empty bathroom.
Jack Abbot is a fifty-year-old war veteran and amputee.
He’s been married once, then widowed. He’s been on the ledges of buildings, and pulled himself away from them– he’s lived an entire life keeping his guard up– only to have every wall he’s ever built torn down by his twenty-something-year-old, resident, currently in a drunken fit of giggles on the other end of his phone.
And he’s laughing with her.
At the realisation of how fucking stupid he should feel, his chuckles falter, eventually reaching an end, and the sound of your uneven breathing is all thats heard from the speaker of his phone, currently echoing in his otherwise empty room.
Jack knows better. He knows he should probably hang up, to let you get home and forget all about this– to see you at work tomorrow and pretend like you didn’t shake his whole world view with just one phone call.
“Christ– how much have you had tonight?” he finds himself asking instead, ignoring the way his stomach stirs at the sound of your heavy breaths.
There’s a small pause on the other end, before another one of your soft giggles breaks it.
“That's not important,” you mumble, words slow and syrupy, like they’re melting together.
Jack huffs quietly, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself.
“Somehow, I doubt that,”
“Mmm,” you hum, shifting slightly. There's the faint sound of fabric dragging against tile, a soft thud like your shoulder bumps the wall again before you sigh loudly. “This is so not helping my crush on you,”
Jack freezes where he’s sitting against his headboard– heart thudding so loudly in his chest he’s thankful you’re drunk– convinced you might have heard it otherwise.
“Alright, I think it’s time we–” he begins, only to be cut off by you.
“What, like you didn’t know? You’re like, the hottest man I’ve ever seen, I can barely even speak to you at work–”
Jack should not be feeling as smug as he is right now, sitting up straighter in bed at your words.
He needs to hear more.
“Yeah? Is..is that why you keep avoiding me? You think I’m hot?” he finds himself asking, swallowing thickly in his throat.
You snort, rolling your eyes at his words. In your intoxicated state of mind, his words don’t register as amused– just disbelieving, which you just can not have.
“Pfft, seriously? You’re acting like you don’t walk around practically beggin’ for it in that SWAT uniform,”
Jack laughs again, humming thoughtfully. “You’ve been thinking of me in my SWAT gear?”
“I love that stupid thing–”
A loud knock on the bathroom door interrupts your rambling, and you turn towards the noise sluggishly. Your phone drops to the floor just as the door opens, and Samira Mohan is the first to rush over at the sight of you sprawled over the bathroom floor.
“Holy shit– are you okay? Did you fall–”
“Wha– no, I just got tired…” you mumble, wriggling out of her hold on your shoulders. You let out a grunt, trying to reach your phone, but the dayshifters seem to have a different idea.
“Yeah, okay, time to go Frank Gallagher!” Trinity huffs, grabbing your arm as she and Victoria pull you to your feet. You lean your weight on them, motioning weakly towards your phone on the floor.
“Need…need my phone–” you mumble, arm flopping uselessly in its direction. “Wait– hold on, he’s still–”
“What?” Trinity frowns, following your half-hearted gesture before spotting it on the tile. “Oh, for fuck’s sake– huckleberry, grab her phone so we can go already!”
Dennis narrowly avoids your swaying figure, before he bends down and picks your phone up off the ground. As soon as he grabs it, the screen flickers on, revealing an ongoing call.
Dennis reads the name on the screen, before his face drops, a panicked look forming on it as his head snaps up towards the rest of the group.
Samira is the first to notice, pausing in her action of wiping the dried vomit from your chin.
“What?”
“I– uh–” he stutters, looking between the phone and you, who’s currently wrapping yourself around Trinity, koala style.
“Don’t – uh– fuckleberry, move!” Trinity snaps, trying to keep you upright as you sag further into her shoulder.
“No, I,” Dennis continues to look between the phone and you, then back again, his expression twisting into something between horror and disbelief. “She’s…on a call,”
“So?” Victoria mutters. “Hang it up!”
“I don’t think I can!” he half whispers- half yells back at them, before turning the screen so that they can read.
Trinity lets out a disbelieving laugh looking down at you with an impressed look on her face as she holds you firmer against her.
“Holy shit– you’ve got balls!”
Dennis pales even further, clearly the only one worried about his future career as a doctor, now that his friend, and he says that very lightly after tonight, has drunk dialed their boss.
As in, the night shift attending they so frequently bump into at work.
Snatching the phone, Samira promptly presses the mute button, before looking around the room.
“Fuck– what do we do? Do we hang up?”
“We can’t just hang up!” Victoria exclaims, eyes wide. “...Can we?”
“I don’t think that's a good idea– hasn’t he already heard us on the phone?” Mel chimes in, only to frantically wave her hands around at the way everyone seems to further panic. “Or maybe he hasn’t! I just– I mean, since he hasn’t hung up, maybe he’s just…waiting for confirmation that she’s okay?”
The room seems to still at that, the rest of the group letting out a collective exhale.
Samira nods, still holding the phone as far away from her as possible, like it's an explosive.
“Okay– yeah, I mean– that makes sense. We can do that. Just…go ahead!” she waves the phone, motioning for someone to grab it.
No one steps forwards.
“Come on guys, we need to say something,” she laughs awkwardly, smile faltering when nobody moves again. “...Guys?”
“Jesus fucking Christ– give it to me!” Trinity sneers, snatching the phone out of Samira’s grip, dumping you onto Dennis, who scrambles to catch you before you face plant onto the floor.
She takes a deep breath, glancing across the room before pressing the unmute button, clearing her throat.
“Doctor Abbot?”
You wake up in cold sweats, neck cramping from where it’s bent uncomfortably on the armrest of the couch.
The feeling of your head spinning as you try and sit up, causes you to clutch it– your stomach grumbling loudly. Your eyes adjust to the darkness of the room, and you quickly realize you're in Trinity and Dennis’ apartment. Below you, Samira is passed out on the floor, Victoria on the armchair next to the couch. Mel must have taken the first chance she could to go home.
Good for her, your mind echoes.
Blindly reaching beside you, you feel for your phone, wincing when the screen lights up and the time flashes.
05:36 AM
Great, at least now you could try and cure this hangover before work.
Pushing yourself off the couch, you almost fall flat on your face as you try and avoid stepping on your friend whose long limbs are stretched across the space between the coffee table and couch.
Finally, you manage to make it past without waking anyone, pressing on your temples as you feel your way towards the bathroom, blinking blearily when you turn the light on.
What greets you in the mirror is a horrid sight– you, but after a night out.
“Fuck me,” you mutter in disbelief, reaching up to touch your face.
Your hair was a tangled mess, looking more like a bird's nest than something you have on your head, your makeup– what was left of it– had been smudged across your face, like you’d taken your makeup bag and just shoved your face in there.
At least you didn’t feel nauseous, but the thought leads you to wonder over just how hard your friends had to work to get you home last night.
Tip-toeing into the kitchen, you take the first of many aspirins that day.
The five of you walk into the ER, each one clutching a bottle of gatorade in one hand, and an iced coffee in the other.
You’re sporting a pair of sunglasses, and Dennis’ eyes somehow look even more sunken in than usual.
Victoria’s hair is sticking out of the ponytail she lamely attempted to throw together, and Samira just looks unfairly put together– ready as ever to work.
Trinity is the last to walk in, shivering into the collar of her jacket she’s pulled up over her lower face.
Robby stands by the patient board, eyes quickly moving over his residents– before stopping as he realizes the state you’re all in.
“You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me,” he says, a wry cackle escaping him as his hands land on his hips, looking like a disappointed father.
You groan, shielding your already covered eyes from his glare.
“Please, Robby– I’ve already been verbally berated today,” you utter quietly, not trying to send Trinity into another fit of rage.
“Yeah, because you–” Trinity starts up again, only to be led towards the lockers by Dennis, her spew of insults fading away.
You dump your backpack under the desk, then slump over the counter, pressing the space between your eyebrows.
“Alright– is there anyone except Doctor Mohan that’s ready to work today?” Robby sighs, rubbing his forehead.
You glare weakly at him, straightening up.
“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” you say firmly, though the slight tremble in your chin makes him sigh again.
“You’re on triage,” he points directly at you, and you splutter, trying to plead your case.
“But–”
“No buts!” his tone sharpens, “When you walk in like some kind of hungover “Breakfast Club”, you don’t get to choose your cases, and since I have a pretty good idea of who the bad influence was– you’re in triage!” Robby interjects, before grabbing your bag and then your shoulder, steering you towards the lockers.
“Change your clothes, and if I hear that you’ve gone to the bathroom more than twice in an hour– you’re done for today– got it?” he gives you a menacing smile– then drops it immediately, walking back to start handoffs.
You huff, pulling your backpack over your shoulder as you make your way towards the lockers, grumbling under your breath as you tug your scrub top on over your t-shirt.
“I’m Michael Robinovitch– I’m the boss–” you mock, shoving your bag into the locker and slamming it shut with way more force than necessary.
When you turn back towards the entrance, a yelp escapes you at the sight of the nightshift attending, standing by the doorway.
“Shit– you scared me Doctor Abbot!” you say through nervous laughter, hoping he didn’t just hear you make fun of his oldest friend.
Jack, to his credit, reveals nothing.
Instead, he steps closer, toned arms crossing over his chest as his eyes roam your frame, studying you.
“How are you? Is your head feeling alright?”
Your eyebrows furrow in confusion– did you look that hungover?
“Uh, fine, thanks. How’s yours…?” you say awkwardly.
Since when did you and Jack Abbot ever make small talk like this?
“My head?” he repeats, a breathy laugh rumbling in his chest, “My head's fine,”
“Oh,” you blink, lips stretching into a thin-lipped smile as you nod. “That’s good,”
There's a beat of silence, before you shift on your feet, grabbing your zip up hoodie from the locker and clearing your throat.
“Well, I should probably…ya’ know…” you motion towards the door vaguely with your hand. Then, just as you start to step past him, his voice cuts in, low and casual.
“You good to work?”
You pause, before realizing Robby must’ve filled him in already on the state of the dayshiftters.
“Yeah!” you say quickly, then correct yourself. “ I mean, yes– we all just had a little too much fun last night,”
“I bet you did,” Jack muses, watching as the gears in your head work overtime trying to figure out what the hell was going on. He watches you for a second longer than necessary, before opening his own locker as he grabs his things.
“Well, don’t let me stop you– get to work,”
You nod, a little dazed and lingering for a moment, before shaking your head and walking into the ER, ready to start your shift.
“Have you talked to Abbot yet?”
Victoria Javadi walks into the breakroom as you’re downing your second aspirin of the day. Grimacing, you wash it down with some water, shaking your head.
“Doctor Abbot? Why would I do that?”
Victoria pauses halfway through opening the fridge, slowly turning to look at you.
“…Okay,” she says carefully.
“What?” you frown, giving her a suspicious look before you take another sip.
“Last night?” she asks, “You don’t remember what happened?”
Your face pales, heart dropping from your chest at her words– only the worst words to ever be uttered after a night out.
“What are you talking about?” you ask slowly, water bottle lowering from your face.
Before she can reply, Perlah peeks her head in through the doorway, glancing between the two of you with a regretful smile.
“Incoming traumas from the SWAT-team– we need all hands on board,”
The two of you nod, and she leaves just as fast as she arrived.
“You’re telling me everything after we’ve dealt with this,” you whisper as the two of you head out of the breakroom and back into the chaos of the ER.
“Somebody get me a clear view of this thing!” You call out, eyes narrowing as you try and see through the blood currently obscuring the wound.
A nurse moves in immediately, pressing down with fresh pads that immediately turn crimson. You lean in, jaw tightening as you finally catch a glimpse beneath the mess.
“Okay– gunshot wound, lower abdomen and looking…” you wait until they’ve flipped the patient slightly, before nodding “Penetrative– the bullet is still inside,” you confirm, glancing up at the loudly beeping screens.
“Vitals dropping!” someone calls out from behind you, a sigh escaping you.
“Someone get me Robby–” you say, hands moving fast as muscle memory takes over, despite the lingering headache from earlier.
“I’ll do you one better,” a gruff voice speaks up, and before you know it, Jack Abbot is by your side, dressed in his military green SWAT-uniform.
Tearing your gaze away, you gulp, focusing on the person in front of you instead.
“Talk to me,” Jack says, already gloved up, stepping in without hesitation.
“Penetrative gunshot wound to the lower abdomen,” you reply, voice steadier than you feel. “Vitals are unstable, possible internal bleeding,”
“Alright,” he nods, hands moving alongside yours, “We’ll assume the worst then, that he’s hemorrhaging internally– what’s your next step Doctor?"
“Uh,” you sigh, before shaking your head– realizing there’s no time to doubt yourself. “Somebody page surgery, and I want blood ready!”
“Good,” Jack nods, before his gloved hand lands on yours, readjusting your hold. “Pressure here,” he corrects softly, watching the way your eyes flicker across the area, assessing every possible outcome.
Your eyes land on the man currently on the table, gaze softening at the sight of his frightened look.
“Stay with me,” you mutter, giving him a weak smile as his vitals turn steady, “You’re going to be alright, you hear me?”
He gives you a long, acknowledging blink in return.
“OR’s ready,” Perlah informs, phone clutched to her ear.
You nod immediately, watching as they take over where you’re standing, moving the bed out of the trauma room and towards the elevators.
After taking a moment to decompress, you finally let out a quiet sigh, striping off your gown and gloves, and wiping the sweat off your temple.
“Good work with that patient,” Jack speaks up as you turn around to face him.
Without the adrenaline and distraction of trying to save a life, you can take in the full sight of him, dressed in that damn uniform.
“Thanks,” you say, the reply coming out a beat too late, than your usual quick remarks.
You keep your eyes on your hands, roughly rubbing hand sanitizer into them.
Jack steps closer, head dipping down to try and catch your averted gaze.
“I thought you said you liked seeing me in this uniform?”
You freeze at his words, brows knitting together as you search his face, trying to figure out how in the hell he could have known about that.
“You don’t remember?” His words cause a wave déjà vu, and before you know it, Victoria's words from earlier in the breakroom echo in your head.
Did you talk to Abbot?
Jack smirks at your panicked look, then takes a step back, moving towards the door.
“Alright then,” he chuckles, shaking his head as he walks backwards towards the exit, "Come find me when you do,"
With that, he leaves you alone to think about what the hell it was just happened.
“What the fuck happened last night?”
Your voice is sharp in the otherwise, finally calm, central station.
Samira pretends not to hear you, Victoria just laughs weakly– mumbling something about needing to run something past Robby.
Mel squirms uncomfortably, and you honestly don’t have the heart to interrogate her.
Dennis keeps his gaze on the computer at all costs, not even blinking.
Like a shark smelling blood, your eyes land on him.
“Whittaker,” you press, glare narrowing into slits.
“Dennis, you keep your mouth shut–” Trinity points her index finger at him, but you grab the back of his chair, turning it so that he’s facing you.
“Spill!”
“Don’t you dare–”
“You drunk dialed Abbot last night, and he told us that if we keep quiet about it he’d buy us breakfast for a month!”
Dennis finally bursts out, as a collective groan spreads around the area you’re all occupying.
“You had one job, huckleberry!” Trinity grumbles, head falling into her hands.
Samira massages the bridge of her nose, not even bothering to look at him.
“Pathetic,” she mutters quietly, and Dennis physically recoils into himself.
You find Jack Abbot– thankfully in his scrubs this time– standing in the ambulance bay, squinting at his phone screen.
Clearing your throat, you watch as he glances over his shoulder, only to turn fully when he sees that it’s you.
“Doctor Abbot,” you begin, a shameful look on your face.
“Doctor,” he counters, a half smile on his face as his hands lock behind his back. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Your smile tightens, and you try not to react to his smug, frankly provocative, expression.
“I’m here to talk about last night,” you exhale, trying to relax your stiff shoulders.
“Last night?” He repeats it like he’s testing the phrase on his tongue, brow lifting just slightly, “You’re going to have to be more specific.
“Doctor Abbot–” you squeeze your eyes shut, unable to look at him.
“Jack,” he reminds you and you’re about two seconds away from running in front of the next ambulance that pulls in.
“Jack,” you hiss, taking a deep breath, “If you’re going to hold this over my head, please just get it over with so I can get some peace of mind!”
“Why would I do that?” he asks, switching the weight between his feet as he looks down on you.
“What?” You blink, looking up at him. “Because, it’s the nice thing to do–”
“No, why would I hold it over your head?”
You physically bite your lip to stop yourself from crashing out on your boss.
“Because you’re like– angry with me or something? Isn’t that why you told my friends to not tell me what I did? Because you’re going to take me to HR or, probably even straight to Gloria herself–”
You can feel yourself spiraling anyways, words coming faster now, defensive and messy– like if you keep talking you can outrun the embarrassment doing its best to chase you down.
“And I get it,” you add quickly, “I mean, obviously I crossed a line, I was drunk, I was being unprofessional, and I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, I just– I don’t even remember what I said exactly but I’m assuming it was bad enough, and really can’t lose my job over–”
Jack chuckles, and the sound stops you mid sentence.
Did he just laugh in your fucking face?
Thankfully, he speaks up before you can open your mouth and jump to any conclusions.
“I’m not going to HR,” he begins, taking a step closer, “Or Gloria,” another step, “And I didn’t stay quiet because I was planning on using it against you either,”
He stops just an inch away from you, so close you can feel his warm breath fanning over your cheek.
Your eyes flicker across his face– from his hazel eyes, to the bridge of his nose, down to his moving lips and finally, back to his eyes again.
“I didn’t say anything, because I wanted you to know that when I finally asked you out,” his hand lands on your jaw, tilting your face up, “It wouldn’t be because of something you regret,”
You can’t find the words to respond, not after what he’s just revealed.
Jack takes your silence as rejection, and you can see the way his face crumbles as his hand drops from your face.
Impulsively, in the only way you know how to convey your feeling for him right now– you press yourself into his arms, crashing your lips onto his.
Jack freezes at the action.
Then, almost instinctively, his hands gript at your waist, tugging you closer. You can feel the way they wander along the expanse of your curves, grasping at whatever you’ll give him while you’re pressed against him like this.
The world fades away around you, all your senses tuned into his every touch and sound, desperately wanting– no– craving more.
Eventually, the need for air burns at your lungs, and only when it becomes unbearable, do you pull away– Jack still holding you close enough to press his forehead against yours, breaths mingling.
Your mind wanders as you collect yourself, remembering why you had hunted him down in the first place.
Watching the way his eyes slowly flicker open, your eyebrows furrow, a soft smile twitching on the edge of your lips.
“...Did you really try to bribe my friends?”
☆END NOTE: Is it really one of my fics if it doesn't end on a fuckass question? I am also extremely sleep deprived, so excuse any typos, I'll come back and edit in a few<33
I’m really nervous to ask this because I’m not sure I’ll want to know the answer, but have you used/do you plan to use generative AI in your games at all?
Thank you for being such a light for me in these dark times ❤️
Definitely not. We've always made our games without generative AI, before it even existed, and nothing has changed now that it does. There's no need or reason for us to use something like that.
PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD IF YOU HATE THE NEW UPDATE REBLOG THIS POST
[ PT; please for the love of god if you hate the new update reblog this post ]
I am organizing a lights out protest on tumblr, from March 20th 6AM UTC until March 21st 6AM UTC. It is best if as many tumblr users as possible can join this protest, as a mass downtime in users is the only way the tumblr staff will listen to us.
If you cherish this hellsite, participate. Do your bit. Every person counts.
Thank you for reading, and to @staff @changes: give us our tumblr back, or the people will migrate somewhere else. This is a threat.
tags | angst, abusive relationships, reader is married to another man, blood, murder of animals eventually, eventual smut, religious guilt, infidelity, references to noncon, darker than most concepts I write
Ch. 3 | masterlist | ao3
──────────────
You don’t go back—for a while, at least.
You make use of the chicken and beef you’ve had buried somewhere deep in your freezer that you should’ve thrown out weeks ago. Anything to prevent the way the thought of the butcher shop makes your heart race and pulse heavy in your ears.
Grilled chicken. Chicken and rice casserole. Lasagna. Stuffed bell peppers.
It’s enough to tide your husband over. Not enough to make you forget.
It doesn’t last nearly as long as it should.
You debate it. Biting your lips raw and crossing your arms behind your back, pacing in front of your empty fridge. You could go during the day, be greeted by the sweet gentleman you’ve grown to know at the butcher in the mornings. The one who doesn’t have blood on his apron or wear a scowl. The one you should’ve only ever known.
You don’t even visit the bunny in your backyard, afraid that the animal will make your chest twist and give you some sort of confidence again.
The risk of Simon being there is enough to make you walk past the shop entrance entirely. You settle on the local market down the street instead, tucking your purchases to the side when you walk past Simon’s again with a bag full of frozen meat. Hiding it from him as if he’ll see you buying from a different shop. Like you owe any sense of loyalty to him.
You don’t look through the glass when you walk by. Eyes straight, fingers tight. You don’t even go to the flower shop.
You make beef stew that night.
The beef doesn’t taste as good. It’s tough, takes you several bites of grinding your molars to eat a mouthful. You blame it on your cooking. You cooked it for too long or on a setting too high. You didn’t let it simmer enough in your crockpot or didn’t season it right.
Maybe it’s all in your head.
Your husband eats it with a grimace on his face, nose scrunched up as his teeth stab through the meat. His hair’s still well-kempt, gelled down to the side. Tie hanging off the back of the chair along with his blazer. You wonder if he’s finally had enough respect to straighten himself out before he came home to you or if he just didn’t see someone else in his office today.
You don’t go to his office. He doesn’t invite you. You don’t want to be.
You’re not allowed to see that world. He goes to work events all on his own. You watch him peel off from the driveway on those rare occasions, left wondering if any of them even know he has a wife at home. If he’s too embarrassed to even confess he’s married to someone like you.
You try to watch him eat, watch the way his lips form around his fork or the pink color of his tongue, force yourself to feel something other than disgust when the juice collects at the corners of his lips.
“Tastes like shit.” He grunts. You’re not even surprised.
“I got the meat from the market.”
“The hell did ya do that for?” He scoffs, food falling from his mouth.
“I was already there, so it was easier.” You have to look away from him to stop yourself from gagging.
“Well don’t do it again.”
You nod, gulping down the bile at your throat. He doesn’t know he’s pushing you closer to the beast.
That night when your face is buried in the sheets and your husband’s grunting above you; you imagine Simon instead.
When morning comes, you grant your husbands wish, and walk the familiar path to Simon’s. It’s early enough you know he won’t be there, sun barely shining through the clouds. Still, when you arrive, you peer through the window, searching for his shaved head just in case.
You don’t know why you feel disappointed when you see a head full of hair.
You give the beef stew a second try. A devotion to cook Simon’s meat better than the markets.
That night, your husband’s not happy when he comes home, slamming the door, and kicking his shoes off. You stay silent, straightening your back, and prepare yourself, turning around with the same tight lip smile.
“Went to the butcher today. Made the beef stew just the way you like it.”
His eyes slit. “Why the hell would you cook me the same dinner?”
You pause where you stand, holding a warm bowl of stew between your palms.
“Well, I thought I was doing something you would like.”
His hand flings forward, smacking the bowl out of your hands. The hot liquid spills down your hands and splatters across your clothes. The glass bowl breaks, shards shattering on the floor, as you gasp from the burn.
“You don’t know shit.”
He stands up, grunting under his breath that he’s going to find dinner somewhere else.
You don’t let yourself cry, not when you have to run cold water over your hands, not while you’re on your hands and knees picking up the pieces of glass, not when you have to scrub the floor, not when you’re left to eat dinner alone.
Your hands don’t even shake when you wash your clothes, steady and focused. Determined for the first time in days.
Your legs take you to the entrance of the butcher shop before you’ve even had time to think or put your clothes in the dryer. Puffing clouds of air with stinging cheeks and ears. You didn’t even put on a coat.
You see him through the fogged glass, big and brute.
He looks up when you walk in.
“Hi.” You whisper.
The corner of his lips curves.
“Hi. How’s your forehead?”
“It’s okay.”
“No concussion?” He jokes.
You shake your head, “Barely a bruise.”
“Glad to hear. What did you need?”
“Nothing.” You say, digging through your bag. “I brought you something.”
He tilts his head.
“I cooked dinner for my husband, but he didn’t want it and well,” You avoid eye contact, placing the container on the counter. “I thought I would pay you back for dealing with my accident the other day.”
There’s a brief pause of silence; it makes your skin crawl, looking up to ramble some more, hoping it doesn’t sound as horrid as it does.
“You brought me the dinner you made for your husband?”
You look at him shocked, lips parting, “Well, that's not how I meant it. I don’t know why I thought that was a good idea—“
You reach for it, but he beats you to it, snatching it from the countertops before you even get a chance.
“I want it.” He doesn’t give you room to disagree.
You just nod, let him lead you to the back again. This time you stand against the steel table. This time there’s no head injury.
“Don’t you get cold in here?”
He chuckles, “Does the princess need a sweater?”
“No,” You ignore the name. “You only ever wear a t-shirt.”
“You don’t have a sweater on either.” He points to your chest.
“Forgot it.”
He raises his brow, but he doesn’t comment on it more.
“Got enough muscle to warm me up.”
You inhale.
“Yeah.”
You look away when his lips curl into a smirk.
“Never had a customer cook me my own meat.” He opens the container, steam rising from the top despite the cold walk over.
“Probably never had a customer smack their head on that glass.”
“Never that.”
You watch him put it to his lips, bare hands and all. You should look away.
You don’t.
It should disgust you, the way he dips his fingers into the broth.
It doesn’t.
You think about your husband, for a split second. You couldn’t even fathom staring at him for more than a few seconds without repulsion curling acidicly in your throat. And yet, you can’t look away from Simon.
He eats like a dog, messy and greedy, groaning around each bite like it’s the best thing he’s ever had. Crooked canines tearing through each piece of meat almost savagely.
A man starved.
It drops down his fingers and chin. Just like it had when you were alone. You swallow around the desire building in your mouth. It’s like you can almost taste him, licking your lips for remnants you might’ve missed.
Your palms are sweaty, despite how cold it is. Flesh practically scorching when he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks. You stare wide-eyed and unblinking as he pulls them out with a wet smack.
When he finally looks at you, his eyes are heavy.
You almost forget to breath.
Don’t you know you’re not supposed to feed strays?
tags | angst, abusive relationships, reader is married to another man, blood, murder of animals eventually, eventual smut, religious guilt, infidelity, darker than most concepts I write
Ch. 2 | masterlist | ao3
──────────────
“Hello?”
You stare like a deer caught in headlights.
“Cat got your tongue, bird?”
It’s smug. God, it’s so smug. Like he knows the thoughts you were having just knocked your worlds axis off.
The words come tumbling out before you can stop them.
“I have a husband.”
You don’t know why you say it as if you’re blaming him for your body’s reaction. Finding any dignity you have left and pretending to be a faithful wife to a man who doesn’t deserve it.
He arches his brow, tilting his head with a crooked smirk, “Doesn’t matter to me.”
Your fingers curl around the edges of your coat. Your face stings, burnt with an uncontrollable embarrassment. Maybe it’s your flesh bursting into flames for such indecent thoughts.
“Right. I don’t. I don’t know why I said that.”
He snorts, horribly amused by you, so you rush your next words.
“I need a thick cut.”
His smirk dips wolfishly. “I bet you do, darlin.”
“That’s not-“ It comes out louder than you intended. “Not like that!”
Your hand swings forward in shock, knocking a container of business cards on the rim over. He’s quick, catching the silver tin before it completely falls, business cards spilling all over the floor. You blurt apologies out, bending down in haste to pick them up off the tiled floor.
It all happens so fast, blinded by sheer mortification, you smack your head hard against the glass on your way down. Your hands fly to your forehead, losing your balance, and falling back on your butt with a groan.
Simon rounds the corner quickly, squatting by your side.
“Jesus, bird.”
Your vision blacks and your head spins, squeezing your eyes shut as tears well in your lashes. He helps you stand, hoisting your arm over his shoulder, and walking you through the backroom doors.
You should push him away, tell him you’re fine, but you don’t. The pulsing in your head hurts and you probably wouldn’t be able to stand without him. So, you ignore how big his hand is at your side, fingers spread over your ribcage. Ignore that he could crack them in two if he wanted. Ignore how easy it is for him to lift you onto a countertop.
You wince when he presses something cold to your head.
“Jus’ stay right ‘ere. I’ll be back.”
You nod, holding the ice pack when his hand drops. It takes you longer than it should to realize it’s not an ice pack, but a prepackaged slab of frozen meat.
You would laugh if it didn’t hurt you. Would snort if the humiliation wasn’t so heavy against your chest it wasn’t make it hard to breathe. The steel countertop he’s sat you on is cold. The air is even colder. It nips your skin, stings your lungs, and still it does nothing to numb the burning sensation of humiliation.
You look up when he enters again.
There’s a glimmer in his eyes that makes your thighs tense. “Ya can’t take a joke?”
“Just wasn’t expecting it.” You mumble, ducking your head.
He snorts.
“You didn’t have a regular ice pack?” You ask.
“Most people would say ‘Thank you for savin’ me.” He crosses his arms over his chest.
You have to keep your eyes steady, stop them from dipping lower, and indulging in the curve of his biceps.
“Thank you.”
He steps forward. You go rigid.
“Lemme see.”
You let the meat fall, keeping your eyes down. His fingers slip under your chin, bending your head towards him. You inhale through your nose when he does, keeping your mouth shut to keep from quivering.
It almost scares you the way you don’t care if he washed his hands or not. The way his shoulders are so broad he almost blocks any outside light. The way it all makes your mouth feel too dry.
“Gonna leave a welt.” He runs a thumb over the spot, makes your eyes flutter. “Hope your husband won’t be mad.”
You gulp—more than he knows.
“He won’t care.” It’s quiet.
His eyes flick to yours, examining just for a moment before it evaporates and he steps back, clearing his throat.
It’s sign enough for the two of you to walk back to the front, get what you originally came here for.
“‘s on the house.” He points to your forehead, “Meat on your forehead too.”
Your lips part to protest, but you meet his eyes, stern and heavy, and concede.
The walk home seems longer than the walk there. The meat is heavy in your hands, fingers numb pressed to the frozen meat. And still, the silver metal of your wedding ring and the cross on your neck burn where they lay.
Your husband’s car is gone when you get there. Chicken Gnocchi fully gone.
You shove the meat in the freezer with a sigh when he texts he won’t be back til late.
──────────────
You don’t eat meat— usually.
Haven’t for a while. On the rare occasion, sure.
You cook it for your husband and that’s about it.
The hunger doesn’t manifest itself until the weekend finishes. Blooms in your chest when your husband leaves for work and you’re left alone in your home. Images of bloody gloves and red meat at the forefront of your mind.
You ignore it, the best you can, distracting yourself with daily tasks. Dusting the same shelves you do every week. Sweeping the floor that only you and your husband walk on. Folding and hanging laundry that’ll be wrinkled from other women’s fingers.
You don’t cook meat that night.
You had hoped it would go away, the distant memory of thick fingers and a crooked smile would dissipate if you forced yourself to forget.
It doesn’t.
Still, you bleach the counters like it’ll wash away the torment in your mind. Scrub the floorboards as if it’ll clean away the memory.
You manage two more days.
Feeding the bunny does it. It starts as another way to busy yourself, offering the innocent thing more vegetables. You haven’t seen it since your husband scared it away, but you leave a pile in front of the bush anyway. Resting a few steps away to watch, just in case.
It sneaks out a few moments later, cautiously crawling out of the bush. It sniffs the contents carefully, nose twitching and whiskers moving with each curious inhale.
When it looks up at you, you freeze, holding your breath so as not to scare it away. Your lips twitch, pulling upwards when it continues to eat despite your presence.
You don’t push your luck further.
Instead, you return to your kitchen, pacing in front of the stainless steel fridge, lip caught between your anxious teeth. You walk away once. Returning seconds later when you picture the bunny, braver than you are.
A single breath is all you allow before it’s rushed, all of it, throwing the frozen meat into the sink like it’s burnt your fingertips. The time it takes to thaw feels endless, torture, legs bouncing where you sit and wait. You try to busy yourself, but all you manage is to bite your cheeks raw and wear away at the skin between your brows.
An hour and a half goes by of staring, gripping the edge of your porcelain sink until your fingers cramped before you check, submerging your hands in the water to feel. It’s not done, not thoroughly, but if you wait any longer you’ll change your mind.
You take the meat out of the plastic. Steak. That you were supposed to cook for your husband. But now it’s taken on a whole other meaning that you can’t control.
You season liberally, covering it in salts and herbs. Quickly throw it onto your cast-iron skillet. You should have waited until it completely thawed, given it time to marinate in the seasoning, but you’ve been putting it off for days and it's culminated into this feverish itch that you can’t ignore for a second longer.
It’s not the way Simon would’ve wanted you to cook it, you think. You cut it like he did, at least, because the sick part in the chest enjoyed that part the most. Slowly, meaningfully, slicing the meat perfectly. Parting each slice with two fingers, swallowing around the saliva forming in your mouth when the steak weeps.
The myoglobin reminds you of his apron, his gloves, his knife, stained red. You don’t even make it to the table; you take a bite then and there. Steak still hot, juice dripping down your chin sinfully.
It gets all over your fingers, covering you wedding ring. Spills down your wrists and your neck. Running along your cross necklace and staining your top.
You moan with each bite, images of Simon and dirty gloves bending you over his chopping block.
i genuinely encourage non black people to engage with this, who might be worried they can't because of the word "nigga" because they feel like it's overstepping. the only way it would be overstepping is saying it to me when ur not black, but please don't be afraid to engage with black art.
i kinda get annoyed when non black people police other non blacks on how to engage with black culture because it creates a problem where non black people avoid us all together which can be extremely isolating and create even MORE tension and overall being uneducated.
The other night husband and I were watching a documentary about the yeti where they were doing DNA analysis of samples of supposed yeti fur, and every one of them came back as bears.
Anyway, the next night we watched a thing about some pig man who is supposed to live in Vermont. People said it had claws and a pig nose but walked upright like a man. Now, I happen to know that sideshows used to shave bears and present them as pig men. So every piece of evidence they gave of this monster sounds to me like a bear with mange.
So now the running joke in our house is that everything is bears. Aliens? Bears. Loch Ness monster? Bear. Every cryptozoological mystery is just a very crafty bear.
Bears. They’re everywhere. Be wary. Anyone or anything could be a bear.
As the OP of this post, I’m going to threaten that if this gets to one million notes by the 10 year anniversary on 1 June 2026, one year from today, I will get a lower back tattoo of the loch ness bear monster.
“Alex, the burger from table 7 was supposed to have tomato and lettuce on the side.”
“Would it really kill ‘em to just take it off the bun themselves?”
Apparently not, as you’re sliding the untouched plate back to him. Alex rolls his eyes, chewing on a toothpick tucked between his lips. His mustache quirks to the side as his expression sits sour, but you’re all too used to his attitude during busy shifts.
You hear the door to the kitchen squeak open, the familiar timbre of Gaz’s voice sounding out as he mumbles out a firm “behind you.” You scoot forward to accommodate as he whisks an armful of plates to the sink to be washed, where Phil waits with an unamused expression. Watching the two of them interact was always akin to two cats who hated each other, always snarling and growling.
“Yeah I’ll be sure to wash these, princess,” Phil grumbles, making Gaz snicker when he sets down the last of the dishes. As he passes you to leave the kitchen, Gaz gives you a knowing smirk.
“Your regular is here, by the way.”
Your regular? As in..?
Following Gaz out the door, you take a peak at the last booth in your section and see him: John-fucking-Price. He’s here way earlier than he usually visits, and you’re unfortunately in that mid-rush-hour frenzy that leaves you looking like you were raised by feral dogs. Menu in his hands (as if he even needs it), you can tell that he just walked in.
And he looks fucking exquisite, too. His hair is messier than usual, and looks slightly damp. Fuck, he’s even in his park ranger uniform - he must’ve just gotten off of work. With no one obviously in need of your assistance, you suppose that now is a better time than ever to approach him.
“Hey John,” you hum, putting on that sugary-sweet smile. Your hands dart for the yellow notepad you keep tucked in your apron - anything to keep yourself occupied and from fiddling with your fingers like some kind of nervous schoolgirl. John looks up at you, smiles, and that’s when it hits you.
… Why the fuck does the whole room smell like fish?
In The Year of Our Lord, 2025, you never thought that ‘getting the ick’ was as real and as much of a kneejerk reaction as people insisted it to be. But right now? Shit, you think you just shivered down to your fucking bones.
The worst part, perhaps, is how you try to rationalize it within the 1 second that it takes for John to reply to you. He’s a park ranger, maybe he had to catch or handle some fish for work? Maybe it was his lunch? Maybe someone from another table ordered something entirely rank and disgusting? Maybe, just maybe, Alex is playing the biggest prank on you ever by deploying a whole can of Whoop-Ass right at your table?
However, considering how John’s eyes don’t seem to be watering quite like yours, you’re inclined to believe that it’s all him. And, while you want to say that that’s enough to squash the crush you’ve had on him for forever now, the pooling pit of shame and embarrassment in your stomach tells you that it would likely take a lot more to deter your desperate ass.
“Hey honey. Busy tonight?”
“No.” You speak without thinking. It is in the middle of rush hour. The few seats left available are the high-top chairs that everyone hates to sit in. Not necessarily indicative of a calm night, but you suppose that if John really cared, he would’ve come to that conclusion himself.
Is his beard wet, too? What the fuck was he doing?
John’s facial hair quirks up when he smiles. Some flecks of grey catch the yellow overhead lighting and shimmer slightly, but all it really does is tell you that you might have a thing for older men.
“Uhm- unsweet tea, then?”
He gives an affirmative nod, and you take great comfort in avoiding eye contact to stare at the notepad in your hand. Before you go to ask if he’s ready to order, he beats you to the punch.
“And my usual, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“Oh, it never is,” You reply quickly, the smile on your face too trained and too obviously muscle memory. You never thought a smile could be so unapproachable, but the faux joy you wear like cheap perfume each evening is enough to make any customer ascertain that you’d rather be doing fuck-all.
Frankly, you’re just glad that he didn’t order the kitchen’s whole supply like he did the other night. You’re not sure you can prepare yourself to carry all those plates back into the kitchen again.
You jot down John’s normal order, a hefty stack of pancakes, three eggs (scrambled), and a heap of bacon. He always asks for the bacon not to be crispy. Why? You’re not sure. The idea of limp, greasy bacon doesn’t necessarily appeal to the senses in your brain that tell you it looks a little too close to raw. But John eats it, so it must be okay, you suppose.
You’re also becoming increasingly certain that maybe he has no sense of taste OR smell. There’s no way he doesn’t notice the briny, fishy scent. There’s. No. Way.
After telling John that his order will be right out, you make your way to the back to leave it with Phil and Alex. And there they are, perched at the stoves like some gossipping school girls with Gaz of all people. Looks like he made his way back to the kitchen before you had.
“I'm telling you, mate, that Mister Price must ‘ave fallen into a spawning pool or somethin’. Smells right rank.” Of course, Gaz is talking about John. You almost feel a swell of burning within your chest and cheeks, like you need to defend him from petty kitchen gossip. You pin John's ticket to the line, fully knowing that neither cook is at their station to receive it. No, they're more occupied with Gaz.
“I mean, he's a ranger. That's kinda what they do, right?” Alex tilts his head, an amused grin sitting on his face. His arms are crossed, almost skeptically. Gaz shakes his head.
“Nah, man! I'm mates with one of the other rangers that works with him - Si never comes around smelling like a week-old seafood boil.”
“Jesus Christ, Kyle. Don't make me picture that,” Phil tuts.
Finally, you intercept by clearing your throat. The three men look your way, wide-eyed like they know they've been caught snooping in the cookie jar. Your brows furrow, giving each of them a disappointed glare.
“Can you guys finish this conversation another time? Maybe during closing? I'm looking at 3 separate orders on the line right now and no cooks starting on them.”
They get moving.
You return to John's table not long after, only to see that both of the previously-occupied booths next to him have since been vacated. The tips left by each check look sparse, but you try not to think about that.
“Here you go, John. Nice and fresh for you.”
John gives you a smile that his whole beard follows. If it weren't for the smell radiating off of him, it'd be your chest fluttering in response instead of your stomach.
“Thanks, honey. As always.”
It's not hard to return the smile. You rarely get customers as respectful as him, and even rarer do you have ones that tip so well. Speaking of, you can't help but remember the tip he left you during his last visit to the diner. One hundred percent is enough of a tip for a regular meal, but ordering the whole menu? You're sure his bank - or Mister Shepherd - gave him hell for that kind of hit to his wallet.
“Y'know,” you say after a moment. You're hardly even thinking about it, moreso concentrating on trying not to wretch. “That was really nice, what you did the other night. You sure you meant to leave that big of a tip?”
John pauses, mouth partially agape as he holds a fork full of scrambled eggs to his lips. After a moment, he shrugs.
“I came in right before closing and made you run around like a chicken with its head cut off. You deserved it, honey. Least I could do.”
Fuck. You wish you could kiss him on the mouth (after he hoses himself down, of course). That couple hundred sitting in your bank account is gonna make your next grocery trip a full restock kind of day. Maybe you can splurge and buy yourself some of that lotion you've been eyeing in the drugstore. God knows you need something nice once in a while.
“Well- uh-” It’s not often that you find yourself stuttering like this while on the job. “I really appreciated it. Still do. That kind of made my whole night.” You can hardly fathom how easily he just forked over all that money. If you had to guess, a park ranger probably doesn’t make enough to eat out consistently AND leave such large tips. Whatever well John pulls from must be pretty deep. And yet, he chooses to spend it on a random waitress.
It’s at that moment that you hear the jingle of the door, only to catch another table taking their leave. The diner seems like the rush is coming to an end. At least, for now. You’ve got a few tables to bus and clean, but otherwise, everything seems peaceful. Just peaceful enough - you think - to sit with John and chat with him. It’s not the first time you’ve used your spare time to conversate with him. At this point, your nose is becoming used to the pungent smell of fish, too.
John looks up at you, half-hunched over his own plate of food, when you slide into the booth. He’s dragging forkfuls of food to his mouth with little regard for manners; it’s funnily both hurried and sluggish, like he’s trying to eat everything before he falls asleep.
“So… I was visiting the library earlier today. Haven’t been there in a while.”
“Mmh. Like it there. Y’find anything you like?” One of his eyebrows raises curiously. You think about telling John about the book you found - the very one with his name written inside. Maybe he’d find it funny or endearing, thinking about how you were both interested in the same book. But then again, he might find it creepy and assume you went looking for something of the sort. Which… isn’t entirely wrong. You did go to the library to find something to impress him, but not necessarily to find a book that he’s overly-attached to. That part just… fell into your open palms, is all.
Opting to play it safe, you feign ignorance. “Oh- you like the library too? I’ve been looking for some book recommendations,” you reply, giving John an earnest smile.
“I don’t think you’d like my favorite books much. They’re pretty boring, honey.”
“Oh yeah? What’s so boring about your favorite books?”
“S’ all wilderness stuff. Animals and tracking n’ hunting. Can’t say I’ve met many girls like you who’re into that kind of stuff.”
“Well… having someone to talk about it with would definitely make it less boring, I think. And who knows? Maybe you could teach me something?”
Are you laying it on too thick? Is it obvious that you’re flirting? Those are the thoughts permeating your addled brain as you rest your chin on your hand, your smile turning softer. John tilts his chin up just a bit, looking at you directly. His expression is remarkably hard to read, but you can’t help but feel like he’s somehow hypervigilant of every emotion skipping across your face like stones on water.
He waits. After a moment, John lets out a small, thoughtful hum. Then, just as he opens his mouth, you hear it:
“Is someone gonna clean these damn tables?”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Mister Shepherd. You swallow thickly, eyes squeezing shut just as that small moment disappears between you both. Without another word, you slide out from the booth, a sigh leaving your lips.
“Sorry, sir. I’m on it.”
John watches you go - watches you dart in and out of the back, empty dishes in hand, and clean the place up. Something sticks to him like a fly in a glue trap, continuously buzzing just enough to catch his attention. Maybe he’s a bit too tired tonight and he’s mistaken, but that seemed to be quite a pleasant conversation shared between you. Not like you’ve never had one before, but this time it’s different.
He’s not going to naively pretend like the whole dinner rush ended early for any reason other than his smell. Maybe John’s big, hulking, thousand-pound bear could be excused for smelling like a spawning pool, but as a human? He’s astounding that you weren’t running for the hills. Astounded, and… impressed. It’s sticking with John how much you always want to socialize with him, even when he’s not necessarily in the sweetest of moods. No matter how weird he smells or how aloof he acts, you always feed him with a smile.
Something akin to a lightbulb fizzes to life in John’s brain. It’s like finding the key to an old, locked door. A stark realization that something has changed, that there’s a new route to take if he just chooses to step through.
Maybe you’re not as different to him as he always thought.
Before John leaves that night, he writes some book recommendations for you on a napkin and leaves it beside his check and a wad of cash.
a/n: sorry this took so long to get out lol the ao3 author curse reached across platforms and got me. this was the last pre-written chapter i had for this fic, so the next one might take longer just because i haven't even started it yet. anyways, i hope you like this sillier chapter :3
Ok the US Attorney General says that she will remove ICE if MN drops all our sanctuary laws, complies with ICE, hands over all our SNAP, Medicaid and voter rolls. They demand control over our voter registration so they can "ensure free and fair elections".
They want to control our elections.
I am dead serious people call your representatives. Get volunteering. Get protesting. Get LOUD.
They released a letter full of straight up lies. Spread the truth. MAKE NOISE.
