JVL
EXPECTATIONS
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he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
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Cosmic Funnies
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Misplaced Lens Cap
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@bunnifawn
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Current works!
୧ Tony Stark x Fem!reader ୨
SugarDaddy! Tony Texts
୧ Jack Abbot x Fem!reader ୨
Resident!reader x Abbot Smau
୧ Emery Walsh x Fem!reader ୨
Girlfriends!
୧ Baran Al-Hashimi x Fem!reader ୨
Mommy Shimi
୧ Cassie Mckay x Fem!reader ୨
Mommy Mckay
These are just the recent ones I have started! I haven't posted them yet, but I plan to start posting more soon and creating a bigger masterlist!
Missing Dada hours...
she is truly the most beautiful girl in the world ૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა
the concept of being baran al-hashimi’s young girlfriend who breaks through her professional side.
seeing double
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!
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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.
"No." McKay shook her head.
"Yes."
“You don’t seriously think….” Whitaker trailed off.
“Oh I do” Santos nodded. “I really do.”
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.
As always always always, feedback is always appreciated because I thrive off praise. Please give it back here and consider tipping me! 🤍
older bf!jack abbot who can’t keep his hands off of you..
content warning: smut - breast play, like, all breast play. jack calling reader ‘sweetheart, baby, angel’, dom!jack, jack being obsessed with your breasts.
a/n: not proofread! giving y’all something while i work on my prompt requests!
masterlist
jack abbot always had a particular love for your breasts and you never knew why.
he could happily spend hours on end alternating between kneading them in his rough hands and sucking your nipples into his wet mouth, tracing them teasingly with his tongue.
he bought various different bras in different colours and designs simply because he loves to see them ‘all dolled up’. it made you embarrassed at times. your cheeks would flush a soft pink as you lay out in front of him, his eyes locked onto your chest exclusively. “they’re so beautiful, sweetheart. they’re looking so pretty in their lace.” he cooed, groping them tenderly over the fabric.
“j- jack.” you flushed, hiding your bright face behind your hands. “what, baby? i’m admiring you.” he stated, pressing a soft kiss to your lips before turning his attention to your breasts.
instead of undoing the clasp, he opted to pull the cups down and let them spill free. jack groaned at the sight he’d seen a million times yet would never get tired of. “i’m gonna give them the attention they deserve.” he promised before leaning down to suckle on your right breast, squeezing the other with his free hand.
you whined, hands reaching to grasp at the greying hair on his head. “j- jack, fuck.” you gasped. this was a familiar game you both played. jack sucking on your tits, pleasuring himself more than you, and you getting lulled into a steady stream of bliss.
you could feel jacks smile growing on you as you yawned. “sleepy, huh?” he murmured, pulling off your swollen nipple to meet your eyes. you shook your head, rubbing your eyes with a fist. “‘s okay, angel. you can sleep. i’ve gotcha.” he reassured softly. this is always how it went. you hummed groggily, nestling into the sheets as jack resumed his place on your chest.
Wife!Baran Al-Hashimi sending you selfie updates whenever she's away from you ✧*。♡
does your husband know?
Michael Robinavitch x Reader
and does your husband know the way that the sunshine gleams from your wedding band does he know the way? does he know the way of the crickets that would convince me to call it a night does he does he know the way i worship our love? – headfirst slide into cooperstown on a bad bet, fall out boy
summary: PTMC is hosting their annual fundraising gala, an event you're required to attend despite your objections. Also in attendance is your ex-fling, Dr. Michael Robinavitch, who takes the opportunity to try and rekindle the long extinguished flame. The problem? You're both married.
tags/warnings: MDNI 18+, cheating (Robby and reader are both married to other people), unprotected piv sex, creampie, oral (f receiving), spanking, light degradation, breeding kink, orgasm denial, cockwarming, light hair pulling, light choking, age gap (reader is an attending, but still younger than Robby), reader calls him michael, religious discussion (reader talks about christianity, sorry y'all this one is a little self-indulgent), toxic!robby, but also therapized!robby?
wc: 9.3k
a/n: this would not leave my brain and I had to get it out. To be clear, I do not condone cheating in real life!!! but there is something so delicious about the forbidden nature of it, of the secrecy and illicit yearning. Please do not read if that makes you uncomfy, I totally understand!! I also added the songs I listened to while writing this to a playlist if anyone is interested :)
The first time you met Dr. Michael Robinavitch you were a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed first year pediatrics resident beginning your emergency medicine rotation. He wasn’t the chief of the department back then–no, Adamson was still alive and kicking, instilling his paternal wisdom to all who worked under him and keeping Robby’s head on straight.
Robby was lighter then, not carefree, per se, but less burdened by grief and trauma. You were quickly enamored with the man, his warm demeanor and soft eyes drawing you under his spell. For your part you tried to play it cool, shyly avoiding eye contact and stumbling over your words when you had to present to him.
Robby was less subtle. It started with lingering looks filled with a fondness no one else was able to pull out of him; extra words of encouragement (“did so good in that trauma, hon,” and “nice pickup, smart girl,”); unnecessary (but welcome) touches on your shoulders, arms, nape of your neck, the small of your back.
It didn’t take long for him to take you home, to have you sprawled across his bed naked. Your legs thrown over his shoulders as he fucked into you, thighs slapping hard against your ass as he pistoned his cock into you over and over. And it didn’t stop there; you spent most nights folded into various positions under him, on your knees, or on top of him. The sex was incredible, obviously. Robby was nearly two decades older than you and had been fucking for all of them. His experience was vast and he never failed to make you see stars, whether by his cock, mouth, fingers, or an unholy combination of the three.
You never defined your arrangement. You’d heard about his reputation, about his tendency to stick around just long enough to get someone hooked before cutting ties and getting the hell out of dodge. You were prepared for that, and maybe a tiny part of you thought you might be different.
And it was casual, for the most part. Except when you started calling him Michael instead of Robby, like it was a secret only the two of you shared. And for the key he’d given you to his apartment, for you to use when he wasn’t around because he knew how much you loved his shower and in-unit laundry. Or the trips you’d take up to his cabin, where he’d make you dinner after a day spent in the lake, hair still damp as you sipped the expensive whiskey he kept there. Or the time he’d taken you to his college buddy’s wedding, introduced you as his girlfriend, masquerading as the perfect boyfriend all night. Other than that, though–totally casual.
But things got bad when Adamson died. Michael was devastated, that much was clear, though he didn’t exactly open up to you about it. He faded into a dimmer version of himself, a sunken husk of his former self just going through the motions to survive.
You kept seeing each other, for a while, but it was different. You were now a purely sexual pursuit, the informal little dates and trips to his cabin abandoned for quick fucks in the on call room. The sex was now a means to an end more than a communal experience. It was detached, void of the exhilarating high you shared before. He rarely invited you over to his place anymore, and when he did, he didn’t stick around, the sheets beside you long cold by the time you woke up.
Eventually, Michael did what he’d done to dozens of men and women before you. He pushed you away, not meanly–you knew what he was like when he was mean, had enjoyed it, even, at times–but with indifference. He stopped asking you to come over, stopped the flirting between cases, stopped calling you down for consults just to see your face. Soon enough you were just another co-worker, and he’d moved on to his next flavor.
It hurt, of course it did. Even though you never defined your relationship as anything more than casual sex, you cared about him. Tried to support him through this time the best you could, the best he would allow you before he started lashing out. Had given far more of yourself to him than anyone else. Maybe you loved him. Maybe you thought you could fix him. Maybe it was some secret third thing that you’re still not sure how to articulate.
You continued like that for a while, acting like two strangers who hadn’t seen the most intimate parts of each other, cordial to onlookers despite the taut tightrope you felt like you were walking every time you spoke to him.
That is, until Pittfest, when he’d shown up on your doorstep, sad brown eyes begging you to make him forget, if only for a few hours. You obliged, leading him by the hand to your bedroom. You let him take you apart, use you however he saw fit. He spread you over his lap and spanked your ass until it was hot, then spent hours between your legs, devouring your cunt until he was dripping with your juices and your thighs were rubbed raw from his beard. His cock plundered your tight walls thrust after thrust, hot ropes of his cum painting your insides, your heated ass an hour later; your pretty tits the next morning.
Then acted like nothing happened the next day.
That was a wake-up call that he wasn’t coming back. So you moved on. Met a nice guy–an accountant–who treated you well, took you on vacations, talked about the future with you, in a way that made it clear he saw you in his. After being together for a year, he proposed, and you’ve been married now for 6 months.
And Michael had too. He found himself a nice woman, closer to his age, and settled down, put a ring on her finger and bought her a house. You didn’t know much about her, but from all accounts she seemed like a lovely woman. You were happy for him, really, you were. There was absolutely no pit of rancid jealousy pooling low in your stomach. Not at all.
This history rushes through you as you catch sight of him at PTMC’s annual fundraising gala, an event you were required to attend if you wanted any chance to upgrade some of the more expensive, 10-year old equipment in your department. You’d tried to get out of it–not just because you were likely to see Michael in a non-work setting, but because you’d never been one for schmoozing; it just wasn’t your bag. You wished these people would donate out of the goodness of their hearts, not because the hospital promised to dedicate a wing to them.
You hadn’t been able to completely avoid Michael these past few years, you did work at the same hospital after all. You’d seen him somewhat regularly, though far less than you did when you were a resident. As an attending, you weren’t often tasked with answering consults in the ED–residents usually took the brunt of the workload. You stayed upstairs most of the time, only wandering down to the Pitt to oversee the more complex cases, which you were thankful for.
It’d been about four months since your last interaction. You’d just gotten back from your honeymoon, a trip to Paris that was supposed to be romantic, idyllic. And it was, at least to everyone on the outside looking in.
You made your way down to the ED, Dana directing you to the physician assigned to the case, which happened to be Michael. He was different, less restrained when he spoke to you. He looked you in the eye–a courtesy you hadn’t been afforded in some time–he joked, put his hand on the small of your back as he maneuvered you away from an incoming gurney. He was flirting. Not in a crass way, not in a way that anyone else, really, would notice. But you did. Because you knew him, knew how frosty you’d become to one another over the years.
You stuttered your way through, thrown off by Michael's change in demeanor. You approved the transfer to peds and his plan of treatment before quickly excusing yourself, heart racing–not because you didn’t like this side of Michael, but because you did.
The exchange sat heavy on your tongue that night as you sat across the table for your husband, the lovely dinner he’d prepared tasting acrid in your mouth. You’d never mentioned your relationship with Michael to your husband–not because it was a secret, but because it seemed too complicated to explain in the beginning, and eventually enough time passed that bringing it up now felt awkward. It was unnecessary to tear open the wound when it had already scabbed over. Why upset the peace now?
Which is why your stomach clenched as he approached the punch table you were stationed at, where you were scoping out the gala from afar. He looked good, really good. It wasn’t often that you saw him dressed up; he much preferred his scrubs and cargo pants to starched slacks and fitted shirts. Tonight he was styled in a perfectly tailored black suit, crisp white dress shirt underneath, and a silky black tie nestled against his neck. The soft swell of his tummy was sinful under his suit jacket. His hair wasn’t styled, exactly, but it was wrangled into something more kempt than his usual mussed look, and his beard was neatly trimmed, the graying strands more pronounced than they were years ago.
He came to a stop about a foot away from you, close enough that you could smell the spicy, woody scent of his cologne; the same cologne he’d been wearing for years. The one that permeated the sweaters you’d borrow; that lingered on your sheets after he spent the night; the one that mingled with his sweat and musk as he hovered over you, taking you again and again and again.
“Fancy seeing you here,” he smiled, and it looked so much like the one he used to flash you back then; the one reserved for you and you alone. A pang of sadness zipped through you for a brief moment before you collected yourself.
Shaking yourself of your haze, you rolled your eyes, “this is a mandated event for all attendings,” you reminded him, arms wrapping tight around yourself as if it would provide any sort of defense, “you knew I’d be here.”
“Yeah, doesn’t mean you’re any less of a sight for sore eyes,” he leaned forward to whisper in your ear, over the din of chatter. It’s not close enough to be indecent, but it is close enough to make your heart stutter. He was laying it on thick tonight.
“That’s an awful nice thing to say to someone you’ve been avoiding for the better part of two years,” you said, perhaps a bit pettily.
He takes that in stride, jaw shifting side to side as he considers his next move. He settles on, “Where’s the husband?”
You took a deep breath. The last thing you wanted was to engage in small talk with Robby. You didn’t want to talk about the husband, the wife; didn’t want to re-expose the wound you’d worked so hard to heal. But you didn’t want to make a scene, either, so you answered politely, “He couldn’t make it. Had a fishing trip planned with his buddies, couldn’t miss it.”
“Ah, what a shame, I was looking forward to meeting him,” he said with a smug look on his face, disappointment nowhere to be found.
“Another time,” you said noncommittally, “what about your wife?”
“She had a… prior engagement,” he said vaguely, not attempting to go into anymore detail. He cleared his throat, his confident composure flickering for a moment, “Listen, I was hoping maybe we could talk tonight. Privately. I wanted to… I just, I want,” he sighed, hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck, “I just wanted to talk to you tonight.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mic-” you coughed, quickly correcting yourself, “Robby.”
“My name is still Michael, you know. You can say it without retching," he said coyly, smirk hidden behind his whiskey glass.
You shook your head, “I think I’ll stick with Robby. That’s the version of you I get now.”
“You can have whatever version of me you want, sweetheart,” he muttered into his glass, quiet enough that you wouldn’t have heard it if he wasn’t standing so close. The pet name set your body aflame, blood boiling at how familiar he was acting. You moved to walk away, but he stopped you, hand reaching out to your arm, cupping your elbow and thumbing over the soft skin at the juncture. His hand was heavy, the warmth of his skin radiating through your body, the rough texture achingly familiar. This was getting out of hand, and fast.
“Please, I just… I have some things I want to get off my chest,” he said, “Been wanting to talk since I saw you at work a couple months ago. Before that, too, if I’m honest.”
You shook your head again and took a step back from him, creating some much needed distance. “Look Robby, I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but… we’ve both moved on, right? I mean, what’s your goal here?” you asked.
He blew out a puff of air, expression slightly exasperated, “What if I want to be friends?”
You scoffed, “I don’t want to be your friend, Robby,” you said, shaking your head, “I don’t know how to be,” your throat was tight, unwelcome tears gathering fast. You tried to blink them away, didn’t want him to see the effect he was having on you.
“I’m happy now, okay?” you said, hoping it sounded genuine. He looked wounded, those big cow eyes of his soft and sad. You reached for his arm, giving it a gentle squeeze as you continued, “I hope you are too.”
Your head is spinning as you turn away from Robby, but you don’t get a second to catch your breath before you’re swept into a conversation with Gloria and a handful of donors. You smile and make nice, talk about the important work you’re doing in peds, the lives you’re saving, how you could save more if you greedy assholes would just donate your networth without having us do this whole song and dance.
You’re pulled into conversation after conversation, a hellish waltz choreographed without your permission. You’re dizzy by the time you’re able to extricate yourself, slipping out of the ballroom and down the corridor looking for a brief moment of respite.
Peeking into rooms as you pass by, you finally come to a stop outside of a library. Not a Beauty and the Beast type, but a modest room filled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that are just the right amount of dusty. You step inside, looking around nervously as if some talking candelabra is going to jump out and scold you for snooping.
Leather-bound classics stand out to you as your fingers flit over the various titles, Wuthering Heights, Frankenstein, Little Women, and, ah, Pri-
“First edition Pride and Prejudice, these people must be loaded,” Michael said, startling a yelp out of you.
“Sorry, honey, didn’t mean to scare you,” his hand settled heavily on the curve of your waist, the warmth of it seeping through the satin of your dress. He’s close–how did he get so close?
“Michael…” you warned.
“What was your favorite quote from the movie again?” he ignored you, hand kneading your flesh over your dress.
He inched closer, body pressing solidly against your back, “you have bewitched me, body and soul,” he recites huskily, drawing your earlobe into his mouth and biting down. You gasp, the sensation zinging through you and straight to your core. He descends on you, then, placing hot kisses along the column of your neck, sucking at the flesh with the slightest pressure–he knows he can’t mark you up. Not yet.
Your knees are weak. You need to stop him, have to tell him no, but your body is a traitor, betraying you at the most inopportune time. Your eyelids flutter closed, your hands finding purchase on the shelf in front of you and gripping hard. Tiny mewls and whimpers escape your lips involuntarily, Michael’s lips finding your sweet spots like he’d never forgotten them.
“missed those pretty sounds, baby,” he whispered, and you’re abruptly broken out of your reverie, sense coming back to you in shameful waves.
You turn around, your face all but pressed against his broad chest. He’s got you caged in, one arm leaning against the bookcase next to your head and the other still anchored to your hip. His eyes are dark now, and he’s got the look. The look that says he wants you, and he’s not going to stop until he has you. The look that has been your downfall time after time over the past 6 years.
“What are you doing, Robby?” you asked, bracing your hands against his chest, trying to create some semblance of distance. “You have a wife. A good one, from what I hear. You want to throw that all away?”
“I’m not sure I’d be throwing much away,” he murmured, a solemn look on his face.
You shook your head, scoffing, “fine, so you want me to throw everything away?”
He looks at you, hand snaking from your waist up to your shoulder, grazing the swell of your breast lightly on the way. His hand settles at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, fingers resting against the side of your throat. “I just think,” he said, fingers squeezing lightly, “that you’re not nearly as happy as you want everyone to believe you are.”
“And what gives you any right to make that assumption about me? About my marriage?” you asked breathily, your brain already gone fuzzy from the slight pressure he’s applied to your throat.
He shrugs, “I think that you’ve curated this picture perfect marriage that makes everyone fawn over you, that looks good on mortgage applications and Christmas cards, but it doesn’t really matter, does it?” he asks, hand releasing your throat and cupping the nape of your neck. He tilts your head up, the angle achingly familiar. His lips are so close you can almost feel the roughness of them against yours. Almost.
“You might be able to hide it from everyone else, but I know what you look like when you’re happy; when you’re satisfied,” he said, arrogance wafting off him in waves, “There’s no fire; no spark. I mean, does he even know how to fuck you right?”
You laugh incredulously, not really wanting to get into this with him right now. “We have perfectly good sex, Michael.”
“See? That, right there. Not ‘mindblowing’, ‘incredible’, or ‘passionate.’ You didn’t even call it ‘making love’ which, while cliche, would have at least been romantic. You said ‘perfectly good,’” he shook his head in disappointment. “Really, sweetheart, that’s what you’re settling for?” There was that signature Robinavitch condescension laced throughout his words, and you hated that you were getting wet because of it.
“You have me all figured out, do you?”
“Kind of, yeah,” he said, no arrogance this time–just honesty. “Because I’m in the same boat,” he looks at you, his big brown eyes filled with too much sincerity, and something else harder to place; something more resigned.
“I think we can have a good time,” he continued, “We always have before.” That, at least, was honest. No grand promises of leaving his wife, you leaving your husband, and running away together.
“Yeah, is that what friends do?” you asked breathily.
His head dips down to nose along the edge of your jaw, “c’mon, when’s the last time you were fucked properly, honey? Hm?” You gasp as he slots his leg between your thighs, knee pressing up against your cunt.
“Michael, we can’t,” you huff out, willing your hips not to grind against the firm muscle. “Someone could come in…” you mutter weakly. You choose not to interrogate why you’re more concerned about someone wandering in and less about infidelity.
His hands grab at your waist, shucking your dress up and guiding you back and forth over his thigh. A moan keens out of you, the pressure exquisite against your clit, “when’s the last time someone fucked every last thought out of your pretty little head, left you fuzzy and gooey after bein’ fucked so dumb?” he asked, and you could smell the whiskey he’d been nursing all night on his breath–the way the rich, smoky scent tangled with his natural musk was intoxicating.
Your head lolled back against the bookcase, hips moving against him without resistance now, his big hands keeping your pace steady–not letting you think about it too much.
“Does he know that you like your ass slapped raw, that you beg for it till you're crying?” You cried out, face heating because no, he didn’t know that. There were things about you to which only Michael Robinavitch was privy, sexual proclivities you’d only ever felt safe to explore with him.
“Does he know how quickly you’d fall to your knees when I’d tell you to kneel? How you’d take my cock down so far down your throat that you couldn’t breathe?” he asked, rutting the hard line of his cock into your hip.
The pleasure is dizzying, the sensations the only thing you can think about. But then the pressure between your legs is gone, a loud whine escaping your lips before Michael slaps his hand over your mouth, muffling you. “As much as I wanna hear you scream my name, we can’t let these nice people know what a filthy fuckin’ whore you are,” he grunted, nudging your panties to the side before plunging two fingers into your cunt, hooking them up to rub at that sweet spot on your front wall.
You could feel the cool metal of his wedding band against your entrance each time he buried his fingers deep inside you, the contrast against your hot skin sending shockwaves through your body. You should feel ashamed at how turned on you are by it.
His hand was heavy against your mouth, his skin salty against your tongue as you panted hot breaths into it. His nose traced the apple of your cheek as he continued muttering obscenities into your ear. “He know what a good little cumslut you are? How you love being painted with my cum? How you’d guzzle it down by the gallon if you could?” the questions were coming faster now, your brain unable to fully comprehend them; certainly unable to answer them.
Without warning his thumb starts rubbing tight little circles against your clit. Your knees buckle, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you grind yourself against his skilled hand. The press of Michael’s strong body was the only thing keeping you upright and not a puddle on the floor.
You’re right there, standing on the precipice of your release, the staticky feeling extending throughout your limbs as your orgasm approaches. One more swipe over your clit would send you tumbling over the edge.
“Fuck, honey, he doesn’t even know what to do with you, does he?” he said, disdain thick in his throat, before wrenching his fingers from your pussy, your orgasm fading fast away.
“No no no no nooooooo,” you whined, scrabbling to catch his wrist and failing. Your eyelids were heavy, barely open as you gaped at him, unable to form words to protest this indignity.
He lifted his fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean before he settled your dress back into place. He squeezed your hips as he leaned in, mouth hot next to your ear, "I'm staying at the Omni tonight. Room 341."
And then he's gone.
You're left slumped against the bookcase, chest heaving, legs fighting to keep you upright. Your thighs are still sticky with arousal, the ache of your denied orgasm heavy as you move on uneasy legs back to the ballroom.
You’re stuck in meaningless, performative diatribes with potential donors for another hour and a half before you’re able to slip out. Michael, you’d noticed, had made his escape at least 30 minutes before you, the sneaky bastard. You hadn’t yet mastered the Irish goodbye, still feeling guilty for leaving people hanging.
Against your better judgement, you find yourself entering the hotel's address into the uber destination box; swiping to pay before you can think better of it. Leaning back against a column, you close your eyes and take deep breaths of humid summer air, a futile attempt to steady your nerves.
“I know you weren’t going to ditch this place without seein’ me first,” a wry voice calls out.
You smile, recognizing Jack immediately. You’d gotten close with him over the years, Robby’s self-destructive behavior a solvent that had closely bonded you two, and was loath to dissolve just because you and Michael had.
“And miss what I’m sure is going to be a riveting status report on dear old Michael Robinavitch? I could never,” you grinned at him.
He shook his head, laughing, “Am I that predictable?”
“Painfully,” you deadpan.
He put his hands up in a defensive posture, “I just came out here to check on you. I saw that Robby cornered you at the punch table.” Yeah, and in the library where he fingered the living daylights out of me before leaving me high and dry, you thought sourly.
“I’m fine, we’re fine,” you waved dismissively, “Just reminiscing on the good ol’ days,” you said, which wasn’t technically a lie.
But Jack looked less than convinced. To your surprise, though, he didn’t jump to pick apart your half-truth. Just leaned against the column opposite you, arms folded as he considered his next words. “He’s been out of sorts lately,” he said, trying to provoke your interest, “picking up more shifts, staying late, doin’ anything to avoid going home.”
You don’t bite, knowing this is a loaded topic, knowing that Jack was leading you somewhere you weren’t sure you wanted to go.
“He’s a grown man, Jack,” is what you manage.
He nodded his head, agreeing, “Yeah, he is. And you’re a grown woman.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, your patience wearing thin.
He looked at you, not quite disappointed but disquieted, like he knew what track the train was headed on, and was hoping it wouldn’t wreck. “Just…make sure you know what you’re getting yourself into, kid. You know I want what’s best for you. For both of you.”
You nod, “Thank you Jack, I’ll keep that in mind. It was good to see you, we should grab a drink and catch up sometime,” you said as your Uber pulled in.
He bids you farewell as you trek to the car, hesitating only a second before sliding into the backseat.
You took a deep breath, then knocked on the door three times. You’re halfway to second guessing when he answers the door. He’d taken off his suit jacket, the shirt beneath untucked and unbuttoned at the collar, showing off the coarse hair on his chest. His sleeves were rolled up, his forearms now bare, and his tie had been loosened, the knot now sitting low against his sternum.
You’re on him before he can say anything, one arm thrown around his neck and the other yanking him forward by the tie, lips crashing against his in a desperate kiss. It was an uncoordinated mash of lips and gnashing teeth, hard and unforgiving, spit gathering at the corners of your lips and drooling down. His lips were slightly chapped, the roughness a delicious friction against yours.
“Woah there, honey,” Michael said against your lips, catching you as you tumble into him–and the room. You're pressed against the door as soon as it's closed, his hands moving up to cradle your head, fingers wrapping around the back of your skull and thumbs brushing against your jaw.
“You’re an asshole,” you mumble against him, unwilling to part from his lips for a second. Your tongue swept across his bottom lip, begging him to open up and taste you. Michael held you still, licking into your mouth with languid strokes, trying to assert control over your frantic pace. Your lips were slick and swollen as you tried your best to slow down, to let Michael guide you like he always has. God, you missed kissing him.
“Yeah?” he asked, fingers tightening around the strands of hair at the base of your skull, pulling enough to hurt, “thought you liked me mean?” The low buzz of pain was dizzying. He tilted your head to the side, exposing your neck and trailing wet hot kisses down the length of your neck, teeth grazing lightly your carotid, pulse racing.
A hand moved behind you, skilled fingers unzipping your dress and letting it fall to the ground unceremoniously, and you were left only in your lacy black bra and panties. Then his hands are on you, rough palms kneading the globes of your ass roughly, pulling them apart and sinking his short nails into the flesh.
“You just left me there,” you whined, head thrown back against the door, hands hastily untying his tie and moving to unbutton his shirt. It’s clumsy work, your shaking hands slipping against the shiny buttons, whining petulantly until Michael intervenes, batting your hands away with a laugh and taking care of it himself.
“Just wanted to remind you how good we are together,” he said as he shrugged his shirt off, “wanted you to come to me on your own.”
Your hands run over the newly exposed skin, savoring the feeling of his hairy chest against your palms. Trailing lower, you palmed his cock through his pants, wet spot noticeable at the tip. You jerked him slowly, hand just barely wrapping around his girth. He was warm, even through the fabric, and the feel of him in your hand only heightened your anticipation.
He captured your lips once more before moving down to your tits, groping them roughly through your bra before pulling the cups down, hot mouth sucking the hardened bud harshly. “So pretty, baby,” he moaned into your chest, licking and sucking your nipples, tongue swirling around one while deft fingers pulled and twisted at the other. Your pace on his cock slowed, mind fuzzy at the attention he was paying your tits, his hips rutting lazily against your open palm. He’s too good with his mouth, and you can’t help the embarrassing sounds that escape your lips. Your chest is soaked by the time he’s had his fill, the spit slick nubs growing cold from the air.
“Missed this so much,” he said, placing kisses to your tummy, right above your panties, teeth pulling at the waistband and letting it snap back against your skin.
“Yeah? Prove it,” you said breathlessly, hand pushing down on his shoulder until he’s on his knees looking up at you. “With pleasure, sweetheart,” he said, content to give up a little control if it means getting his mouth on your sweet pussy.
He wasted no time, yanking your panties to the ground and throwing your leg over his shoulder, burying his nose in your cunt, and inhaling your scent deeply. His tongue delved between your folds, sopping up all the slick gathered there, “taste as good as I remember, fuck,” he moaned into you, licking and sucking at your folds, tongue laving over your clit. He wasn’t teasing–no, he wanted you to remember just how good he made you feel, how helpless you got when you came on his tongue.
He ate you like a man starved, like your cunt was his lifeblood, and he didn’t ever want to forget the way you tasted, the way you felt against his tongue. He pushed your other leg over, widen your stance for him. He traced your entrance before thrusting his tongue in deep, curling and fucking you with a fervor that made your knees weak. You ground your hips against his mouth shamelessly, the image of him below you sinful, eyes glazed over and beard dripping with your wetness.
“Feels so good, please, fuck, right there Michael,” you cried, hands gripping his hair tight, shoving his face impossibly deeper into your pussy. Your denied orgasm from the library was coming back with a vengeance, your thighs trembling as the coil tightened in your core.
He moved back up to your clit, his rhythm unpredictable as he switched back and forth between flicking your clit with short little strokes and massaging it in tight circles. The sensations were too euphoric, the pleasure blistering as you approached your orgasm, “I’m gonna cum, Michael, please keep going, please let me cum,” you begged.
He pinched your thigh, hard, and pulled away just enough to give you direction, “look at me when you cum on my tongue, honey, let go, I got you.”
You tried, eyes heavy as you looked down at him, jaw taut, working hard against your pussy. Your orgasm hit you hard, waves of pleasure radiating to every inch of your body, toes curling and mouth open wide in an obnoxiously loud moan.
“That’s my girl,” he groaned into you, licking up every drop of cum leaking from your pulsing hole, “so fucking good for me.”
You were boneless against the door, barely holding yourself up as Michael cleaned you up, not letting a drop of your spend go to waste. You pushed his head weakly, clit abused and sensitive from his devious assault.
He kissed the inside of your knee, your inner thigh tenderly before getting up, knees cracking faintly. You pulled him close, tasting yourself on his lips as you kissed him messily. His hands travelled down, grabbing at the back of your thighs and hoisting you up, wrapping your legs around his waist as he walked you to the bed.
He deposited you on the bed, stepping back to take in your debauched form before descending on you again, kissing up your stomach, nipping at the skin around your hipbones, your ribs. You reach back and finally discard your bra before moving to paw at his belt, desperate to get him out of his pants and into you. “Need you to fuck me, Michael, need to be close to you,” you whimpered, resolve broken; pride nowhere to be found. You had succumbed to Michael’s overwhelming magnetism; you felt like a tiny ball of metal being drawn to an industrial sized magnet, unable to resist, all sense or reason absent from your mind when he touched you.
He doesn’t make you wait, shucking off his pants and boxers, cock springing out painfully hard. You forgot how pretty he was, thick and long, tip a rosy pink color. He was wet from the amount of precum he’d been leaking, shaft sticky with it. Veins protruded along his shaft, ones you remember feeling against your tongue, especially the one on the underside of his cock, the one that made him putty in your hands when you ran your tongue along it. Your mouth watered at the sight of it, vowing to get a taste before the night was over.
He sat on his knees before you, grabbing your legs under your knees and pulling you towards him, the back of your thighs resting atop his spread ones, hips lifted slightly off of the bed. He stroked his cock a few times before slapping it against your puffy clit, the plap plap plap reverberating throughout the room. You moaned, thrusting your hips up to chase the friction.
He ran his cock through your sopping folds, tip pressing gently against your entrance before gliding up to your clit, then back again. “You gonna let me fuck you raw, honey?” he asked, cock slipping messily against your cunt, “Gonna let me fuck a baby into you?”
Oh. That was new. The moan that left your lips was borderline pornographic, “please Mikey.”
His hips stuttered, groaning at the nickname he hadn’t heard in years. “Put it in for me, baby, show me how bad you want it,” he huffed out, grabbing your hand and putting it on his cock. You stroked him a few times, the weight familiar in your hand, before notching him at your entrance and rocking your hips forward slowly against the tip. You continued like that for a while, fucking youself steadily on the tip of his cock. Michael was big, and even the tip stretched you out deliciously.
It didn’t take long for his patience to snap, though, his hand replacing yours as he pushed in deep, inch by inch. The stretch was familiar and new all at the same time; each inch spearing you further onto his cock, the fullness so satiating you couldn’t speak. Michael was equally speechless when he fully sank into you, the feeling of your walls fluttering around him dizzying after so long without you.
“Feels like coming home,” he groaned, hands finding home on the back of your soft thighs and hooking your legs over his shoulders, pressing you deep into the mattress as he fucked into you. The drag of his cock through your walls made you delirious; you could feel every vein, his head rutting against your g spot at just the right angle. Your hands scrabbled for purchase on his forearms–the only part of him you could reach–needing to touch him; to have him as close to you as possible.
He found his rhythm quickly, pulling out almost all the way before snapping his hip back into you, the pace steady but brutal. His balls slapped against your ass with each thrust, and your pussy was squelching loud, slick coating your inner thighs and running down your ass and onto the sheets below. Michael watched his cock pump in and out of you, your arousal coating his cock in a thick, creamy ring around his base, the sight nearly enough to make him cum on the spot.
“You fill me up so good, Mikey, can feel you in my guts,” you whimper, hand snaking down to play with your clit, your second orgasm quickly approaching.
“Yeah, touch that pretty little clit, baby, make yourself cum all over my cock,” he said, grip tightening on your thighs, hips snapping against you faster, harder. You thought briefly about how you were going to explain the bruises.
Another sharp thrust hit that sweet, spongy spot and you’re done for. Your blood felt molten as it rushed through your body, white hot shocks racing down your spine. Your back is arched almost uncomfortably, your mouth open but unable to make any sound as the waves crash over you. Your fingernails dig into his forearms, little crescent shapes nearly breaking the skin. The aftershocks are just as powerful, pleasure zipping through you with each thrust.
You’ve barely recovered when he manhandles you onto your front, his strong hands pulling your hips back against him. Your back arched, forearms barely keeping you from faceplanting into the sheets. One hand settles on your shoulder, dragging you back onto his cock with each thrust, and the other tangles in your hair, pulling the strands tight, the pain and pleasure mingling together exquisitely. Your hips move back to meet his, fucking yourself back against him, desperate to make him feel as good as he’s making you feel.
“Shit, missed this pussy so much, baby,” he grunted, “I think she remembers me, remembers how good this cock made her feel.”
He shifted again, draping himself over your back and bracing himself on his forearms, one one either side of your head. He was so deep like this, the tip of his cock jutting up against your cervix with each thrust. All you could do was lay there and take it, the feel of his soft belly against your back a soft contrast to the punishing slam of his hips. One hand snaked between your body and the bed, ring and middle finger finding your clit and rubbing fast circles on it. It felt so good.
Tears formed in the corners of your eyes, the mix of sensations and hormones garbling your emotions. “Am I good?” you asked, eyes bleary and throat raw, a part of you begging to know that you’re doing good, that you were as good as he remembered. That you weren’t risking everything for a mediocre lay.
“So good, baby, takin’ it so good, always so good for me,” he groaned, hand grabbing your jaw and pulling your head to the side to kiss you. It was sloppy, mostly teeth clanking against each other, but you savored his lips on yours nevertheless.
“Gonna let me cum inside?” he asked, pace faltering just a bit, “yeah? Gonna give me a kid? What would your husband say?” He’s fading fast now, hips grinding against your ass in short, hard thrusts.
“Nine months from now, when a kid with my nose–fuck–my eyes pops out? What would he think, knowing I pumped his pretty little wife full of my seed?”
You moaned, pleasure too great to feel the shame, “please, please cum inside me, Michael!” His fingers pressed hard against your clit and you were cumming again. It was less intense than the first two, but no less pleasurable. It was a warm pulse that emanated from your core, flooding your limbs and making your body sag against the mattress, spent.
“I’ll give it to you, baby, give you anything you want,” he cried out as he came, spilling rope after rope of hot cum into your cunt. He gave you a few more thrusts before pulling out, watching as globs of his cum dripped out of your hole. Using his cock, he scooped up the spend and fucked it back into you, “gotta make sure it sticks, right, honey?” he said, a wondrous look on his face, like your cunt dripping with his cum was a holy sight.
You turned around and sprawled out against the sheets, head fuzzy and floaty, but aware enough to whine out, “want a taste,” sulkily. He huffed out a laugh at you, but shuffled up the bed anyway, bracing an arm on the headboard as he fed the tip of his softening cock into your mouth. You suckled at him, licking the residual cum from his tip, eyes closed in bliss. You would have been content to stay that way, but Michael was sensitive after his orgasm, and couldn’t take much of your warm mouth on his cock, though he was loath to admit it.
“Alright, honey, gotta get you cleaned up,” he said, extricating himself from you despite your disgruntled whimpers.
And this is what always made 'casual' with Michael so difficult. He fucked you within an inch of your life, and then had the audacity to be so attentive, so achingly tender afterward. He cleaned you up, warm washcloth dabbing softly across your sweat-dripped brow, swiping gently between your folds and thighs. He made sure you drank water, reminded you about the importance of peeing after sex. Even carried you to the bathroom and bathed you–washed your hair, your body, rubbed you down with lotion afterward.
Settled back in bed, you were tucked up against him, leg thrown over his hip and chest pressed against his side. Your fingers trailed over his furry chest, fingers deftly grasping the star of his Magen David between your fingers, thumb brushing against it softly. It seemed wrong, like the cool metal should scald your flesh for your sacrilege. But maybe that was just your religious trauma talking–that, or your extensive knowledge of vampire lore. You’d both gotten married under your respective religious auspices–you had a lovely service in a beautiful church; you heard Michael had a traditional ceremony at his synagogue–had even seen the video of them doing the Hora. Yet here you were, committing the greatest marital sin; betraying your Gods and your lovers in one fell swoop.
But you didn’t much believe in any god anymore, so you weren’t sure why you were having this borderline existential crisis over the blasphemous act you’d just engaged in. Maybe because it was comforting in a sick sort of way–you knew what to do with shame, especially the religious variety. You were less certain about how to handle the rotten desire you felt welling up inside you; the bone-deep longing to wake up next to Michael in the morning.
Pushing the thoughts away, you asked, "why do you still wear it?" You knew he had a complicated history with his faith; that he had, on more than one occasion, cursed God’s name and decried his existence.
He remained silent for a moment, then fingered the delicate chain resting between your breasts, thumb stroking lightly over the crucifix pendant. “Probably for the same reason you still wear this,” he said coolly, and you thought, briefly, that he was evading the question.
“It’s from my bubbe,” he answered quietly, “the last thing I have from her, actually. And there’s a bittersweet nostalgia to it, too, I guess. Reminds me of a version of myself that believed in a higher power.”
You understood that more than you cared to admit. It was also uncharacteristically vulnerable for Michael. You found yourself wanting to give him a piece of yourself in return.
You covered his hand with yours over your necklace, “this was my dad’s,” you whisper, thumb stroking over his knuckles, “reminds me of being little, of singing in the choir at church. Wish things still felt that simple.” He nods, understands the feeling, if not the exact experience.
"I think… I think I got married because I thought it was something I should do," he confessed quietly, staring straight up at the ceiling. "I woke up one day and saw that I had nothing to show for my life. No wife, no kids. Not even a dog," he laughed humorlessly, shaking his head. "I care about her, really, I do. But it's how you'd care for a good friend. I want what's best for her, want her to do well, but... it's just not…” he swallowed thickly, turning to look you in the eye, “I don’t love her."
Your heart raced, chest filling with inconvenient feelings that you were desperate to push down. You weren’t sure how much more of yourself you could expose before you reached the point of no return. Perhaps you’re already there. You settled on a safe answer, a deflection, "that seems like something you should tell her.”
He laughed softly, “yeah, I guess so,” he said, hand moving to cup your cheek, “but I’m telling you.”
You shook your head, eyes closing to avoid his penetrating gaze. This had never been part of the deal with him. Sure, your pillow talk had been more intimate than the typical hookup–you told him things you’d never told anyone else–hadn’t told your husband–but that didn’t extend to your real feelings for one another. This time was reserved for morose revelations; a twisted confessional between two people comfortable to wallow in the depravity of it; who knew the other wouldn’t avoid their gaze the next morning.
“Tell me you love him,” he said, voice strained, “look at me and tell me you love him.”
"I do love him," you said, eyes still closed, mustering up as much conviction as you could manage. Which, admittedly, wasn't much.
A beat.
"Then why are you still here?"
"Fuck you," you pushed against his chest weakly, pulling back just enough to create some space.
"hmm maybe in a little bit, didn't bring my viagra with me," he joked halfheartedly.
“Be serious, Michael,” you bit out, making a real attempt to remove yourself from him now. You turned around, scooting to get out of bed only to feel his arms encircle your waist, pulling you back into him, his chest pressed solidly against your back. His grip was loose; you knew you could leave if you really wanted to, which made your complacency that much more infuriating.
“I’m trying,” he said, “we’re done fucking, you could have easily walked out the door 45 minutes ago. But you’re still here, and I have to think that means something.”
You don’t say anything. His breathing is heavy, the puffs of air sweltering next to your ear as he hits you with a gut punch, "I never stopped thinking about you."
“You can’t do that, Michael,” you said, throat tight; tears pricking your lash line.
“I never stopped thinking about you, about how how badly I fucked things up,” he continued.
You laughed wetly, “Stop. You can’t just, just come back into my life after making it clear, for years, that you’re not interested in anything with me, that all I ever was to you was a good fuck.”
“That’s never been true,” he said resolutely, “I know we never talked about it, but you know it was more than that.”
It was quiet for a minute, then, “I’ve been going to therapy, for about a year now,” he said, “I’m doing better. I’m not perfect, obviously,” he laughed, the sentiment clear: I’m here cheating on my wife, so I’m not totally depleted of poor coping mechanisms.
“I was fucked up after Adamson, after Pittfest. I treated you like shit when all you wanted to do was help me, when you were the only one who did help me. I’m sorry for that, how I treated you. You didn’t deserve that, and I’ll spend however long I need to making it up to you,” he said, and the sincerity in his voice made your heart ache.
“I’m not telling you this so you’ll forgive me. I just, I want you to know I’m trying to get better. I’m trying to be the man that you deserve.”
You shook your head, refusing to fall into this trap again. “I appreciate the apology Michael, I really do, but I can’t. We can’t. I’m married, you’re married.”
He laughed bitterly, “Why do you think I'm staying at this hotel?” he asked, not giving you the chance to answer before he continued, “she kicked me out, said I’ve been distant. Said she didn’t want to be stuck in a loveless marriage.”
The air is sucked from your lungs, brain not comprehending the words fully until he finishes, “I want to get a divorce.”
He turned you around in his arms, hand cradling your cheek as he asked you again, “Do you love him?”
“I want to,” you said, eyes closed tight against the tears falling, “I want to so bad. He’s good for me, we like each other, we agree on everything. It should be perfect,” you said, breaths coming out fast and ragged, your next words ripping from your throat unbidden, “But all I want is you.”
You’re crying now, face burrowed into Michael’s chest, the scent of him overwhelming your senses. “I don’t-don’t know what to d-do,” you sobbed, the conflicting feelings of shame and relief pummeled into you full force. He ran his fingers through your hair, pressing kisses to your hairline, “It’s okay, baby, it’s gonna be okay. We’ll figure it all out,” he whispered.
You’d never admitted that you didn’t love your husband to anyone–had barely admitted it to yourself. It was a secret you held close to your chest, one that you were going to take to the grave because you thought it was too late; you’d made your bed, and now you had to lie in it.
But it felt so good to let it out, to have someone to share in that truth, to fully admit it to yourself. Things had gotten harder after the honeymoon, when things weren’t shiny and new. You both settled into routine, and it was harder to ignore the growing distance between you. You liked each other just fine, but maybe that was part of the problem. You felt more like roommates than lovers most of the time, your lives separate in so many ways. He hadn’t even asked you if it was a good time for his fishing trip–not that he had to ask for permission, but it would have been nice for him to consider you. Or maybe you’re just trying to lessen your guilt, to justify the unjustifiable.
Either way, what’s done is done, and now that the admission has been made, you have a choice to make. But that wasn’t exactly easy, either.
“How am I s-supposed to believe that you w-won’t do it again? Leave when things get hard?” you hiccuped, fear gripping your heart in a vise. You want so badly to believe him, to surrender to him, but you can’t stop that little voice in your brain telling you he’ll never stay.
“You can’t,” he said solemnly, “and I’m sorry about that. That I’m not someone you can trust anymore, that you’re going to second guess my commitment to you for a long time. But I want to try, I want to be with you, and I can only hope that you want to be with me too.”
“You make it sound so easy,” you said weakly.
“Not easy. But I’m willing to do the work, however dirty. Because I love you.”
Your breath hitched, teary eyes looking up at him in shock. His thumb brushed against your cheek, eyes honest as he looked you in the eye.
“Yeah?” you asked
“I meant it, what I said in the library. You have bewitched me, body and soul,” he whispered, moving to hover over you. “And I love, I love, I love you.” He kissed you then, soft and slow and sweet this time, every unspoken sentiment making itself known between your lips.
“I love you, too,” you whispered back, the words tasting sweet on your lips instead of sour for the first time in a long time.
He settled between your legs, cock resting against your cunt, still wet with your combined cum. You winced, “I don’t think I can do another one, ‘m too sore,” you whispered, not wanting to ruin the moment.
“Shh, it's okay, honey, just want to feel you, be close to you.”
He slipped in slowly, savoring the way your walls wrapped around him, the warmth comforting. He buried himself in you, hips sitting flush against yours. He settled his head on your chest, ear resting against your heartbeat, his body a comforting weight on top of you. You sat there for a while, stroking his hair and replaying the night in your head.
“Did you mean it?” you asked quietly, “about putting a baby in me?”
He was silent for a moment, the air charged with uncertainty, both of you trying to suss out the other, neither wanting to upset the fragile peace between you.
Finally, “yeah, honey, I meant it.”
You blew out a puff of air, “yeah, okay. Shit. We should talk about that,” you laughed, and so did he.
“We have plenty of time, baby, plenty of time.”
The tension eased, the silence between you comfortable.
A million thoughts raced through your mind, not the least of which was you lose them how you get them. Things weren’t perfect–far from it–but he was trying, and you wanted to try with him.
Maybe that was enough.
a/n: thank you for reading!!! this got way more emotional than I was expecting, so thank you if you actually made it all the way through <3
taglist: @thesandbeneathmytoes
wrong number
jack abbot x f!reader - MDNI
summary: a night out with some coworkers after a medical conference leads to you accidentally texting your attending about how hot you think he is.
word count: 4.6k
contains: smut, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, reader is a doctor, no use of y/n.
a/n: i know nothing about being a doctor or going to medical conferences but i tried my best here. If something is disgustingly inaccurate plz let me know :)
If you were being honest, you hated these things. Conferences, galas, all of it. You loved being a doctor, it was your life’s passion after all, but it was the incessant obligations outside of the hospital— the networking, the dressing up, the horrid small talk with other doctors— piled on top of your already packed schedule that had you dreading this particular medical conference more than usual.
There was one small silver lining, at least. This time, you had friends.
You’d only begun working at Pittsburg Trauma Medical Center a few months ago, looking for more of a challenge after spending the past few years of your career in dermatology. You didn’t hate it, per se, but you felt deep in your bones that you were meant for more high stakes work.
Not only did the job suit you better, but the people did too. Sure, you’d met some nice people in dermatology, even met your best friend there, but working in the ER surrounded you with people much like yourself. Adrenaline junkies.
Unfortunately, adrenaline junkies and medical conferences did not mix.
That’s how you found yourself at some dodgy dive bar down the street from your hotel the last night of your conference with two of your coworkers, Trinity and Victoria. The three of you had been bored out of your minds at the last lecture of the day, where some old pretentious man droned on and on and onnnnn about medical research that was about 25 years outdated. You really needed a drink.
“Okay, I know we agreed on vodka crans, but I got us green tea shots too. My treat, alright? I fucking need a shot after whatever that lecture was,” Trinity explains as she returns from the bar, setting three drinks and three shots down on the center of the table. You were able to snag some seats in the back corner of the bar, thankfully, because the last thing you want to deal with is any more people today.
“Oh god, it was horrible, wasn’t it? I was just about ready to rip my hair out. Didn’t think that guy would ever stop talking,” Victoria replies as she reaches for one of the shots.
The three of you clink glasses, tapping them down onto the wooden surface of the table before knocking them back.
“God, that’s fucking good,” you wince, the alcohol burning at the bottom of your throat.
The night continues in a cycle of work gossip and ordering vodka cranberries for the table. By the time you guys are leaving, you’re thoroughly buzzed.
You walk back to the hotel together, arm and arm, when you get back onto the topic of work. Feeling a little more truthful than usual due to the alcohol coursing through your system, you decide to tell your friends about an awkward moment you had during one of your shifts last week.
“Oh it was awful, you guys. I was assisting Dr. Abbot with a perforating GSW and he asked me to hand him hemostatic gauze, and I dropped the package all over the floor trying to open it. I’m talking gauze everywhere. I had to rush to get a new one, my hands were shaking like hell when I gave it to him,” you ramble. “And the worst part? He noticed. Pulled me into one of the on-call rooms afterward to ask what was up with me. I was horrified.”
Victoria furrows her brows, and Trinity slows her steps until the three of you are standing still in the middle of the dimly lit sidewalk.
“What’s wrong? Why are we stopping?” you ask, confused.
“Sorry, you were nervous?” Victoria questions.
“I didn’t even know that was possible for you,” Trinity admits, shock displayed on her face.
“I mean, yeah. If you guys had been there, you’d understand. The whole room was tense, you could hear a pin drop,” you explain.
“Don’t think that’s how I’d describe the Pitt, but okay,” Victoria concedes, falling back into step toward the hotel as you and Trinity trail close behind.
“Y’know, I don’t think it was the GSW that had you all worked up. I’ve seen you in action. You’re not one to falter, especially not like that. I think maybe a certain night shift attending has you all hot and bothered,” Trinity prods, landing a playful punch against your shoulder.
Victoria whips her head around at that. “Oh my god. That’s totally it!” she squeals. “Are you guys hooking up? I’ll be soooo jealous, he’s a total silver fox.”
Heat blooms in your chest and creeps up to your cheeks. You’re suddenly very, very hot.
“Jesus, no. I’m not hooking up with him. I’m not even into him, not like that. I can promise you he’s not what made me nervous,” you ramble. “We work a high stress job, it’s normal to make mistakes. And that’s all it was, a mistake,” you babble on, hoping your friends won’t pick up on the fact that you’re lying straight through your teeth.
While the part about not hooking up with him is true, you can’t deny the fact that you definitely have feelings for Doctor Jack Abbot.
It’s all his fault, really. From the start, he was charming. Good at conversation. Never made you feel less than, despite being the newbie of the department.
And it definitely didn’t help that he looked like that. Salt and pepper curls that framed his angular face which was dusted with freckles. Wrinkles around his eyes and mouth that made themselves known when he smiled. Biceps that bulged underneath his scrub top sleeve, which was far too tight considering the size of his muscles.
It got worse once you guys fell into a rhythm, able to work in tandem. Sometimes you didn’t even need words. It only took one look at each other for you to know exactly where he needed you, how to best assist him with a procedure.
If it wasn’t a look, it was a touch. A gloved hand overtop yours, guiding you on where to make an incision. A warm, large hand braced against your back as you intubate. A pat on the shoulder after you successfully stabilize a patient.
But undoubtedly, the worst part was the way he spoke to you. Whether it be a “Nice work, Kiddo,” after a particularly stressful chest tube placement, or a “What’s goin’ on up there?” with a featherlight touch to your temple when you were lost in thought. It was like he could sense what you were feeling before you’d even figured it out for yourself.
Clearly, whatever feelings you have for Dr. Abbot are written all over your face, because Trinity and Victoria seem wholly unconvinced.
“Okay, well if you’re not hooking up with him, then you should be. I’ve seen your dynamic, there’s some clear tension between you guys, babe,” Trinity argues as you finally approach the doors of your hotel.
“Yeah, that’s not happening. Even if I wanted it to, which I don’t, there’s no way he’d be into it,” you explain, the warmth in your cheeks only growing.
Victoria lets out a dramatic sigh as you make your way through the hotel lobby toward the elevators. “And I thought I was clueless.”
“Sorry?” you ask, pressing the button for the elevator. It dings and the doors open, the three of you piling in. You quickly push the button for floor three. You want to escape this situation as fast as possible, if you’re being honest. Your emotions are too heightened from the drinks to be having this conversation right now.
“If you can’t see it, there’s nothing we can do to help you,” Trinity replies. “Anyway, it might not be the brightest idea to sleep with a coworker. We all know how that went for me…”
“Oh Trin it wasn’t that bad. At least she doesn’t work in the same department,” Victoria remarks, then gestures vaguely at you. “Imagine if this hypothetical hookup with Abbot really did happen. She’d have to work with him all the time and he’s her attending. Now that’s bad.”
You groan. “Gee, thanks guys. I feel really supported right now.”
“So you do want to sleep with him then?” Victoria quips.
“No! My god, you guys. I’m done with the conversation,” you exclaim. The elevator finally reaches your floor and you waste no time stepping out into the warmly lit hallway.
“Well, I’ll see you both bright and early tomorrow. Still want to get coffee before the airport?” Trinity asks as she fumbles with her keycard outside of her room door.
Victoria, one door down from Trinity, follows suit in swiping her card. “Sure, how’s 7:00 sound?”
“Works for me, see you guys tomorrow!” you reply with a smile and a wave, making your way down to the end of the hallway to your room.
It hits you as you struggle to get your door unlocked that you’re a lot drunker than you thought. Not enough to warrant a hangover, but inebriated enough that you stumble toward your bed as you kick off your shoes.
After taking a much needed shower, washing away the grime of a long day, and putting on a pair of cotton shorts and a tank top, you cuddle up into bed and check your texts.
There’s multiple from your best friend, Jackie. The one you met when you worked in dermatology.
Jackie: girl i haven’t heard from you all day Jackie: is the conference terrible Jackie: so glad i don’t have to go to those lol Jackie: is dr hottie there at least
You chuckle at her messages. Of course she’d bring him up. She’s the only person you’ve confided in about your attraction to Dr. Abbot, and she’s become obsessed with him ever since. Even gave him that ridiculous nickname.
You swipe back to check your other notifications, reading a text from your mom and watching a Tik Tok that Trinity sent you from her room before you finally go back to reply to Jackie.
Unfortunately, in your inebriated state, your finger slides on your screen and deletes your text chain with her.
“Shit!” you exclaim. At least you remember what she said. You quickly click the “New Message” button and start typing out her name.
j… a… c…
You click on her contact and begin typing.
You: sry i’ve been busy but yes the conference was shit You: got drinks after im a ltitle drunk lol You: and yes dr hottie is here thank god You: i sat behind him during a talk this mornign and had to fight urges to run my hands through his sexy silver hair You: i didnrt do it tho. i am brave
Sighing, you shuffle in bed so you’re no longer sitting up against the headboard but laying on your side. You reach toward the nightstand and flick the lamp off, filling the room with darkness.
Well, the room is dark until your phone buzzes on the mattress next to you and the screen lights up, emitting a soft glow.
Rather quickly, it buzzes again. You reach for it, expecting Jackie’s replies. While it’s not very late, she’s a night owl through and through, so of course she’d answer you immediately.
Instead, you see two notifications from… Jack Abbot? The only times you’ve ever texted him were about coming in early or that one time you’d forgotten your sweater in the break room and asked if he could hide it in one of the cabinets until your shift the next morning. Why would he be texting you at 11:00pm on a night you were both off?
You unlock your phone and click into your text thread with him.
Jack: I think you meant to send those to someone else. Jack: I’ll try and sit farther away next time. Wouldn’t want my hair distracting you.
You shoot up in bed, breath catching in your throat. Immediately, your chest is on fire. There’s no fucking way you sent those messages to him.
You: oh my god You: im so fuckign sorry You: i was trying to text my friend
Jack: It’s OK.
You: its not You: its extremely unprofessional You: im so so sorry
Jack: Stop apologizing.
Your breathing still hasn’t calmed down. You’re mortified. How are you ever going to face him again?
For a minute, there’s no other reply. You debate texting him again, but what could you even say? “I’m sorry I think your hair is sexy”?
Instead, you try to focus on calming down. Everything will be fine. You can blame it on the drinks, even if you’re not really drunk. He won’t know that you’re lying.
Your eye catches on the three little dots at the corner of your text thread. He’s typing again. A lump forms in the base of your throat.
Jack: Where are you?
Confused, you type out a reply.
You: my room You: why
Jack: How much did you drink?
You: not much You: a few vodka crans with trinity and victoria You: im mostly sober now
It wasn’t necessarily a lie. This interaction definitely sobered you up.
Jack: So you’re OK?
You: yep You: safe and sound
Jack: Good. Jack: Dr. Hottie, huh?
You: oh god pls dont remind me You: im mortified
Jack: Don’t be. Jack: Are you in bed?
Your eyebrows furrow at that last message. At first it seemed like he was just checking in on you, making sure you weren’t stranded and drunk at some shady bar. But what kind of question is that?
You: yes
Jack: Send me a picture.
Eyebrows knitting together in confusion, you open your camera and take a photo of the foot of your bed. You can make out the shape of the chair in the corner of the room and the TV mounted to the wall. You go back to your texts and send him the photo.
You: [1 attachment] You: see You: exactly where i said i am
Jack: No, a picture of you.
Oh.
With shaking hands, you swipe back to the camera app, this time flipping it so it’s front facing. You snap a photo of yourself, angling the phone so it captures your face and part of your torso.
You examine the photograph, taking in the pouty expression on your face and noting the way your tank top rides up at your stomach, exposing your midriff. Considering you didn’t put on a bra, you can see the faint outline of your nipples through the thin material.
Without overthinking it, you send him the picture.
You: [1 attachment]
Jack: Jesus. Jack: You always sleep like that?
Feeling bold, the remnants of your night out still coursing through your veins, you type out a reply.
You: no You: i usually sleep naked You: but that feels a bit too exposing for a hotel
Jack: Fuck, sweetheart. Jack: You have no idea what you’re doing to me.
You: send a pic You: i wanna see
Heat pools between your legs. There’s no way this is happening. You’ll wake up tomorrow and realize you dreamt up this entire conversation.
An image from Dr. Abbot comes through.
Jack: [1 attachment]
He’s laying in his hotel bed in nothing but his underwear. You can’t see his face, but his chest is on full display. God, his muscles were something else.
But the real star of the show is his bulge, straining hard against the fabric of his boxers. One of his veiny hands rests atop it, and you can’t help but notice the wet spot pooling where his erection sits.
Fuck.
You hold your phone in one hand and slide the other one underneath your shorts and panties, rubbing slow, methodic circles against your core. Your phone pings with another message.
Jack: What’re you doing now?
You: touching myself You: are u
Jack: Fuck, yes.
Growing warm, you kick the bedsheets aside. Your hand continues to circle, pressure building deep in your belly.
You: wish i could see u rn
Jack: [1 attachment - 0:21]
Oh, God.
Suddenly, everything starts feeling a little too real. You should not be doing this. He’s your attending. You’re sacrificing your career, everything you’ve worked so hard for, for what? One meaningless night?
But the way your hand is creating friction against your clit combined with Jack’s messages have you too horny to care, if you’re being honest.
Nervously, you click play on the video.
You almost regret doing it.
But you can’t look away from the sight of him pumping his cock up and down in the dim lighting of his hotel room.
It’s long, longer than you were expecting. And thick.
You watch as he drags his hand from the base up to the head, uses his thumb to circle the precum that's built up at the slit, and then works it up and down his length.
If the sight of that wasn’t enough, the sounds he’s making have you groaning into your pillow. He’s practically growling, the noises coming ragged from the depths of his throat.
You can’t even think straight, you’re so desperate for more. For anything. Without even thinking about it, you open your phone camera again and start recording.
It’s nothing special, considering how worked up you are. You really can’t even see much since your shorts and panties are still on.
You film as your hand moves underneath the fabric a few times, breathy moans escaping your lips. You pull it out slowly, showing off the sticky mess left on your fingers for the camera.
You: oh my god You: thats so fucking hot You: [1 attachment - 0:14] You: this is how badly i want u
There’s no response for a minute, and you worry that you went too far. Maybe he realized how fucking crazy this whole situation is. Because that’s exactly what it is. Crazy.
Before you can begin to spiral too hard, your phone buzzes in your hand.
He’s fucking calling you.
You let it ring a few times, working up the courage to answer.
With a shaking hand, you click accept.
He doesn’t say anything at first, but you can hear his heavy breathing and the sound of something wet in the background.
“How are you doing it?” he mumbles into the phone, abruptly.
“What?”
“How are you touching yourself? Tell me.”
“Oh, I’m– I’m rubbing circles on my clit,” you can barely make out the words, feeling embarrassed.
“Oh fuck,” he groans. “Slip a finger in.”
“Jack, I–”
“Fuck, I need you to,” he begs. “Please do it for me, Kiddo.”
“O-Okay,” you stutter, lining up your middle finger with your entrance and sinking it in. You release a moan at the sensation, pumping your finger in and out a few times before adding another.
“God, that sound. You sound so pretty when you touch yourself. Can you hear me? Hear me pumping my cock? It wants you so bad, Sweetheart. You have no idea.”
His words make you shudder, more needy sounds escaping from your throat. The sound of his hand working against his length combined with his breathy moans have you bucking your hips into your hand.
“I want you too,” you whimper.
“What’s your room number?” Jack grunts.
“What?”
“I can’t do this. Knowing you’re right down the hall. What room are you in?”
You blink.
“302.”
The line clicks.
He hung up.
You stare at the dark phone screen in front of you, fingers coming to a stop under your panties.
What the actual fuck just happened.
Is he coming here? Like right now?
Suddenly, there’s three sharp knocks at the door. You readjust your panties and shorts and nervously make your way to the door, fumbling to open it because of how hard you’re shaking.
As you expected, Jack Abbot stands in front of you clad in a white t-shirt and a pair of sweats. He’s using his crutches, didn’t even waste time putting on his leg. His left foot dons one white sock. No shoe.
Just looking at his face makes the ache between your legs grow. His skin’s coated in a thin sheen of sweat, curls sticking to his forehead. His breathing is uneven, chest heaving against the tight fabric of his shirt.
Without a word, you open the door wide enough to let him through and he wastes no time heading directly for the center of the room, placing his crutches against the nightstand and sitting on the edge of the bed. You click the door shut and lock it.
“C’mere,” he whispers.
You take one step toward him. Measured, careful. Then another.
“Jack, I don’t know if we should…”
“Fuck, don’t say that. Would you just come here?” he growls.
You move closer until you’re standing in front of him. He reaches for you, placing his broad hands on your hips and tugging you closer to him, between his thighs. His thumbs move back and forth against your hip bone.
“Do you want this?” He asks, quiet.
“Yes.”
“Then let me make you feel good. Please,” he murmurs, pulling you even closer so he can press open mouthed kisses to the base of your throat and down your chest.
You moan into his touch, hands coming up to tug his hair.
“Is it as good as you imagined?” he teases.
“Sorry?”
“Running your hands through my ‘sexy silver hair’? Your words, not mine.”
A laugh escapes from his lips and you groan, dropping your head on top of his so he can’t see how horrified you are.
“Yeah, I’m going to regret that text for the rest of my life.”
Jack brings his hands up from your waist to the back of your head so he can pull you back to look at him.
“I’m not,” he says, maintaining such an intense eye contact that you begin to tremble underneath his gaze. “You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about it. Your hands in my hair. Your mouth on me. How you’d sound when I fuck you,” he whispers, leaning to continue sucking marks on your chest, just above the neckline of your tank top.
You moan at his words. If that’s the case, you should’ve been fucking him for months now.
Something snaps inside of you, and you give up on holding back. You want this. You can deal with the repercussions tomorrow.
You bring your hands down from his hair to his shoulders and push him back slightly on the bed so you have enough room to climb on top of him, straddling his thighs. He moves his hands back to your waist, keeping you stabilized against him.
“Hi,” you whisper.
“Hi,” he responds, breathless.
“Can I kiss you?”
“Fuck, please.”
You dip your head down and hover your lips over his, inches apart. You can feel his warm breath fan over your mouth as he exhales.
Fed up, Jack closes the distance, connecting his lips with yours.
And fuck, he tastes good.
You whimper into his mouth, quickening your pace, desperate for more.
The sound you make causes his grip to tighten around your waist, his kisses becoming sloppier. He darts his tongue out, seeking entry to your mouth.
You swirl your tongue against his and he releases a deep, guttural groan. Your bodies move together, hips grinding over the bulge in his sweatpants.
Between frantic kisses, he manages to lift your tank top over your head, pulling back only to admire your bare chest.
“Been dreaming about these,” he admits, taking his right hand off your hip to palm at one of your breasts. “They’re even better than I imagined.”
You throw your head back as he rolls your nipple between his knuckles. He dips his head and uses his mouth to suck on the other one, and the sensation has you rocking your hips even harder against him.
“So fucking sexy,” he breathes as he swirls his tongue around your nipple. You dig your nails into his shoulder, overwhelmed by his hands and mouth.
He kisses his way back up your chest and neck until his lips connect with yours again, hand still squeezing at your breast.
“Can I taste you?” he groans into your mouth.
You nod against him and he takes that as permission to lift you from his lap and toss you on the bed next to him, head hitting the pillow. You giggle at the sudden movement, Jack crawling above you to keep peppering your lips and jaw with kisses.
He pulls back so he’s sitting on his haunches and fiddles with the waistband of your shorts. Slowly, he peels the fabric down your legs and tosses them aside. He pushes your knees apart so you’re spread for him, ducking his head to kiss his way up your thighs.
“Jack, please,” you beg.
He places a few kisses over the lacy fabric of your panties before he pulls them to the side, face to face with your dripping center.
He licks one slow, agonizing stripe up your core, causing you to buck your hips up in the air.
“Fuck, you taste so good, Kiddo,” he mumbles into your cunt, lapping up the wetness that’s gathered there. He takes his time sucking and kissing at your clit, dipping his tongue into you, building you up to your first orgasm.
“Jack, I–I’m gonna come,” you whine, teetering over the edge.
“Let it happen, Sweetheart. Want you to come on my tongue.”
His words send you over the edge, riding out your orgasm against his mouth as he keeps swirling his tongue inside of you. He continues to leave soft kisses against your sensitive clit as you come down from your high.
Once you’ve settled, Jack kisses his way back up your stomach and chest until you’re face to face.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” you admit, still in shock.
“Me neither,” he whispers, brushing a stray hair from your face and tucking it behind your ear.
“I need you inside of me,” you breathe against him, desperate.
“Fuck, okay.”
Jack makes quick work of removing his shirt and sweatpants, then drags your panties down your legs, exposing you fully to the cool air of the room.
He strips himself of his boxers and pumps his length a few times with his hand, adjusting his position so he can line up with your entrance.
He pushes forward, seating himself inside you down to the hilt in one fell swoop. You moan loudly at the feeling of him, how he fills you entirely.
“Oh God, Jack,” you mumble.
“You okay?” he asks, hesitating to move.
“Yes, God, yes. Please move.”
With a grunt he begins working himself in and out of you, setting the pace. The head of his cock keeps hitting that spongy spot deep inside you so hard that it’s making you see stars.
“Fuck, Jack, just like that,” you babble, clawing at his back to stabilize yourself against his frantic thrusts.
“Jesus, Kid. You feel so good,” he mumbles into your neck. “I’m not going to last. Where do you want me?”
“Inside, do it inside,” you beg.
Those words alone are enough to make him falter, his pace becoming uneven and sloppy as he releases thick spurts of cum inside of you.
The warmth of his release combined with the feeling of his dick twitching inside of you has you hitting your peak, coming again with a garbled moan.
Exhausted, Jack collapses on top of you, head still nuzzled into your shoulder. The two of you are panting heavily, chests heaving against one another.
After catching his breath and leaving a trail of kisses beneath your ear, Jack lifts his head so he can look at you.
“Still embarrassed about those texts?”
this was supposed to be a drabble and then i got carried away. tw: dubby! for 18+ eyes. ageless & minors dni. pervfem!r sleazy'ol babydaddy!jack you were some pretty young thing he met at a bar, now he's pushing sixty with a toddler.
during his sunday visitations to 'the kid,' he sits on the couch and smokes cigarettes. he says nothing but 'uh-huh,' 'wow,' and, 'good job, bub.' he's too busy looking up your skirt, snapping pictures, stealing glances and panties from your hamper when you're not looking. you feel his eyes slither over you while you make him lunch and you're hot and mortified. you know you'll feel his belly press against you any moment, offering what he always does, a few hundred bucks for a blowjob or a strip-tease, and you'll accept it like you always do because you need the money.
like clockwork, ashy breath in your ear, he asks for 'a favor.' you take your sweet little muffin to the free daycare in the apartment downstairs when their visit is over and when you come back, jack is in your bedroom.
he stands at your bedside, holding your pillow to his nose. you cling to the door-frame. "u-uhm... i thought..." he throws your pillow down and turns to you, pulling a pair of your panties from his pocket. "oh, t-those are... new," you plead. "don't take those, i've barely worn them."
"who'd you wear 'em for?" he shakes them, fat tongue wiggling angrily against his lips as he approaches you. "they don't smell right." once he's close enough, you snatch them. "nobody... not yet." jack teeters back and sits down on the edge of the bed, resting his cane against the corner post. he rubs away the ash powdered in his beard and wipes his hands against the thigh of his pants. his beady eyes take you down and he bites his lip when he reaches your toes. "come'ere."
you feel your pulse in your mouth as you bite your tongue. you lock your hands behind your back and tiptoe closer, keeping your gaze afloat. when you stop short, he yanks you closer by your wrist. he pushes his legs open and you sway into the space, wringing your fingers. you hesitate. "jack..." you put your hand on his shoulder and rub like you would a stray dog. "the mattress is cheap... the recliner, it'll be much better for your back. c'mon, i'll dance for you again, let you take more pictures... a video, if you want."
he grabs at your skirt with no warning and you push his hands, rolling it back down. "you don't have to do that, let's just--i'll suck your cock, let me t-" "oh, don't be like that..." he scolds, wrestling your skirt our of your grip and pushing it up. "you used to love showing me that pretty kitty, used to spread her for me, beg me to lick her. you made such cute sounds. you remember that? huh? what happened?"
"that was a long time ago," you murmur. "i'll take them off in the living room, please." he pulls your panties down and you swing your hips away. he hooks his arm around the back of your thighs and smushes your swirly bush against his face. you panic, pushing at his shoulders, whimpering. he groans, hoarse and raunchy, kneading your supple backside in his leathery hands. "jack!" you gasp, eyes burning with tears when you feel his drooling tongue searching for your slit. your nipples harden and you pinch them, punish them.
he begins to lean back, pulling you, and you hold the post, knocking over his cane. you brace your knee against the bed but all that does is spread you, you've made more room for him to move in, and he makes obscene noises as he flicks his tongue against your lonely little clit. the way you awaken, harden, and clench makes you want to cry. you grip his grey curls without thinking and... you lose. you're flooded with flashbacks that dizzy you and it's his hefty fist that knocks down your walls, pummels your fighting pride.
through gritted teeth, lip curled up, you slowly begin to hump. you shouldn't, but you love it. you love his scratchy beard, and his dingy smell, and his pathetic suckling lips, so hungry for your juices. "ah, ah, mmm..." you pant and whine for your pervert, helping him along by spreading yourself open, like you used to, like he said. he smiles up at you, shaming you, and your eyes roll shut. you come so quickly, and your legs shake while you gnaw on your fingernails, gushing and squirming.
"good girl... yeah... there you go, that wasn't so hard. feels so good, huh? you remember?" he rubs and kisses along your inner thighs. you sink, shaking, into his lap and give him a jerky nod. he pushes your hair back and kisses you, hard, sucking at your bottom lip and bullying his tongue into your mouth. you can taste his favorite sour ale and taste yourself, smell your betrayal, and even as you cringe, ashamed, something deep in you revels.
he pulls back and slaps your thigh. "pick up my cane." you bend down and grab the gnarled wooden handle. "sorry-" "go get me a light and fix me a drink." he stands up and you stumble off his lap. you don't linger, remembering the last time his drink wasn't made so enthusiastically, and tug down your skirt on the way to the living room. his belongings sit discarded in a pile on the coffee table. you thumb through his wallet and find his lighter where his cash should be. you ponder the knowledge on the way to the fridge for his beer.
you return and find your bed his own, pillows propped up tall behind his back where he sits at the head. his prosthetic is propped up in the corner with his cane, his boots strewn around, kicked off. he has a hand down his pants and a cigarette in his mouth. you climb to his side and light the end, leaving his beer on the bedside table. he takes a drink, a drag, and blows the smoke in your face.
you cough, waving it away. "ah, you're fine," he grunts. he wiggles his zipper down and looks at your chest. "take that off 'er... pull your tits out." you lower the straps of your tank-top. "can i ask something... jack?" "mm." "how much... money will i get? will i get more? 'kota's gonna start school soon..." he ashes his cigarette onto the floor and un-tucks his stained wife beater, revealing his stiff, hairy belly. he's lost muscle since you last saw him, he's softer, but it makes you tingle maybe worse than before.
he tugs his boxers down and his cock falls out, heavy and growing, and he settles back. "go on n' sit on it, we'll talk about it after." you raise up onto your knees. "what about-" "after. other way, show me your butt," he tells you. you maneuver around, knees on either side of his hips. you have only a glimpse of him in the distant mirror, half of his face. maybe you'll turn around later?
he helps you bunch up your skirt around your hips and you feel the blunt end of his cock brush your weepy hole. "w-wait." you tense, looking over your shoulder. "condom jack, what about a condom?" "i'll pull out." he grunts through his cigarette. "sit down." "you will?" "mhm." "jack, swear!" you whine. "say you promise-" "shh, shht, sit on my cock, you like it raw, you know you do..."
he digs his fingers into your hips and hauls you down as you pant, wiggling, unsure. you feel your walls start to stretch around his thick head and you fall face first, hips first, into his trust. "atta baby, trust me, yeah... all the way down..." he bottoms out, filling every spongy corner inside you and you fall apart, tilting your head back with a sigh. you hear him hum hoarsely in approval, feel him stroking a heavy hand down your back. a cloud of smoke comes curling over your shoulders, seeping into your nostrils, and you simply breathe it in. he spanks you. "earn your keep, girl."
with every rise and fall of your hips the edge of his heaving belly kisses your butt, his balls smudge your clit, and you shudder at it. he's stately beneath you, he's so much man, so much skin, so much warmth--you're happy you can't see him, you're too disgusted, too wet, obscenely wet. you hold back every moan and hide in your hair, wincing every time you clench at his gnarly sounds, dissecting your most intimate parts without an iota of affection. "mmmgn'yeah... fuck that fat dick, juicy little snatch ain'tcha... "
he spreads his thick, fuzzy thighs wide, and lazes there, puffing away, coughing, sloshing, smacking beer. his greed only humiliates you more. he gives you no direction, no 'slower,' no breaks, every decision to pleasure him is yours, every orgasm your choice, and you have so many. you go off like a firework inside every time he rubs your feet, gropes a hump of fat that pleases him, thumbs at your second hole. you bounce through it, stiff-spine, but your legs tremble. he slips out each time, and each time he says, "stuff that fuckin' dick back in, don't you push me out again," and pulls your hair, bangs bruises into your backside, or pinches you. you fawn at his piggish anger, apologize, and lower back down, closer than before.
you get as swollen and sloppy as him, as belligerently drunk. your fractured view of him in the mirror is a contagion, his hooded eyes, his degrading glare. you're nothing but a doll to him. you rub your clit with your fist, crying and shrieking like some possessed thing, you hate him. he starts to pulse inside you, starts to grumble and groan, and you whimper over your shoulder. "pull out, don't cum in me, you promised." he's half-conscious but his eyes blacken and his lip curls up at you. "m'gonna flood that pussy... gonna cream you up pregnant." "please!" you shake your head and whine. "yeah, you want... want that hot load, shh... fuck it out, bounce that ass." he cups your hips.
"jack, no, n-no, please don't, i can't do--it's not fair--" you wiggle, frantic and hot, heart drumming, belly twisting. you fist your skirt and close your knees, and when he stars to cum, you bawl and bounce, pounding your hips down on him harder. "o-oh fuck, jack!" you milk every drop, he spills out of you, so much cum. his balls tighten and spasm beneath your knuckles, and you look down where you're joined, and you come too. you beat against his knees, grinding, humping even after you're spent and it hurts. you collapse when he's too soft to stay inside and fall forward into the space between his legs.
you sob, his stickiness pouring down your thighs, and you hug around your belly. five minutes later he's snoring and you're all alone, angry, petrified, hopeless, and still... so wet.
happy fathers day!
NOT CLINICALLY SIGNIFICANT
⤷ michael robinavitch x fem! resident! reader || 4.8k
synopsis. Robby tells himself he's paying attention because you're his resident. The explanation gets harder to defend with time.
warnings. attending/resident relationship, mutual pining, workplace romance, age gap, explicit sexual content, protected sexual intercourse.
The trauma bay smelled like antiseptic and the end of things, and you were at the sink, back to him, hands under the tap, humming.
He'd clocked it forty-three minutes ago. Done absolutely nothing useful with the information since.
Robby kept his eyes on the chart. He was, objectively, a man capable of extraordinary focus under extraordinary pressure — this had been proven, repeatedly, in rooms far worse than this one — and yet here he was, reading the same line about magnesium levels for the fourth time because you were humming something without any apparent awareness of his existence.
That was the thing that got him, if he was being precise about it. The total lack of awareness. Like you were alone in the room. Like the fact of him standing eight feet away was information your nervous system had simply not received and wasn't particularly interested in processing.
"Are you signing off on Martinez or are you planning to stand there all night?"
You turned around. Hands still wet. "Her oxygen sat's been stable for two hours. I was doing one last check." You reached for a paper towel, unhurried. "Good evening."
"It's nearly midnight."
"Good evening, Dr. Robinavitch."
He did not look up. He was very deliberate about not looking up. "Paperwork first. Pleasantries second. Order of operations."
"I'll keep that in mind." Perfectly pleasant. Not a trace of sarcasm. Impervious. Like being curt with you was something that happened to other people and simply bounced off you. He'd watched it happen across an entire shift — residents trying to one-up each other and you deflecting it with some mild observation about coffee going cold, a nurse coming at you frazzled and leaving calmer, and him, standing at the nurses' station, doing the thing where he read the same line four times.
He watched you cross the bay to get the chart, moving through the wreckage of twelve hours like you had a fundamental dispute with the idea that any of it had been hard.
He looked back at the magnesium levels. They remained uninteresting. Across the bay, you turned off the tap and the humming stopped, and somehow that was worse — the sudden awareness of its absence, the way the room rearranged itself around the quiet.
Robby set the chart down. Picked it back up. Read the magnesium levels a fifth time.
He'd been an asshole. He was aware of this with the specific clarity of someone who knew and had decided, at some point, that knowing was sufficient.
It hadn't started that way. He'd been neutral in the beginning, the way he was with most residents — professionally indifferent, appropriately demanding, nothing beyond. And then somewhere between you explaining to a thirty-seven-year-old construction worker why he needed to stay still and not, in your words, be a hero about the needle, because you'd dealt with actual heroes today and they had all, uniformly, behaved themselves — something had shifted. Slowly. The kind of shift where you don't notice until the geography's already changed and you're standing somewhere you didn't plan to be. And by the time he'd noticed, the only thing he knew how to do was be curt about it.
The curt had escalated. He corrected your charting when it didn't need correcting. He'd sent you to the Mathers consult — a three-hour admit, the kind that hollowed a person out — and watched you handle it with the patient attentiveness of someone who didn't know there was another option. He'd told himself it was assessment. He'd told himself a lot of things.
Then was the supply closet.
Pediatric case. Bad, in the quiet way. He'd delivered the news himself and sent everyone back to their stations and gone to chart it, and he couldn't find you anywhere. He checked the on-call room. Then, following some dim instinct he chose not to examine, he tried the supply closet.
You were on the floor, back against the IV bag shelf, knees pulled up, crying.
He stood in the doorway. Thought about leaving.
You looked up. And then — immediately, the reflex of it — you said "I'm sorry" and started to wipe your face. Then you tried to smile at him. Eyes wet, nose red, and you assembled a smile. Like you'd built one in advance for whoever came through the door so they wouldn't have to deal with the crying. Like you'd gotten efficient at this.
That ate at him. He couldn't name it more precisely. Something about the apologizing, and then immediately the smile, in that order, bothered him in a way he didn't have a word for.
He stepped inside and let the door close. "You don't need to be back out in thirty seconds."
"It's unprofessional."
"You're a resident. First one?" He meant the loss. You understood, nodded once. "Then it's biology. Not a failing."
He wasn't good at this. He knew that. There was a box of tissues on the shelf nearest him and he handed it to you, because it was the only object in reach that might approximate the gesture of offering something, and you looked at it and then laughed — barely, a wet sound, but a real one.
"That's not what I—" he started.
"No, I know." You took one anyway, turned it over in your hands. "Thank you."
He stood there another minute. Couldn't leave. Watched you put yourself back together the way you apparently did everything — methodically, without drama, heel of your hand to your eye, one slow breath, and then back. Like a person who had practice.
He went back to his charts and was sharp with two nurses and a second-year before he'd made it to the bay, and didn't connect the two things until weeks later.
Then was the case of the blueberry muffins. In a container with a lid that didn't close properly, and every time there was one sitting on the counter near the coffee maker, and every time an attending found their way over within twenty minutes. He'd eaten four of them across separate occasions. He never planned to acknowledge this.
You hummed when you were focused. A different song every shift, always half-familiar, always just past where he could name it. It was maddening in a way that defied professional articulation.
Every patient remembered your name. Not just remembered — asked for you specifically, used it. He'd had a seventy-three-year-old man with a hairline hip fracture ask him to send back "the nice one, who explained the scan thing." He'd known immediately. He'd sent you. He'd told himself this was about patient outcomes.
He started cataloguing things. Unconsciously, the way you develop a reflex. The way you always sat down to explain a diagnosis — never stood over them. The fact that you took notes by hand on rounds and had told him, unprompted, early on, as if expecting to be corrected, that you retained it better that way. He hadn't corrected it. The snack bars you kept in your coat pocket and distributed to nurses around hour eight without making anything of it. The way you said thank you to orderlies. The way you phrased bad news — he'd noticed the phrasing, catalogued it, thought about it.
He had no use for any of this information. He kept it anyway.
There was a morning, somewhere in the middle of all of it, when he'd been post-call and running on three hours and you'd appeared at the nurses' station with coffee you handed to him before he'd asked, or looked like he needed it, or given any outward indication whatsoever that he was capable of human wants.
"How did you know I take it black?" he said.
"I didn't." You were already walking away. "I just figured if you were you, you probably didn't want anything done to it."
He'd stood there for a moment with the coffee in his hand.
He'd been annoyed about it. The presumption of it, the casual intimacy of the gesture, the fact that you'd got him right. He'd been annoyed about it right up until the moment he'd taken a sip and thought, with a clarity that three hours of sleep had done nothing to dull, that he was in actual trouble.
The Torres chart hand-off happened on a Tuesday. You came up behind him at the nurses' station and he smelled the muffins before you'd said anything.
"Torres hand-off. She's been stable since fourteen hundred hours, no fever. I flagged a note about the blood pressure trend — it's within normal, I just wanted to document I'd been watching it."
"I can read."
"I know you can read." Still pleasant. "She also wants me to tell you you have a nice voice."
"She's seventy-one and on morphine."
"She said it before the morphine." You set the chart down. "There's a muffin on the counter."
He took the chart and didn't look up, and he stood there for a moment after you'd gone and thought, with some irritation, that he'd been tracking Torres's blood pressure every two hours all shift. He hadn't flagged it. He fixed the formatting error at the top of page two — not because it was egregious, it wasn't — and didn't tell you about it. He told himself this was efficiency and moved on before he could disagree with himself.
Jack waited until the lounge was empty. In retrospect, Robby should have taken that as a warning.
They were both doing charts. Fourteen minutes of workable silence, which was the best kind, and then Jack said without looking up, "Kowalski was at the nurses' station again."
Robby said nothing.
"Third time this week. Ortho. No clinical reason to be down here three times in a week." A pause. "He keeps asking about her."
"Her who?"
"Your her."
"She's not — she's a resident. She's on shift."
"That's not what he's asking." Jack closed his laptop. That was always the tell — the deliberate setting-aside, the signal that you were in a conversation now, predetermined. He looked at Robby with the patience of a man who has decided to wait you out. "You want to say anything about that?"
"I don't have anything to say about Kowalski."
"No. But you've been short with her."
"I'm short with everyone."
"Not the same short." Jack leaned back. "You corrected her on a splint she did correctly. I checked afterward."
Robby set his pen down. Picked it back up. "I don't know what you want me to say."
"I don't want you to say anything." Jack opened his laptop again. Closed it. "You know what I think?"
"No. But I suspect you're going to—"
"I think you've been so busy being her attending that you forgot she's going to leave and be someone else's problem in about eight months." A pause. "And I think that bothers you."
Robby looked at the coffee. Then the chart. Then some middle distance between the two.
"He's going to ask her to dinner. Kowalski."
The coffee in Robby's mug was still warm. He looked at it.
"Let him," he said.
Jack made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "Sure," he said, and opened the laptop for the last time.
He went to the attending lounge because it was past two in the morning and he needed somewhere to sit that wasn't the nurses' station, and you happened to be there when he opened the door.
Asleep in the chair by the window. Your chart was still open in your lap. Pen loosely between your fingers. At some point, the sleep had simply won.
He stood in the doorway for a moment.
There was a warmth in his chest that was entirely inconvenient and he looked at it sideways, the way you look at something too bright. You'd been here since seven that morning. He knew this without meaning to know it — knew which admits you'd taken, what you'd ordered for the woman in bay three, that you'd eaten something from the vending machine at fourteen hundred because you'd complained about it to Dana with the mournfulness of someone deeply wronged by a sandwich. He'd started logging your schedule without any conscious decision to do so. That was a recent development he hadn't examined closely.
He should go to the couch. Do his own charts.
He stood there another moment. You looked cold. He picked up the green blanket — the ones you sometimes used, which he had no reason knowing — and draped it over your body. Tucked under your feet for good measure.
Then he stepped back and eased the door shut, very quietly, and stood under the fluorescent light of the hallway, and thought: oh.
The acknowledgment of something he'd been refusing to file anywhere useful for long enough that the refusal had become its own noise. Oh. Right. He understood now why Jack had closed his laptop.
He was reviewing a discharge summary in the corridor, and you stepped out of the lounge with the green blanket under your arm and walked directly into his eyeline. He wasn't staring. Sure, he wasn't.
"Were you out here when I fell asleep?"
"Yep."
"You didn't sleep?"
"I checked the lounge. You were in there."
"That's not an answer."
He'd underestimated you in that specific way, in the beginning — the quiet refusal to be redirected. You did it without any sharpness, without confrontation, like you'd noticed it and decided not to. It surprised him the first time. It had never stopped surprising him, exactly.
"I didn't want to wake you," he said.
You stopped. Something crossed your face that he couldn't quite catch the shape of. "That was actually very considerate of you."
"You sound surprised."
"A little." You tucked the blanket more firmly under your arm. "You've been different lately."
"I'm professionally consistent."
"Dr. Robinavitch." Very patient. "I watched you make a first-year cry over a documentation error."
"His documentation was wrong."
"Mine had a formatting error on the Torres file. Page two. You didn't say anything."
He said nothing.
"You fixed it yourself." Still not accusing — just noticing. "I saw the edit timestamp."
The corridor was quiet. A monitor beeped down the hall in its steady automated note.
"You didn't have to do that," you said. Softer now. "I would've caught it."
"I know you would have."
A pause. You were looking at him with that look — the curious one, the one that felt like you were trying to work something out carefully, without making a production of it. Like he was a thing worth figuring out. Like you'd decided to be patient about it.
He found he had nothing useful to say to any of that. You opened your mouth and he thought for a second you were going to say something that would require him to respond in kind, and he wasn't ready for that, not in a corridor at three in the morning with the green blanket under your arm and his chest doing what it was doing.
"Get some sleep," he said. "In an actual bed. Not a chair."
"Are you worried about me?"
"I'm concerned with your clinical function tomorrow if you're running on four hours in a—"
"Robby."
Just his name. Without the professional buffer of the title, and the way you said it — quiet, slightly tentative, like you were testing whether it was allowed—
"The blanket," you said. "In the lounge. Was that you?"
He looked at you.
You looked back, and there was nothing confrontational in it, nothing probing, just — curious, and underneath that, something that was almost gentle. Waiting.
"Go to sleep," he said, and walked back toward the bay.
He didn't quite remember, in the moment, how you got here.
That was a lie. He remembered exactly — you'd followed him into the on-call room with a consult chart, and you'd asked him something, and he'd turned around and you were closer than he'd expected, and the chart had ended up on the floor, and something that had been accumulating for a long time finally hit a pressure it couldn't sustain.
You'd kissed him first. Barely. More like you'd tipped toward him and he'd closed the remaining distance, which meant they were equally responsible, and he was prepared to argue this point at length.
Now your back was against the on-call room door and you were looking at him like he was slightly terrifying and very interesting, which was, objectively, the most appealing combination of expressions he'd seen in some time.
"Are we—"
"Yes."
"Okay." A breath. "Okay."
"Stop saying okay."
"What am I supposed to say?"
He pressed his mouth to the side of your neck and held it there — not moving, just breathing you in — until you went very still under him. He felt your pulse against his lips. He stayed there until you made a sound, small, involuntary, the sound of someone trying not to make a sound and losing the effort.
"Something more useful," he said against your skin.
Your hands found his collar. Fisted into it without quite pulling. "What do you want me to say?"
He pulled back enough to look at you. Already undone, and he'd barely started — the flush high on your throat, the way you were holding his shirt like it was the only fixed object in the room. Something settled in him that he recognised, distantly, as the opposite of the thing that had been sitting in his chest for months.
"Tell me what you want," he said.
You looked at him. Then sideways. Then back, with something stubborn in it underneath the flush. "You."
"More specific."
"Robby—"
"Dr. Robinavitch," he said, and watched your face cycle through several things.
"You cannot possibly be serious."
"I'm always serious." He undid the first button of your scrubs. "More specific."
Your breath came out uneven. "I want you to touch me."
"I am touching you."
"You know what I—" The thought didn't complete. He undid the second button and whatever you'd been about to say dissolved. "I want your hands on me. Properly."
"Properly," he said. "There you go."
He walked you back to the narrow bed and sat you on the edge of it. Then stood there for a moment — just looked. He had spent a professionally inadvisable amount of time not looking at you, deliberately, as a sustained practice, and he was going to allow himself a moment now that the situation had changed.
You looked back. Flushed, lower lip caught between your teeth.
He got your scrub top off, then the undershirt, then reached around and unclipped your bra. When you moved to cover yourself, he caught both wrists.
"Don't."
"I just—"
He pressed your wrists to the mattress, one on either side, gentle but deliberate, and held them there. You let him immediately. He filed that away. "Keep them there."
He took his time. He'd earned the right to take his time — all those months of being deliberately removed, of watching you from across the bay and looking back at his charts — he had accumulated a significant amount of patience that was now going to get spent in one place.
He put his mouth to your collarbone and worked down slowly, and every time you moved he said stay and felt you try, felt the effort of it in the tension running through you, your hands gripping the mattress. He got his mouth to your nipple and felt you arch up sharp, and he pulled back just enough.
"Stay still."
"I'm trying—"
"Try harder."
"Robby, please—" And there it was — the specific texture of your voice when you were overwhelmed, the thing he'd catalogued and refused to think about directly. The way it went soft and raw at the edges. Your eyes had gone glassy. "Please. I need—"
"Tell me what you need."
"You know what I need—"
"I do. I want you to say it."
You made a frustrated sound that turned into something else when he dragged his thumb along the inside of your thigh and stopped before it got useful. "I need you to touch me. Please. I need—please."
"Where?"
"You know where—"
"Where?" Quieter. Final.
"My cunt," you said, and your face went red saying it, and he pressed his mouth to your stomach to have somewhere to put the expression that wanted to happen. The slight mortification and the fact that you'd said it anyway. He was going to be thinking about that for a long time.
He pulled your scrubs down and the underwear followed, and he sat back on his heels and looked at you spread across the narrow mattress, flushed to your chest, thighs pressed together out of some residual instinct toward dignity, and thought with a startling clarity that you had absolutely no idea what you'd been doing to him.
He pressed his mouth to the inside of your thigh and felt you exhale shakily. Pressed it to the other. Kissed up slowly, felt you start to tremble, your thighs trying to close around him.
"You're already so wet," he said against your skin, and heard you make a sound. "I've barely done anything."
"Don't say it like that —" you whined.
"I'm just statin' what I see." He pressed his mouth to you properly and felt you gasp, felt your hands go immediately into his hair. He worked you slowly, his tongue flat against your clit and then pointed, then flat again, and two fingers pressing inside you, curling — and you made sounds he was going to be hearing in his head for years, the pitch of them, the way they went higher when he changed the pressure. He brought you right to the edge, felt it in the way you tightened around his fingers and your thighs started shaking—
And he stopped.
"What—" The outrage of it, immediate and genuine. Your hips chased nothing. "I was so close, I was right—please—"
"Tell me what you want."
"I want you to make me come," you said, without hesitation this time, and your voice was wet at the edges and your eyes were wet, actual tears on your lashes, and he pressed his mouth to the inside of your knee and held it there for a second.
"Please," you added, smaller. "Please. Robby."
He put his mouth back, and this time he didn't stop. He held your hips down with his forearms and kept the pressure steady and relentless, worked two fingers inside you in a rhythm that he'd figured out about four minutes in and was going to use mercilessly, and you came hard — shaking, properly shaking, both hands fisted in his hair, his name said so many times it became something else. He kissed your inner thigh through the end of it and felt you go loose by degrees.
He straightened. You had tears running down your temples. He kissed them away without entirely deciding to, and you laughed weakly.
"I'm just bein' thorough." He got his scrubs off, found the condom from the pocket he'd put it in on a hope, and looked up to find you watching him with red-rimmed eyes and an expression of dazed, complete attention.
"Stop looking at me like that," he said.
"Like what?"
He didn't answer. He settled over you and paused — his forearm beside your head, his weight on his knees — and just looked at you for a moment.
"Robby." Breathless. "Please."
"I've got you," he said, quietly, and pressed in slow.
He felt you exhale under him, felt you shift to pull him deeper, felt your legs wrap around him before he'd done anything. He set a pace that was, he'd admit only to himself, not particularly controlled — the months of it had a way of making themselves felt when the situation finally changed. He pressed his mouth to your ear and told you exactly what you felt like — and he was precise about it, anatomical in a way that made you shiver, hot and tight and so fucking wet that he'd had to think about something else when he'd first pushed inside you — told you what he'd been thinking about, in terms that left nothing abstract.
You made a sound into his shoulder that he was going to think about for a long time.
"You've been thinking about this?" you managed.
"At length."
"How long?"
"Longer than is appropriate." He pressed deeper and felt you gasp. "Considerably." He pulled back and pushed in again, slow, deliberate in the way that he could feel you registering — the way your breath caught, the way your nails pressed into his back. "You want me to tell you how long?"
"Yes," you said, slightly desperate.
"When you had the Torres admit. You were at the nurses' station and you leaned over to get a chart and your scrubs—" He stopped for a second because the memory had found him at an inconvenient angle. "I had to go chart something."
"You left because of me?"
"I left before I did something professionally unsound." He pressed a hand to the back of your thigh and pushed it higher, changed the angle, felt you make an embarrassingly gratifying sound. "Stop talking."
"You were the one who—"
"Stop talking," he said, and moved, and you did.
You cried through the second orgasm — actual tears, the way he'd half-expected, your face buried in his shoulder, both arms around his neck, holding on. He kissed the side of your face. The corner of your eye. Felt you clutch at him like you'd decided he was staying.
When he followed he was considerably less composed than he'd planned, face in your hair, your name said once, very quietly.
He hadn't meant to fall asleep. He understood this approximately fifteen minutes later when he woke to find you beside him, awake, looking at some mid-distance point with the expression of someone slowly processing a sequence of events and finding it, on the whole, acceptable.
"You fell asleep," you said.
"I rested my eyes."
"For fifteen minutes."
He looked at his watch. "Thirteen."
"Fifteen." You turned your head. Still flushed. He was not going to have feelings about that. "Should I—" You gestured vaguely toward the door.
"In a minute." He pulled you back before he'd consciously decided to, and you went without resistance, settled against him like you'd considered the geometry and found it reasonable. "Stop thinking so loudly."
"I'm not thinking loudly."
"You are." A pause. "Say it."
"I was just going to say." You seemed to be choosing words with some care. "This doesn't have to be weird."
"It's not weird."
"You've been weird about me for a while."
He looked at the wall for a moment. "Months," he said.
You lifted your head. Looked at him. He looked back with the equanimity of a man who had made a decision and was now on the other side of it.
"Months," you repeated.
"Don't make it a thing."
"You had a crush on me." The laugh was already happening, quiet, against his shoulder. "You've been making my shifts difficult because you had a crush."
"I don't have a crush. I'm almost fifty."
"You made a first-year cry."
"His documentation—"
"Was wrong, yes." You were laughing properly now, helpless, into his skin, and he let it happen and did not find it as irritating as he should have. "You fixed my formatting error. You ate four muffins."
"I ate one. Maybe two."
"Dana counted. She has a tally."
He absorbed this.
"Dana has a tally," he said.
"Apparently she's been running it since March."
He sat with that for a moment. The cart with the squeaky wheel went past outside, its regular circuit, the one maintenance had been promising to fix for weeks. He'd started timing the rounds. He wasn't going to tell you that.
"Robby," you said, quieter.
"Mm."
"The blanket." A pause. "It was you."
He said nothing.
You pressed your face back into his shoulder. He felt you smiling — actually felt it, the shape of it against his collarbone — and didn't say anything about it.
"Thank you," you said, very small. "For not waking me up."
He didn't answer.
You settled more completely against him. Outside, the hospital kept going — someone called down the hall, a monitor beeped its steady note, the cart made another pass. He listened to the intervals and thought this was probably fine. More than probably.
A thought occurred to him, belatedly. "Did Kowalski ask you to dinner?"
A pause.
"Last Thursday," you said.
"What did you say?"
Another pause. Longer. He could feel you deciding whether to make him ask twice.
"I said I was busy," you said.
"Were you?"
"No." You shifted against his shoulder. "But I had a feeling I'd be busier."
He didn't say anything. Outside, the cart went past again with its squeaky wheel.
"Robby," you said, half-asleep already.
"Go to sleep."
"Everyones's going to know."
"Hmm."
A pause. "Does that bother you?"
He thought about that for a moment. Dana had apparently been running a tally since March. Dana had apparently noticed before he had. That was its own kind of information about the past several months that he chose not to examine too closely.
"No," he said.
"Is that okay?"
He looked at the top of your head. "Go to sleep," he said.
a/n - thank you for reading. comments and reblogs are appreciated.
The Work Husband Clause
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 2, 980
Summary: John Shen brings you a 48-ounce Dunkin' iced latte; fake marriage paperwork is discussed; and Jack Abbot discovers his girlfriend has a work husband.
Warnings: Established relationship, workplace teasing, jealous-but-not-really jealous Jack, Shen, and Reader being absolute menaces, fake marriage pact, excessive Dunkin, one deeply offensive sweet coffee beverage, no real angst.
Author’s Note: This is pure nonsense, and I love it. Jack is secure in his relationship, but unfortunately, his girlfriend and her work husband have paperwork, annual reviews, and a beverage vessel. Pray for him. Thank you @jennataurus for the idea!
Xoxo, Del
Jack saw Shen before he saw the drink. That was his first mistake. Shen walking into the emergency department was not unusual. Shen walking into the emergency department with that particular expression on his face was.
Too calm. Too neutral. Too deliberately innocent.
Jack narrowed his eyes from the other side of the nurses’ station.
Then he saw what Shen was carrying.
For one brief and terrible second, Jack thought it was medical equipment.
Then he saw the ice. Then he saw the straw.
Then he saw your face light up like Shen had walked in carrying a diamond ring, a rescue puppy, and a winning lottery ticket.
“Oh my god,” you said, already abandoning your chart. “You got it.”
Shen set the container on the counter with the solemn care of a man presenting evidence in court. “Blueberry Cobbler Iced Latte. Forty-eight ounces.”
You pressed both hands to your chest. “John.”
Jack looked at the bucket. Then he looked at Shen. Then he looked at you.
“No,” Jack said.
You turned toward him, smiling. “You don’t even know what this is.”
“I know enough,” Jack replied.
“It’s the bucket,” you said, like that explained anything.
“It is not a bucket,” Shen said.
Jack stared at him. “It absolutely is.”
“It’s a beverage vessel.” Shen corrected.
Jack stared at him. “It has a handle.”
“That doesn’t make it a bucket,” Shen grumbled.
You leaned over the counter and kissed Shen’s cheek. Jack went still. Shen went very still, too, but not because he was nervous.
No.
Because he knew.
Jack watched Shen’s mouth twitch once before he smoothed his expression back into something infuriatingly calm.
“Thank you,” you said sweetly.
Shen nodded. “Of course.”
Jack pointed between you and Shen. “Don’t love that.”
You blinked at him. “What?”
“The cheek kiss,” Jack answered.
Shen looked down at the drink. “It was a gratitude kiss.”
Jack’s eyes shifted to him. “Dunkin.”
Shen’s brows lifted. “Is that me?”
Jack nodded once, “It is now.”
You pressed your lips together. Jack knew that face. He loved that face. He also knew that face meant you were about thirty seconds away from making his life worse on purpose.
“Jack,” you said gently.
“No,” Jack said. “You don’t get to ‘Jack’ me when Dunkin just walked in with forty-eight ounces of sugar and got kissed for it.”
Shen glanced down at the container. “It does have two straws.”
“That makes it worse,” Jack replied.
You picked up one of the straws with reverent fingers. “It’s for sharing.”
“With your boyfriend?” Jack said, jerking his head in John’s direction.
You smiled. “With my work husband.”
Jack’s jaw tightened. There it was. Shen took one small, thoughtful step closer to you, like a man approaching a live wire just to see what would happen.
Jack watched him do it. He watched you notice. He watched both of you decide, silently and instantly, to be problems.
“I’m sorry,” Jack said. “Your what?”
“My work husband,” you said, very seriously.
Shen nodded once. “It’s an administrative title.”
“Administrative,” Jack repeated.
“Very little romance involved,” Shen said.
Jack stared at him. “Very little?”
You touched Jack’s chest. “Jack, be fair. John and I have survived a lot together.”
“Long shifts,” Shen said.
“Bad coffee,” you added.
“Printer failures,” Shen said.
“The cafeteria meatloaf incident,” you said.
Shen’s expression darkened. “We don’t discuss that.”
You nodded. “Out of respect for the dead.”
Jack looked between the two of you and inhaled slowly through his nose.
He was a grown man. A physician. A professional. He had handled trauma bays, impossible calls, mass casualties, and patients who thought WebMD had more authority than medical school. He was not going to let two adults and a container of dessert coffee dismantle him in the middle of his emergency department.
You slid the bucket toward Shen. “First sip goes to the provider.”
Jack’s head turned. “Provider?”
“He provided the bucket,” you said.
Shen took the straw with grave dignity. “I accept this responsibility.”
Jack watched him take a sip.
You leaned in, eyes bright. “Well?”
Shen considered it for a moment. “Sweet.”
You nodded. “Expected.”
“Artificial blueberry,” Shen said.
“But fun artificial?” You asked.
Shen took another sip. “Aggressively fun.”
You pointed at him. “That’s what I thought.”
Jack stared. “You haven’t even tasted it yet.”
You gave Jack a look, “I know John’s palate.”
Jack went still again.
Shen lowered the straw. “You walked into that one.”
“I did not walk into anything,” Jack said.
You looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Are you jealous of John’s palate?”
“No,” Jack replied immediately.
Shen tilted his head. “He seems jealous of my palate.”
Jack pointed at him. “You are on thin ice.”
“Appropriate,” Shen said, glancing at the bucket. “Given the beverage.”
You made a sound like you were trying not to choke.
Jack looked down at you. “Do not laugh at that.”
You covered your mouth. “I’m not.”
“You are,” Jack said.
You pointed to Shen and said, “I’m being supportive of my work husband’s humor.”
Jack stared at you. You smiled sweetly.
Shen leaned slightly toward you. “I feel supported.”
Jack closed his eyes.
Not yet, he told himself. It is too early in this shift to ask God for intervention.
When he opened them, you were holding the straw toward him.
“Try it,” you said.
Jack shook his head, “No.”
“One sip.” You implored.
Jack’s brow furrowed. “I already know I’m going to hate it.”
“That’s not very scientific,” Shen said.
Jack didn’t look away from you. “Dunkin, I am not discussing the scientific method with you over a bucket of sugar milk.”
You lifted the straw another inch. “For me?”
Jack looked at your face. That was unfair. Everything about your face was unfair. He sighed like a man accepting his own execution, leaned down, and took the smallest sip possible. His face changed immediately.
You brightened. “Well?”
Jack swallowed with effort. It was worse than he expected. It was sweet in a way that felt personally aggressive. It tasted like someone had taken a blueberry muffin, drowned it in melted ice cream, panicked, and added more sugar.
Jack looked at both of you. “Well, that’s horrific.”
You gasped. “Jack.”
Jack grimaced, “It tastes like someone liquefied a blueberry muffin, panicked, and added more sugar.”
Shen took the bucket back and considered that. “Not inaccurate.”
You pointed at him. “Do not side with my actual boyfriend against me.”
Jack’s head turned. Actual boyfriend. That helped. He hated that it helped.
He was not jealous of John Shen. He was not jealous of the drink. He was not jealous of the cheek kiss, the work husband title, or the fact that Shen apparently had a detailed working knowledge of your coffee preferences. Jack was simply opposed to nonsense.
That was all.
You smiled up at him. “Yes. Actual boyfriend.”
Shen lifted one hand. “Work husband acknowledges the hierarchy.”
Jack looked at him. “Temporary husband.”
Shen blinked. “I don’t remember agreeing to temporary.”
“You don’t need to agree,” Jack replied.
Shen frowned, “I feel like I should.”
“You shouldn’t,” Jack said.
You took the bucket back from Shen. “For legal accuracy, the arrangement is currently suspended.”
Jack looked down at you. “The arrangement.”
You nodded solemnly. “Until further notice.”
“Or forty,” Shen added.
Jack’s gaze moved slowly back to him. “Excuse me?”
Shen took a careful breath, like he was about to present lab results. “If neither of us is married by the time we are forty, we’ve agreed to enter a mutually beneficial domestic partnership.”
You nodded. “For practical reasons.”
Jack stared at you.
“Tax benefits,” you said.
“Shared expenses,” Shen added.
“Emergency contact efficiency,” you said.
“Mutual tolerance,” Shen added.
Jack looked between you. “You rehearsed that.”
You and Shen said, “No,” at the exact same time.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. You smiled. Shen sipped the drink.
Jack looked toward the ceiling.
Dear God, he thought, then stopped himself. Not yet. He could still handle this.
“You’re not single,” Jack said.
You patted his chest. “I know.”
“So the pact is void.” Jack continued.
Shen lifted one finger. “Suspended.”
Jack pointed at him. “Void.”
“Suspend—”
“Void.” Jack cut him off.
You sighed softly. “This is a difficult day for the marriage.”
Shen nodded. “We’ll need time to heal.”
Jack stared at the two of you. “Marriage.”
“Future potential marriage,” you clarified.
Jack frowned, “Not better.”
Ellis, who had been pretending not to listen from two feet away, slowly lowered her chart.
“Do I want to know?” Ellis asked.
“No,” Jack said.
“Yes,” you and Shen said together.
Jack looked down at you. You smiled up at him, bright and delighted and absolutely unrepentant.
Ellis’s eyes landed on the bucket. “Is that coffee?”
“Allegedly,” Jack said.
Shen lifted the container. “Blueberry Cobbler Iced Latte. Forty-eight ounces.”
Ellis blinked. “That sounds disgusting.”
Jack pointed at her. “Thank you.”
You gasped. “Ellis.”
Ellis glanced at Jack’s face, then at Shen, then at you. “Why does this feel like I walked in on something personal?”
“Because you did,” Jack said.
Shen shook his head. “It’s not personal. It’s a product review.”
Jack looked at him. “You announced a suspended marriage pact.”
Ellis’s face lit up. “A what?”
You waved a hand. “It’s not active.”
“Not active,” Shen agreed.
Jack’s eyes shifted to him.
“Void,” Shen corrected.
Ellis blinked. “Do you two have paperwork?”
You nodded solemnly. “A shared note.”
Shen added, “Reviewed annually.”
Jack looked at him. “You have annual paperwork?”
“To assess the health of the union,” Shen said.
“Coffee compatibility,” you said.
“Update emergency contact information,” Shen added.
“Long-term tax strategy,” you finished.
Jack stared at you. “You’re making that up.”
You and Shen said, “No,” at the exact same time.
Jack’s eyes narrowed.
Ellis looked delighted. “What else is in the paperwork?”
Jack pointed at her. “Do not encourage them.”
Shen cleared his throat. “There is the intimacy clause.”
Jack went completely still. Ellis’s chart lowered another inch.
“The what?” Jack asked.
“The intimacy clause,” you said, very seriously.
Shen nodded. “One night of passionate lovemaking per calendar year to maintain the marriage.”
Jack stared at him.
You nodded along solemnly. “For the health of the union.”
“And morale,” Shen added.
Jack’s head turned toward you. “Morale.”
“It’s important,” you said.
“Vital,” Shen agreed.
Jack pointed at the bucket. “Dunkin.”
Shen blinked. “Yes?”
“Never use the phrase ‘passionate lovemaking’ in a sentence about my girlfriend again.”
Shen considered him. “Would ‘annual intimacy maintenance’ be better?”
Jack looked at him, “No.”
You pressed your lips together. “Less romantic.”
Jack looked down at you. “You are not helping.”
“I’m grieving the clause,” you said.
Jack stared at you.
Ellis made a strangled sound behind her chart.
Shen took a slow sip from the bucket. “This is difficult for all parties.”
Jack closed his eyes. Dear God, grant me patience, Jack thought. Because if you grant me strength, Shen is not making it out of this emergency department.
Then Shen set the bucket down and hooked an arm around your shoulders. You did not miss a beat. You slid your arm around Shen’s waist and leaned into his side with a grave little nod. “Privacy would be appreciated during this difficult transition.”
Jack opened his eyes. Ellis’s mouth opened slightly.
Jack pointed between you and Shen. “Separate.”
You blinked at him. “What?”
“Immediately,” Jack said.
Shen looked down at you. "Our bond threatens him.”
“I am threatened by nothing,” Jack said.
You patted Shen’s stomach. “It’s okay. He’s processing.”
Jack’s jaw flexed. “You have three seconds.”
Shen’s arm stayed exactly where it was. “Before what?”
Jack smiled.
It was not a nice smile.
Shen removed his arm.
You removed yours too, biting your lip hard enough that Jack could see the fight not to laugh all over your face.
“Smart,” Jack said.
Shen picked up the bucket again. “For the record, that separation felt hostile.”
Jack looked at him. “Good.”
You let the moment hang for exactly one second. Then you slid right into Jack’s side, your body fitting against his like that was where you had meant to be the whole time.
Jack’s eyes dropped to you.
Your smile went soft and wicked at the same time. “Better?”
Jack held your gaze. He was still annoyed. He was still trying not to look pleased. He was still failing.
“Marginally,” he said.
You hummed and smoothed your hands over his scrub top. “Only marginally?”
His hand settled at your waist before he could pretend he wasn’t going to touch you. “You’re pushing it, sweetheart.”
You grinned. “Don’t worry, Jack. You’re hotter than him.”
Shen’s head lifted. “Rude.”
Jack didn’t look away from you. “Dunkin.”
“Yes?” Shen replied.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Drink your muffin soup.”
You laughed into Jack’s chest. His mouth twitched despite himself, and his hand tightened gently at your waist.
“Better,” he admitted, quieter this time.
Ellis finally gave up pretending she was working. “Can I try the divorce coffee?”
Jack’s eyes shifted to her. For the first time since Shen walked in, Jack looked almost pleased.
“Divorce coffee,” he repeated.
You brightened. “Oh, that’s good.”
Shen nodded. “Accurate, but emotionally painful.”
“It is not emotionally painful,” Jack said. “It’s legally clarifying.”
Ellis held out a hand. “So can I try it?”
“Don’t,” Jack warned.
“Yes,” you and Shen said together.
Jack looked down at you. You smiled up at him, bright and delighted. Jack looked at the bucket. Then at Shen. Then at you. Then he exhaled slowly through his nose.
“Okay,” Jack said.
You blinked. “Okay?”
Jack nodded toward the other end of the nurses’ station. “You’re coming with me.”
Your mouth fell open, offended and delighted at the same time. “What?”
“I have been very patient,” Jack said.
“You have,” you said solemnly.
He continued, “I tried the muffin soup.”
“You did.” You agreed.
“I tolerated the cheek kiss,” Jack added.
You nodded, “You did.”
“I tolerated the work husband,” Jack said, almost with a grimace.
“Barely,” Shen said.
Jack pointed at him without looking away from you. “Temporary husbands do not get commentary.”
Shen nodded. “Understood.”
Jack looked back at you. “And now I’m taking my girlfriend ten feet that way so I can remember why I love her without Shen making tax comments.”
You glanced back at Shen, then at the bucket in his hand. Your face went dramatically mournful.
“No,” you whispered. “My husband. My coffee.”
Jack went completely still. Ellis made a sound behind her chart.
Shen looked down at you with grave sympathy. “I’ll miss you.”
Jack’s head turned slowly toward him. “Dunkin.”
Shen lifted one hand. “Right. Sorry.”
You pressed your lips together, shoulders shaking.
Jack looked down at you. “You are walking away with me, or I am confiscating the coffee.”
Your eyes widened. “You wouldn’t.”
“I absolutely would,” Jack replied.
You frowned, “You hate it.”
“I hate many things about this situation,” Jack said. “That has not stopped me yet.”
Shen hugged the bucket closer to his chest. “For the record, I object to seizure of communal property.”
“It is not communal property,” Jack said.
“It’s divorce coffee,” Ellis said.
Jack pointed at her. “Helpful.”
Ellis smiled. “Thank you.”
You slid your hand into Jack’s. “Fine. I’ll go.”
Jack’s fingers closed around yours. “Thank you.”
“But under protest.” You added.
Jack nodded once, “Noted.”
“And I want visitation rights.” You said.
Jack looked at you. “To Shen or the coffee?”
You looked genuinely torn. Jack’s eyes narrowed.
“The coffee,” you said quickly.
Shen nodded. “Hurtful, but wise.”
Jack tugged gently on your hand. “Move.”
You let Jack lead you away, still laughing under your breath. Halfway down the nurses’ station, you glanced back over your shoulder.
Shen mouthed, I miss you.
You coughed to hide your laugh.
Jack stopped walking. You froze.
He looked down at you. “What did he do?”
You replied quickly. “Nothing.”
Jack turned. Shen looked immediately busy with a chart, one hand still wrapped around the bucket.
Jack narrowed his eyes. “Dunkin.”
Shen did not look up. “Yes?”
“Do not make me come back there.”
Shen nodded, still not looking up. “Of course.”
Jack stared for another second, then turned back to you. You smiled up at him, innocent and hopelessly pleased. Jack shook his head, but his hand squeezed yours.
“You’re trouble,” he said.
Your smile brightened. “You love me.”
“I do,” Jack said.
You stepped closer, sliding your free hand up his chest again. “And I love you.”
Jack’s irritation loosened instantly. He hated how fast it happened.
No, he didn’t.
He loved it. Loved the way you could tug him out of himself with three words and one hand on his chest. Loved the way you smiled at him like he was exactly where you wanted to be, like Shen and the coffee and every ridiculous thing you had said were only funny because Jack was there to react to them.
“Even if John brings me forty-eight ounces of coffee,” you said.
Jack’s mouth twitched.
“Even if he’s my work husband.” You continued.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“Former work husband,” you corrected.
Jack nodded once, “Better.”
You smiled and rose onto your toes, brushing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re my actual everything.”
Jack went very still.
Behind you, Shen called, “Rude.”
Jack didn’t look away from you. For once, he didn’t even answer Shen. His hand slid more firmly around your waist, and his voice dropped low enough that only you could hear it.
“Yeah?”
You nodded, still smiling. “Yeah.”
Jack’s expression softened completely. Then he dipped his head and kissed you, quick but warm, like he couldn’t help it. When he pulled back, he looked almost annoyed with himself for melting so fast.
You grinned. “Better?”
Jack exhaled, thumb brushing once at your waist. “Much better,” he said.
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Mommy Shimi
TW: Use of mommy! Another short one because I don't have ideas but wanted to post mommy Al-hashimi 🤤🤤🤤.
A/N: Hiii, me again 🥰🥰. So I once more pulled this out of my ass and I don't like it but I really wanted to post some Al-hashimi content!! I honestly think I'm better at writing fanfics and blurbs than I am smaus..
perverted gynecologist jack abbot
idek how many kinks this has because this got dirty FAST. non con, naked female/clothed male, virginity stealing, power play since he’s a doctor lol, dumb reader lol, abbot is technically not a good man but oh well!!
perv!gyno abbot who you’re a little surprised on seeing, because he wasn’t your doctor at first.. but apparently there was ‘just some kind of mix up!’ according to your now ex doctor, so you just listened as he introduced you to your new doctor: dr. jack abbot. all you was said okay & let him proceed with the screening.
perv!gyno abbot who asks “so, why did you come here today?” you began to open your mouth to answer. “um.. they said i was scheduled for my yearly checkup so i just came..” abbot blinked at you. “so you don’t know what you’re getting looked at for exactly?” he said it in such a condescending tone it kind of intimidated you.. “no..” you replied, immediately wanting to slightly shrink into yourself.
perv!gyno abbot who then walks over to the dispenser box to pull out some blue gloves & then snaps them on, before speaking again- “well then. we will go ahead and begin the screening, but first, please remove your clothes.” wait what? did you hear him right?
perv!gyno abbot who didn’t stutter. he just stood there & watched you until you obeyed. so, you began to strip.. one piece of clothing dropping after another until you were completely bare naked. you felt so vulnerable & exposed in front of him, considering he was still fully clothed. you felt like he was devouring you with his gaze.
perv!gyno abbot who snapped you out of your daze when he spoke again.. “so, there will be three tests i will screen you for & then you’ll be good to go home, got it?” you found everything so weird but you still decided to go with it- so you nod.
perv!gyno abbot who calls the first test ‘the respond test’ to see how your body responds to certain feelings. he starts by bending down at your ankles, caressing your thick calfs, & traveling his tacky fingers up the back of your thighs, already seeing he has a fantastic view of your sweet pussy. he likes the way you shiver from his touch..
perv!gyno abbot who continues the test by standing up to your level, kneading his large, gloved hands all over your bare body, before cupping both your heavy breasts & squeezing hard- you can’t try to hide the way you’re so turned on anymore.. you moan as he gropes you, cool hands gliding against your nipples. “mm, you’re already fucking passing with flying colors, baby.” he groans out. he already knows how damp you are between those cute little thighs..
perv!gyno abbot who goes to the next part of the screening. he calls this one ‘the stretch test’ so, he directs you to get onto the examination table to spread your legs, & you’re a little scared as to what’s about to happen. dr. abbot can see your legs trembling. he tells you no need to worry, but all of that flies out of the window when you feel two, warm thick digits protruding into your raw cunt. when did the doctor take his gloves off?
perv!gyno abbot who revels in the way your pussy stretches around his fingers.. sucking him in so easily.. you squeak out when you feel him pumping his two fingers in deeper, “dr. abbot, what’s going on..? is this s-still apart of the test?” you feel so dirty when your legs begin to spread out more, soaking yourself around your doctors fingers .. “sh, sh, sh.. you’re doing very well. good girl.” jack nearly cums in his pants when he feels the way you contract & gush around his fingers because of his praise.
perv!gyno abbot who begins the final test by pulling his fingers out your sopping hole & replacing it with his stiff cock. you yelp at the foreign feeling, never having a cock inside you before now “s-sir!, stop! what’re you doing..?” your inner termoil comes to a stop when he replies to your question- “this is your last and final test. to see how well you can take a cock.”
perv!gyno abbot who grunts while thrusting in & out of your tight virgin pussy.. loving the way your cunt is clenching around him. your hole is widening because you’re trying to press him out of you, but that just makes him stuff his dick deeper into your wet, creamy hole. your tits are bouncing with each thrust as he gets rougher & rougher. you feel your bladder coming down & you panic.. “d-doctor! think ‘m gonna pee! can’t take anymore..!” but jack doesn’t care.. he knows that means you’re about to come. so he continues bullying his vieny cock into your slick pussy.
perv!gyno abbot who doesn’t care when you start spasming & spurting out hot squirts of liquid with each new pump that stains the bottom of his scrubs, he’s the one who kept pounding into you. but he’s not lasting any much longer when you can feel him stop thrusting all together to bottom out completely in you & use you as his own personal cum dump. you cry out when you realize what he’s doing to you, filling your hole up with his own hot, sticky substance. abbot loves the way he’s stealing every bit of your innocence.
perv!gyno abbot who after a few minutes, having slightly heavy breaths, pulls out of your cum filled cunt- cock semi-hard completely drenched in your juices only to then say: “congrats. you passed your screening.”
i never know if i want abbot to be nice or mean to me.. i think both lol.. hope this was decent!! <33
oh & jack made everything up he just wanted to fuck u lol
SugarDaddy!Tony Stark
TW: This is my first time doing this so it's lowkey ass, and very short like short 🥰🥰🥰.
A/N: Hiii, so this is literally my first time ever making a smau, and I don't really like how it turned out because I'm highkey in a writers block right now 😊😊😊. This is like the first part of my tony stark sugar daddy smau, and I truly don't know where I'm going with this but let's hope I get better, all I know is that I am in love with Tony Stark 🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤.
