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will byers stan first human second
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taylor price
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AnasAbdin
we're not kids anymore.
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@cyb3rstvr
CYB3RSTVR THINGS
about me:
hi ! i’m Dahyun :3🍓🐰
☆ 🍓19
☆ 🍓she/her
☆ 🍓Chuu and Chaeyoung enthusiast
☆ 🍓i love TWICE AND TXT
☆ 🍓requests are open and i’m always willing to listen to new ideas ✨
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☆ 🍓 Charlie Slimecicle
©️cyb3rstvr🍓
HE DOES THIS ON PURPOSE I BET LIKE WHY WOULD HE DO THIS
Saw this at work and screenshoted it so fast CHARLIE PLEASE
he’s so big it’s not even funny I need my head in between his arms. Look at his fingers they looks so long. Oh my god he would wreak me so badly, like he would be whimpering and telling me how good I’m taking his cock GOD DAMNIN
Okay so I hope me talking about it doesn’t mess anything up (but I did do a lot of manifesting so that should help), I went to a concert for a local band and kinda hit it off with one of the members and I mean we were talking before and after the bands performance. I genuinely like him even though we’ve only met once. Usually when I like a guy it’s actually hard for me to talk to him but with him it’s easy I could actually look him in the eye cause with my autism I am not good with eye contact. He made me smile and laugh, I really want this to work with him but he doesn’t use instagram and I won’t see him until next month at their next gig. Once I see him again I’ll ask him if he wants to hang out that night when I see him.
recently I've had this unhealthy obsession with ted nivison.
and by recently i mean every single day.
by this point he's not even a hear me out, he's an EAT ME OUT™.
If you wanna be an angel go follow my angel account where I also make books @loriang3l
GUYS MY AGE INSPIRED FAN FIC SERIES WITH CASSIE,LANGDON,AND JACK. Walk with me now.
HIM ON HIS KNEES FUCKKKKKK ITS NOT FUNNY ANYMORE GUYS
Oh if I ever get my hand on him trust he will not be let go, i would have him begging for me, on his knees every night before work, after work, at dinner, in the shower, on the counter in the kitchen, on the couch, in the car, on the floor god damnit I need him to fuck me it’s not even funny anymore
Frank Langdon fanfic where he’s addicted to just the sheer thought of you based around how deep is your love but the mitski version PLEASE UNDERSTAND MY THOUGHT PROCESS
Quinn really out here slutmaxxing Shawn's ass LMAO we are WELL fed
And honestly I’m not complaining
The aftermath of telling him "the glasses stays on" during sex
Im making a smut-fluff based off of this btw
it's a little bit messy | jack abbot
jack abbot x younger!reader ⋆˚꩜｡ 18+ MDNI !
summary: abbot’s hand should’ve never ended up between your thighs—because now you’re both trying to pretend it meant nothing, and neither of you is getting very far. [can be read as a standalone, but it's a loose pt 2 of this fic]
warnings: smut! car sex, panties being ripped, abbot yearns to the point of concern because he's down BAD for reader, reader cheats at beer pong & UNO because she can, a lil bit of angst but they fuck nasty so it's ok! thumb sucking, a lil bit of drooling, BITING, age gap implied, bad decisions being made, creampie (dont be like them), sexual tension, reader can't decide what she wants so abbot natrually fucks the decision into her ᝰ.ᐟ
wc: 7.9k
Abbot was certain you were avoiding him. It was the only explanation that made any kind of sense. It’d be impressive if it weren’t so annoying, the way you kept managing to be somewhere else the second he came into view. Turning corners like you’d just remembered something urgent, suddenly very invested in literally any patient that wasn’t his.
He could stop it. He’s your superior, he could just tell you to assist him with a patient, he’d even take the scraps of your attention if it was just to discuss something medical. All he’d have to do is say your name in that tone and you’d come over, all professional and tight around the edges, and help him like you’re supposed to.
He doesn’t, though.
Which is its own kind of pathetic.
Because apparently the possibility of you looking at him like he’s something you’d rather not touch is enough to keep him quiet. Enough to have him standing there, fully aware of what’s happening, and letting it happen anyway.
He knows why you’re doing it. There’s no mystery there, no confusion or theories he could hide behind. He crossed a line. A very clear, very avoidable line, and he crossed it like he wasn’t thinking.
His hand should’ve never ended up between your thighs.
For a lot of reasons. One, because he’s had the temptation for months and somehow managed to keep it under control until now, which makes this feel less like a mistake and more like a failure of character. And two, because he knew—knew—it was never going to be a one-off for him, no matter what the two of you said at the time.
You’re not the kind of girl who should settle for something casual, and he’s too damn old to be the kind of man who makes you come and sends you on your way, like that’s all there is to it. He’d want to make you breakfast, take you out to dinner, make space for you. Literally. A drawer at the very least.
Which, when he actually thinks about it, is a problem in itself.
The whole thing was a bad idea from the start.
And judging by the way you’ve been treating him since, you’ve come to your own conclusion about it. Pretend it didn’t happen, and hope it quietly dies if you starve it of attention.
And it pains him that you seem to be doing that so effortlessly.
Because he can’t get away from it. Not at work, especially not at home, not even in the stupid in between moments where his brain should be empty for once.
His kitchen, for example, is now completely unusable in any normal, mentally stable way. Even when he’s making his coffee, all he can seem to hear are the breaths and whimpers of you coming on his fingers, and not at all the beans being ground.
His shower is something else entirely. He can’t even wash in peace anymore, which feels like a new low. All it takes is one stray thought and he’s right back there, stuck on you admitting that you touched yourself in there.
He can’t even pretend these thoughts are occasional either. They’re constant. Always there. Even when he tries his hardest to drown them out. Which, again, is not ideal, given his job requires a baseline level of focus he is currently failing to maintain.
“Earth to Abbot. What do you want to do?” Shen asks, eyebrows raised, elbows and gown smeared with blood. “You’ve just completely dissociated on me, man.”
Abbot blinks. “Right,” he clears his throat. “Okay—no, we’re not happy with that. Suction.”
Shen passes it without comment, though there’s a look there. Curiosity? Mild concern?
“BP?” Abbot asks.
“Eighty-five systolic and dropping.”
He exhales through his nose, refocusing. “We’ve still got a slow bleed somewhere. Pack that for a second—no, properly, you’re not putting enough pressure on it. There.” He adjusts Shen’s hand without thinking. “Hold it like you mean it.”
Abbot was getting increasingly irritated as the night dragged on.
Usually that irritation worked in his favour, making him quicker and more precise, less tolerant of mistakes, including his own. It was useful.
Not tonight though.
Tonight that irritation sat under his skin, and refused to morph into anything productive. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, but nothing felt right either. And on top of that, there was an endless stream of patients, the usual rotation of problems that should be routine by now, but somehow tonight they felt entirely foreign. His hands didn’t even feel like they were attached to him properly.
And his thoughts, all they seemed to do was circle back to you.
The worst part of it all was that you were the one who said it was a one-off, implying you could both return to some sense of normalcy after that night, but you were doing everything that made him feel the opposite.
“Come get me if anything changes,” he says, voice clipped enough that Diaz doesn’t even try to say anything back, just nods like he knows better.
His gown comes off in a rough pull, fabric sticking slightly before it gives, not even close to white anymore. Gloves go next, snapped off quick, dropped wherever.
He doesn’t even really think about where he’s going until he spots you. Your back’s turned, which means you haven’t had the chance to clock him and disappear yet. There’s a second where he considers leaving it. Just walking the other way. But he’s never really been particularly good at making sensible decisions when it comes to you.
“You got a sec?” he calls out.
You turn, distracted at first, and then do a double take when it clicks that, yes, he’s actually talking to you. “Me?” you ask, pointing at yourself. “Surgery has already been paged twice for my patient in bay one.”
He almost sighs at that. Not because it’s wrong, but because of course it’s something that’s already spiralled into multiple specialties and escalating calls and everyone pretending they’re not responsible for it.
“Yeah,” he says anyway, stepping closer before he can overthink it, then lowers his voice. “Not about that.”
“Right,” you drag out slowly, like you’re trying to decide whether that’s better or worse.
A trolley clatters somewhere behind you, someone swears, an alarm rings before it’s quickly switched off. The department keeps on moving like it always does, indifferent to anything happening between the two of you.
Abbot looks down the corridor, exhales through his nose and looks back at you. “Just—five minutes. Somewhere that isn’t here.”
You nod, fingers drifting up without thinking, fidgeting with a necklace tucked under your scrubs. You’re wearing a yellow undershirt today. He tries not to think about that too much.
“Bathroom?”
You nod again. “Yeah, okay. Lead the way.”
He does just that, hoping you don’t vanish the second he turns his back to you.
You don’t.
That alone feels like a small victory.
He pushes the door open, holds it long enough for you to slip in first, then follows after you, turning the lock.
Suddenly it feels a lot more intimate than Abbot intended, especially considering what happened the last time the two of you were left to your own devices. You’re leaning against the sink and counter, thighs shifting slightly from the pressure of it, filling out your scrubs in a way that makes his mouth go dry for a second before he can stop it.
He drags his eyes back up to your face, hand scratching at his stubble. “You’ve been avoiding me.” It’s meant to sound like an accusation, but it doesn’t land as one. Instead it sounds like something he’s been holding in his mouth too long, wrong shaped and stripped of any pride.
“I—not intentionally. It’s just been a busy week.”
“Please don’t lie to me.”
You break eye contact, hand falling from your necklace as you let out a small sigh.
“Okay,” you admit eventually, softer. “Maybe I have been.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
He nods, swallowing. “Do you regret what happened that night?” he asks and you still can’t quite meet his gaze.
You bite the inside of your cheek.
“Do you?” he presses, a little quicker now, like if he doesn’t keep moving the question forward it’ll get stuck in him. “Because that’s the only reason I can think of you going out of your way to avoid me. We can’t even act professional at work?”
“I have been professional,” you argue reflexively.
“Are you going to answer my first question?”
He watches your face like he can find the answer there before you say it, like he’s already halfway convinced he’s not going to like it but needs you to say it anyway.
“Because if you do,” he adds reluctantly, “then I need to know. So I can stop making it worse for you.”
“Of course I don’t regret it,” you answer like it’s the most obvious thing and he feels his chest loosen. “We said it’d be a one-off and I’m just trying to find the best way to work around that.”
“And you think this is the best solution?”
“Obviously not if you’re cornering me in the bathroom.”
It’s meant to be a joke but neither of you laugh.
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “I crossed a line that night and I shouldn’t have done it and it’s completely my fault for even putting us in this position, I—”
“Don’t do that,” you cut him off and he raises his brow at the interruption. “Don’t make this out to be something it’s not. It wasn’t just you that crossed a line, I did too, more than you. Please stop making it sound like something I was forced into.” You pause, taking in a breath, wiping your palms on your thighs. “I don’t regret what happened. The only regret I have is that it clearly can’t happen again. And I'm sorry that I’ve been avoiding you. It's obviously not working in the way I intended.”
Clearly can’t happen again.
You’re not wrong. You’re not. It can’t happen, there are actual rules about this, policies written in language so dry it makes your eyes glaze over but still very real, still very much enforceable, and it would completely jeopardise your future if anyone got wind of the two of you. Whether it turned into something serious or stayed exactly what it was that night in his kitchen two weeks ago, it wouldn’t matter. It would still be a problem. A big one.
He knows that. Of course he knows that.
Yet his brain doesn’t quite…stop there. Doesn’t neatly file it under sensible and move on like it should. Instead it lingers on the wording, on the way you said it.
Can’t.
Not don’t want to. Not even shouldn’t.
Your only regret is that you can’t do it again.
Which might actually make him go clinically insane. Manic. Deranged. Because it’s clear now, isn’t it—the both of you want this, but can’t have it without consequences that would only land on you.
“Yeah…you’re right.” Is all he manages at first, then scratches the back of his neck, and when he looks back up you’re actually meeting his gaze and holding it properly. Longer than you have in the past two weeks. “Can we find a way to move past it without you ignoring me?”
Your face warps slightly, an immediate telltale thing you do when you’re trying to bite back a smile.
“What is it?” he asks, narrowing his eyes.
You shake your head. “Nothing.”
“You’re laughing at me.”
You shrug. “If I’d known giving you the silent treatment was this effective, I would’ve enforced it months ago.”
“Good to see you’re back to making jokes at my expense again.”
“Clearly you missed it.”
There’s silence again, and if he’s serious about getting the two of you back to something resembling normal, he’s going to have to stop doing that—letting every word you say lodge somewhere in his head and sit there, overanalysed to death. Because he did miss it, and he needs to stop acting so…weird about it.
“Maybe.”
You smile at him, pushing yourself off the sink. “You going to Ellis’s housewarming this weekend?”
“Wasn’t planning to.”
“Why not?”
He pulls a face, turning towards the door. “Not really my thing.”
“Well why don’t you come,” you press lightly, “we could hang. Be normal about things.”
His head tilts a fraction, like he’s checking he heard you right and also like he’s trying not to read into it at the same time. “Hang?”
“Yes. Hang. That’s what friends slash work colleagues do. Hang out socially with other people.”
He nods, fingers finding the lock. “I’ll try and stop by.”
Even as he says it, there’s still a brief sliver of doubt, because it’s probably not wise, but then again, what could possibly go wrong this time? What line could the two of you cross in a house full of people, full of noise and movement, nowhere private, nowhere for anything to accidentally tip into something else?
When Saturday finally came, Abbot didn’t really get a chance to second-guess going because Shen was already outside his place, leaning on the horn like he couldn’t cope with even a second of silence. Which would make sense if they were running late. They weren’t…Shen just got the time wrong.
Ellis didn’t seem to mind when the two of them turned up an hour before everyone else was meant to arrive though, not with how quickly she put both men to work helping her set up.
In fact, when people did start showing up, it sort of worked in Abbot’s favour. He could stay long enough for you to see he’d made an appearance, then slip out early with a perfectly reasonable excuse of being there early and helping set up.
It’s a win-win, all thanks to Shen’s poor time management for once lining up in his favour.
He’s halfway through nursing a lukewarm beer that’s gone as flat as a puncture by the time you show up, a large basket balanced in your hands.
Everyone else had brought the usual, bottles and more bottles, nothing you have to think about too hard. But from where Abbot’s standing your basket was filled to the brim with actual things you’d need when moving into a new place. Blanket, food, cleaning supplies, probably an overpriced scented candle nestled somewhere in there.
He’s not surprised. You’re always showing up over-prepared for even the smallest of things. He takes another sip of the beer and quickly regrets it, eyes drifting back to you before he can stop them.
You don’t notice him straight away, too busy unpacking the basket and explaining everything you brought to Ellis. She looks genuinely grateful, keeps nodding along, but about halfway through she cuts you off, takes the basket from you and dumps it on the counter, then grabs your wrist and drags you towards the drinks like she’s saving you from yourself.
And he just…watches.
Not in a weird way. He tells himself that at record speed. He just can’t seem to help the habit that’s formed of tracking you in every room.
Ellis pours you a glass of whatever Shen’s attempted to pass off as sangria, watching you take a sip, face scrunching up almost immediately.
He huffs quietly to himself, shifting his weight, fully aware of how this must look from the outside. Him standing off to the side, completely blanking Robby who’s right there, still talking, mouth moving, hands doing something vaguely animated, and Abbot hasn’t caught a single word of it. Not one.
“We don’t sleep with the residents, man.”
Abbot does a double take, like he’s been caught mid-thought and dragged back too fast. “What?”
Robby doesn’t even look at him, just tips his beer in your direction. “You’re practically fucking her with your eyes and she hasn’t even put her bag down.”
He scoffs, taking a sip of beer to buy him some time.
“I’ve already got Gloria breathing down my neck about budgets and patient satisfaction,” Robby goes on, “I don’t need her adding fraternisation to the list.”
“Nothing’s happening.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Shame,” Robby adds, almost idly. “Because if this is you not doing anything, I’d hate to see what it looks like when you actually are.”
“What, now you’re encouraging me?”
Robby snorts, shaking his head. “No. I’m just saying—if there is anything happening, keep it the hell out of the ER.”
“There’s nothing going on, man. You can drop it,” he mutters, knocking back the rest of his beer as he spots you walking over, unsure whether that’s the best decision with what Robby’s currently insinuating.
“Okay, well, I don’t need to be privy to this conversation,” Robby sighs, noticing you heading their way. “I’d like some plausible deniability.”
Robby gives you a quick nod as you pass him, then veers off towards Dana without another word, leaving Abbot standing there with absolutely nothing to hide behind, nowhere to look except you.
You’re wearing a sundress again.
And his brain just…malfunctions for a second. There’s a slight lag when his eyes fixate on the way the material sits against your hips, the neckline lower, the hem shorter than the one he’s seen you in before. It’s stupid how quickly he notices it, how it registers before he can even think to stop it.
This is exactly what Robby was talking about, and he’s stood here proving him right, fully incapable of acting like a normal person for five seconds when you’re in front of him.
“Ellis said you helped set up,” you say, coming up beside him. “That was nice of you.”
“Didn’t really have a choice, she had us working the second we stepped through the front door. Didn’t even get a tour or anything.”
“Is that why you decided to give everyone alcohol poisoning with the sangria?”
Abbot laughs, setting his drink down on the fireplace. “That was all Shen.”
There’s a stench of silence and it makes him realise how bad the two of you are now at this whole normalcy thing. There never used to be silences like this, not ones that felt like either person was thinking about something else. The obvious elephant in the room, even to Robby apparently.
“We’re setting up a round of beer pong,” Shen announces, appearing out of nowhere with a red cup filled to the brim with his sangria. “Next round is me and Ellis against you two—” he points between you and Abbot. “Be there or be square.”
Abbot glances at the cup, then back at Shen. “How about you be sober since you’re my ride?”
“You can just catch a ride with Robby,” Shen shrugs. “He drove.”
He shakes his head because he knew this would happen. Shen is the least reliable method of transport known to man. Abbot’s half surprised he even makes it to his shifts on time.
“You playing?” you ask, glancing between him and Shen.
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
Shen groans. “You’re both playing. I’ve already decided.”
Abbot has come to realise that you’re actually really good at beer pong. Whether that’s down to your aim or just sheer desperation to avoid drinking whatever the hell Shen’s made, he’s not entirely sure. Either way, the two of you are winning.
Which should be what he’s focusing on.
It isn’t.
Because you keep leaning forward to line up your shots, bending over the table, one hand braced against the edge, the other hovering with the ball, squinting like it’s a matter of life or death. And it’s endearing how focused you get, how your tongue presses against your teeth, how you don’t even seem aware of anything else when you’re aiming.
And he’s meant to be watching the cups. The game. Literally anything else.
Instead his eyes keep catching on the same things. The way the hem of your dress shifts when you bend, the brief flash of skin at the back of your thighs when you straighten and then lean again, the way your legs move when you step forward to grab the ball.
He drags his gaze back to the table just as you release the ball. It arcs cleanly and drops straight into one of Shen’s cups with a splash.
“No fucking way,” Shen scoffs. “We need to step our game up.” He nudges Ellis like she’s personally responsible.
“You need to step your game up,” she shoots back, grabbing the cup. “I’ve been carrying you this whole time.”
Abbot can feel eyes burning into the side of his head. He turns enough to see Robby watching him with a smirk, shaking his head, as though Abbot’s hitting every milestone on a very predictable recovery plan, like a patient progressing exactly as expected. Which is irritating, because Abbot is not, in fact, improving.
He rolls his eyes at him and turns back to face you. “Nice shot.”
“Yeah?” You glance over at him, mouth tipping at the corner. “You sure you saw it? You seem a little distracted.”
“Distracted? No, not at all,” he manages, which makes him sound like he was, indeed, distracted.
You don’t comment though, just take a small step back so you’re beside him, shoulder brushing his as the two of you watch Ellis down the drink with visible regret before she’s reaches for another ball.
“Jesus,” you mumble under your breath. “She’s going to hate us in the morning.”
“I already hate you,” she calls back, giving herself a dramatic shake like that might undo the damage. Ellis aims her ball like she’s about to shoot, but Abbot sees you stepping to the side.
“El, your foot’s over the line,” you call out, all sweet and helpful.
She freezes mid-aim. “What?”
“Your foot,” you repeat, pointing vaguely. “You’re fully cheating.”
“I am not—” Ellis glances down, shifting her stance to check.
The second she looks away from the cups, you go still beside him, lips pressing together like you’re trying not to laugh.
“Just shoot,” Shen groans. “I’m ageing.”
“I was about to—” Ellis snaps, readjusting, rushing it now. She throws the ball too quickly. It hits the rim and bounces straight off the table.
“You’re full of shit,” Abbot mutters, just to you, eyes still on the table. “Her foot was not over the line.”
“I’m driving tonight.” You shrug, giving him a smile. “A girl’s got to do what she has to do.”
Ellis and Shen argue in front of you two, voices overlapping, something about angles, and you rushed me and you distracted me.
Abbot scoffs, looking at you. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone cheat at beer pong.”
“It’s okay to say you’re impressed. I won’t tell anyone.”
“I prefer to win fairly.”
“Oh yeah,” you hum tauntingly. “I forgot you’re such a rule stickler. Always doing the right thing. Never crossing any lines.”
“Ouch,” he clicks his tongue. “You always get like this when you’re caught cheating at frat boy games?”
“Like what?”
He tilts his head, crossing his arms as he studies you. “I think there’s a vein of rage popping on your forehead.”
“Yeah? Nice of you to notice instead of trying to look up my dress all evening.” You give him a bratty smile, grabbing a ball and pressing it to his chest.
“There she is,” Abbot hums, satisfied, because this version of you is exactly what he was waiting for. With this version there’s no awkward push to get back to normal, no weird pauses where it feels like one of you should say something just to prove everything’s fine. This is easier. You push, he pushes back. You get sharp, he gets worse.
You’re too nice at work. Too polite. Too put together, all neat edges and carefully chosen words and that calm voice you use with patients that makes everything sound under control even when it’s not. And he likes that, he does, but this…this is better. This is you slipping a little, dropping it, letting him see the part that doesn’t behave, doesn’t follow the rules you keep going on about.
“Your turn,” you say, pressing the ball into his chest again. “Try not to miss.”
He takes it from you, hand covering yours before the ball settles in his grip. “Lots of attitude for someone who needed to cheat two minutes ago.”
“I didn’t need to,” you correct promptly, following him as he steps up to the table. “I just wanted to.”
“Right. That definitely makes it better.”
“My eyes are up here,” you remind him, tapping two fingers from your chest up to your face.
He wasn’t actually gawking this time, but that’s a weak defence considering every other time he has been, so he doesn’t bother arguing with you.
“Wouldn’t want you getting distracted and making us lose.”
Several hours later, you’re pulling into Abbot’s driveway, the solar lights along the path flicking on like they’ve been waiting for him specifically. The engine idles for a second before you switch it off.
“There you go.”
He unclips his seatbelt, keeping a hold of it as it slides back into the mechanism, his thumb pressing into the fabric. “Thanks,” he says, glancing at you. “You didn’t have to.”
“Well it would’ve been rude not to. Shen’s asleep on Ellis’s kitchen floor and Robby disappeared without saying goodbye.”
“Yeah. Hope Ellis doesn’t trip over him in the morning.”
It was meant to be quick. In and out. Show face, have a drink and leave early. But the opposite of that ended up happening, the majority of the night crew sticking around longer than the day shift. Now it’s later than he planned, and you’re here, in his driveway, with neither of you moving.
He should get out.
But you’re genuinely smiling at him, and he’s not sure he has the willpower to leave.
“You had fun,” he notes, quieter than before.
“I did,” you confirm blithely. “You?”
“Mm.” He nods once, like that’s enough of an answer. He glances down without meaning to, tracking the line of your milkmaid neckline where it dips as you move in your seat, and that’s when he catches it.
A black card with a white outline peeking above the fabric. Something that looks suspiciously like one of the UNO cards Whitaker had insisted everyone play with. A game you somehow won three times in a row.
He huffs out a breath, not sure whether to be amused or surprised that you’d go that far to win a cards game meant for eight year olds. “You’re unbelievable.”
“What?”
“You’re absolutely unbelievable,” he laughs dryly, turning towards you in the passenger seat. “You cheated.”
You raise your brows, and he watches you physically fight the grin trying to break through. “At beer pong?”
“Yes, that too.” he replies, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t play dumb.”
“I don’t quite know what you mean.”
He gestures vaguely towards you, unsure how to phrase it without sounding insane. “You’ve got a card tucked in your—” he cuts himself off, dragging a hand over his jaw. “You know what I mean.”
“Bra?” you supply for him.
“Yes.”
“Funny, I don't seem to be wearing one.”
“Jesus Christ you need to stop doing that,” he hisses, words coming out harsher than he intends. You have to be doing it on purpose at this point, there’s no way you’re not aware of what you’re saying, what that does to him, how it lands and then just sits there in his head, repeating, expanding, getting worse the more he tries to ignore it.
Because now that’s all he can think about, not the card, not the game, not anything remotely normal, just that. The fact you said it so casually, like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t drag his attention right back down again, like he hasn’t already had to physically pull his eyes back up to your face several times tonight.
“You’re accusing me of hiding cards in a piece of clothing I’m not wearing.”
“I saw it. Don’t try and twist it.”
“I’m not twisting anything,” you reply, but there’s that look again that tells him you know exactly what you’re doing to him. And, frankly, it's cruel.
“You cheated,” he repeats, leaning in. “Everyone thinks you’re all nice and polite and—” he lets out a short, disbelieving breath, shaking his head. “You’re a cheater. A serial cheater.”
Your brows lift, but instead of being offended, there’s something else there, something that almost looks like interest. You undo your seatbelt, tilting your head. “Yeah? What else?”
“You’re manipulative.”
“What are you going to do? Pull my dress down and check?”
“Is that what you want?”
“I don’t think that’s a normal activity friends slash work colleagues do—”
“You know damn well nothing’s been normal between us since that night. You’re the one who said it was a one-off,” he goes on, because it’s been sitting there waiting to come out. “But then you look at me like this and say things like that and expect me to just—what, ignore it?”
Your tongue darts out to wet your bottom lip and his hand tightens where it’s resting against his leg, fingers pressing into his own palm. “I didn’t say ignore it.”
“Then what did you say?”
“That it couldn’t happen again.”
“Right. And this is you… sticking to that?”
You don’t answer him, but you’re breathing has picked up.
“Yeah,” he mutters to himself. “Thought so.”
And then he just moves, like a car running every red light. His hand comes up, fingers firm at your jaw as he pulls you in, rougher than he means to be. The kiss lands messily, noses knocking, teeth catching because neither of you slow down enough to make it neat. It starts all wrong, rushed and badly aimed, with no patience from either of you to do it properly.
There’s a moment where he registers what he’s doing, where his brain catches up enough to go this is a bad idea, but then you’re kissing him back, deepening it, and that thought doesn’t stand a chance.
He exhales against your mouth, thumb pressing into your jaw as he pulls you closer, like the extra inch matters, and it does, because the angle changes and your mouths fit better this time.
“Come here,” he murmurs, one hand sliding from your jaw to your neck while the other drops to your waist as he shifts, pulling you towards him. You let him, moving over the console, the whole thing awkward and uncoordinated, things getting knocked in the process, your knee bumping into him, his elbow catching against the door.
He makes a frustrated sound when you finally settle into his lap, like the movement wasn’t fast enough, like even now he’s impatient, still pulling you closer once you’re there, his cock aching for friction.
“Still think this is a one-off?” he mumbles, words uneven, breaking between kisses as they drop from your mouth to your jaw, then lower.
Your fingers bunch in the fabric of his shirt, tugging it up, chasing the heat of his skin. You pull it over his head, your hands coming to rest on his shoulders as his dig into your hips.
“You’re not very good at sticking to your own rules,” he adds, leaning in to press another wet kiss beneath your jaw. He sucks at the delicate skin before swiping his tongue over it to soothe.
“We—we both—” you start, breath catching when his hand comes to palm your breast, “—agreed it’d be a one off.”
“Nu-uh,” he tuts. “You said you’d be able to move past it. I told you I couldn’t.” His fingers hook into your dress, tugging it down, the off-the-shoulder sleeves giving just enough for the fabric to slip, exposing your chest to him.
He’s imagined you like this more times than he’d ever admit, and he’s almost surprised he even registers the small cascade of UNO cards slipping free. The cards hit him, light taps against his stomach before they’re sliding down between the both of you.
“You’re fucking joking.”
You just shrug, like it’s nothing, like you’re not currently straddling him with evidence of your cheating scattered in his lap. You shift to reposition yourself, and he feels it immediately, his cock aching to be inside of you.
“Unbelievable.” His hand lifts, coming up to your chest, fingers closing around your nipple as he pinches it between his thumb and index finger, his eyes dragging over you, taking you in like he doesn’t know where to look first, like he wants all of it at once. “You cheat, you lie, and then you just—what—sit here like this?”
You tip your head back at the feeling, and he follows, bringing his mouth closer, tongue swiping over the nub as he watches you through his lashes.
“You don’t seem that upset,” you slur, hand digging into his shoulder as you roll your hips against him.
“Baby, with the view I have right now, I don’t think I’d notice if someone dropped dead in front of me.”
A soft sound slips out of you, half laugh, half moan, and it only makes his jeans tighten. He swears under his breath, pressing his forehead against your shoulder like that might help. He needs to control himself. He has to. He’s already finished in his pants prematurely like some horny teenager once before, and he really doesn’t fancy doing it again unless it’s inside you.
“Need your jeans off,” you mumble, hands reaching for his waistband, fingers deftly working the buttons.
“Yeah? Think we might struggle in here.”
You shake your head, lifting yourself, balancing on your knees, the absence hitting him, a brief void he feels but doesn’t dwell on, not when your hands are right there, working each button open one by one.
Without warning, your hand dips under the denim, and Abbot inhales sharply as you palm him through his boxers.
“Huh,” you breathe, a smug edge to it, and he already knows what you’re about to say, can feel it in the way his precum has soaked through the fabric. “Have you been this worked up the whole night?”
He lets out a strained laugh because he’s been caught out and doesn’t have the energy or focus to deny it. His head tips back against the seat, eyes squeezing shut before he looks back at you.
“Answer the question,” you press, your hand slipping underneath his boxers. There’s not much room for you to move, but the second your hand wraps around his cock, his breathing turns frantic, his hands digging harder into your hips.
“Yeah,” he grunts. “Been like this since you walked in.”
Your brows lift, impressed, like you weren’t expecting him to actually say it. “Good.”
You lean in to kiss him, and he tries his best to reciprocate, but all he manages are sloppy pants because your hand is still doing its best to pump him and he can’t concentrate.
“Help me out,” you murmur, biting his lip as you pull away. Your hands move to the waistband at his hips as you tug, and Abbot pushes himself up, giving you just enough space to drag his jeans and boxers down halfway to his thighs.
Your hand grips him properly now, sliding up and down his length, your thumb brushing over the tip. Your mouth parts as you do it, like you’re getting drunk on the sight of it, on getting him off. He finds himself thinking—briefly, unhelpfully—about what it would feel like to have your mouth on him instead. Whether you’d look the same. Whether you’d get that same faraway, intent expression.
But there’s no space for that in your cramped car.
And he’d rather feel your pussy swallowing his cock instead.
His hand closes around your wrist, stopping your ministrations in one decisive move. “Wait,” he says, though he doesn’t actually give you time to respond.
Because then his mouth is on you instead.
Your dress is already pushed up, bunched carelessly at your waist, and his hands follow without needing to think about it, sliding underneath the fabric, mapping their way upward along your thighs with a familiarity that feels…earned.
He finds what he’s looking for.
Hooks his fingers into it.
Then pulls.
It gives immediately, the rip louder than it should be in the enclosed space.
“Abbot!” you gasp. “What the hell?”
“They were in my way. Sorry, baby.”
You blink at him, still catching up. “They were expensive.”
“I’ll get you new ones.”
“How am I meant to drive home?”
That—apparently—is the wrong question.
He pulls back to look at you, and then he scoffs, quiet and disbelieving, like you’ve said something so wildly off-base it doesn’t even deserve a serious response.
“Drive home?” he repeats.
There’s a beat.
“You think you get to just leave?” The question isn’t really a question. “Not a chance.” His thumb finds your clit, applying light, deliberate pressure. His mouth follows, pressing a tender kiss to your neck. “You’re spending the night,” he murmurs against your skin. “I’ve got plenty of boxers.”
Another kiss. Slower this time.
“Or,” he adds, like he’s genuinely considering alternatives, “you can walk around without anything at all.” His thumb circles your clit again. “I don’t mind.”
You wither against him, your body registering the touch before your brain has had a chance to catch up. “Jack,” you start, but it falls apart halfway through, the rest of it never quite assembling into anything usable.
He hums delicately against your neck, like he’s listening, like he might even care.
He doesn’t stop, his thumb moving in an achingly slow rhythm. “You’re thinking too much.”
“M’not—”
“You are.”
You shake your head anyway and he doesn’t accept that. His free hand comes up to your face, settling at your jaw, thumb just beneath your cheekbone. Not rough but not optional either. “Look at me.”
You do. A little slower than usual. A little softer around the edges. Like you’re already halfway gone somewhere else and he’s pulling you back just enough to see it.
“You are,” he repeats, nodding once like that settles it. As though it’s something observable, not arguable. His thumb picks up the pace and he watches the moment it lands. The way your expression shifts around it. The delay. The way your focus slips, then tries to come back.
Interesting.
There’s something almost clinical in the way he tracks it, the small details, the cause and effect. Detached, if it weren’t for the fact that his own breathing has started to change, slower but heavier, like he’s not as removed from it as he’d maybe prefer to be.
“That feel good?”
You nod.
“See?” he says, voice dropping. His other thumb drags slowly across your lips, catching on the slight part of them. He stops there, just for a second, feeling the warmth of your breath, the softness of it, like he’s deciding something.
“Stop arguing with me.”
There’s a pause.
Then he presses his thumb into your mouth.
He feels the moment you take it, the way your lips close around it, the faint pressure of your teeth as you bite down.
“Sit up for me, baby.” He reluctantly pulls his hand away from your warmth, only for it to settle on your hip instead, guiding you up gently. You meet him halfway, lifting yourself and grabbing him again, both of you glancing down as you line him up.
You press the head of his cock against your clit, rocking yourself against it.
“Jesus,” he bites out, his thumb slipping out from your mouth with a thin string of drool stretching between. “Slowly—go slow.”
You nod, as you ease down, taking him in bit by bit.
Your nails dig into his shoulders, sharp enough to make him suck in a breath, and for a second he thinks about telling you to keep going until you draw blood but he’s not sure that’s wise in your dazed state.
“Fuck,” you grit, stopping yourself before you’re even halfway down him.
“Too much?”
“Mhm.”
“S’okay,” he slurs, focusing on your puffy clit again, drawing slow circles, helping you take all of him. “You can do it.”
His grip tightens at your hip, thumb pressing in harder as he watches you, completely locked in, like if he looks away for even a second he might miss something important. The way your face pinches. The way your breathing shifts.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, softer now, coaxing more than anything. “You’ve got it.” He watches every inch of it, the slow give, the way your body takes him, the hesitation that never quite turns into stopping.
“Yeah… there you go.”
You’ve bottomed out now, all of him deep inside you, gripping him so tight he’s not even sure how much longer he can last, and you haven’t even started moving yet. He goes still, in an attempt to chase composure.
“Don’t—” he starts when he feels you shift, then stops, jaw tightening as he recalibrates. “Just—stay there a second.”
His forehead dips forward, almost brushing yours, his eyes half-lidded as he tries to steady himself through it.
“Tell me when,” you whisper.
That nearly undoes him more than anything else.
There’s something about the way you say it. Gentle. Willing. Like you’re handing the control back to him without even thinking about it. Trusting him with it.
He leans in for a kiss, and it’s slower than the ones before. Thought-out. Intentional. All that earlier hunger still there, but pulled tight beneath the surface now, tempered by the fact that he’s already inside you.
It changes things.
Makes it heavier.
He presses in deeper, tongue sliding against yours, and you let out a broken whimper into his mouth. “Go ahead,” he says, pulling back enough to take in the way you’re looking at him now.
You lift your hips, then lower yourself again, and he can feel the way your body adjusts around him—your walls clinging to his cock as you start to find a pace that works for you.
Abbot searches for your hips, guiding you, pushing you down onto him when you reach the base again, the curls there brushing against your clit.
Your eyes are screwed shut and he takes this time to watch you shamelessly, The sheen of sweat starting to gather along your forehead, the way your breath hitches every time he pushes you down just a bit further.
It’s fucking euphoric.
You keep moving, whining—half-words, curses, his name slipping in and out—as you pick up the pace, losing whatever rhythm you started with in favour of something needier.
“Such a greedy girl,” he mutters, watching the way a slick ring of wetness gathers and drags along his cock as you bounce up and down, your cunt squeezing him so tight he’s grasping at straws to make sure you finish before him.
His thumb finds that sweet spot, making you go limp against him, your forehead sprawling against his shoulder.
“Yes—keep doing that,” you mewl, and he’s the kind of man who follows orders, even when he’s not sure he’s got anything left to give.
Your teeth sink into his shoulder, and it pulls a husked sound out of him.
“Yeah? That’s what you do?” His hips meet yours, as he plunges in and out of you, feeling your thighs tighten and shake around him. “Didn’t take you for a biter,” he mocks, but there’s no surprise in it, in fact he sounds pleased.
You say something incoherent back and he just laughs. “Go on,” he encourages, tilting his head to the side to give you better access. “If you’re going to do it, don’t half—”
He cuts himself off with a sharp exhale when you do, the pressure of it shutting him up completely.
“Christ—”
“M’close, Jack—so close.”
His head drops again, eyes finding you like he needs to see it, needs to confirm it’s actually happening and not something he’s made up to torture himself with later. “You like that? That’s what gets you going?”
“Yes—fuck, yes.”
Abbot feels you tense around him, your movements losing whatever shape they had, turning messy as the two of you dissolve into nothing but a tangle of limbs and half-formed sentences. Fragments of words, sounds that don’t even belong to language anymore.
You come undone with a cry, muffled against his skin that’s probably raw and marked now, something he’ll notice later. Your whole body tightens, then gives, your grip on him turning desperate while it rushes through you.
It hardly takes Abbot a minute before he follows, the sight of you—like this, because of him—pushing him past whatever control he thought he still had. His hips jerk with a force that pulls a string of curses from him that are grunted into your hair, his cock twitching inside you as he thrusts into you one last time.
There’s no other sound for a few minutes, other than the two of you trying to catch your breath. Abbot can hear your heartbeat where you’re pressed against him, feel his own still thudding hard in his chest.
He leans back, resting his head against the seat, eyes closing.
“Fuck, I’m so sorry.”
His eyes open immediately at that because you sound horrified, like something’s gone wrong, and his stomach drops at the off chance you’re regretting all of this already.
“What?” he starts, already bracing for the worst.
He then follows your line of sight, your gaze fixed on his shoulder and immediately relaxes. “...That?” he asks, glancing back at you.
You wince, reaching up like you’re not sure whether to touch it or not. “I didn’t mean to—I just—”
“Hey—it’s fine.”
You look unconvinced.
“It’s not fine, I—Jack, I think I actually made you bleed—”
“I know. I was there.”
That earns him an embarrassed huff. “I didn’t even realise I was doing it.”
“I did,” he replies smugly. “Didn’t hate it either.”
There’s a pause as you study him, like you’re trying to figure out if he’s serious or just trying to make you feel better. “...You’re weird.”
“Yeah, says the one who was doing all the chomping.”
Your mouth drops open. “Okay. I’m leaving.” You pull your dress back up over your chest and try to shift up, since he’s still inside you, but Abbot’s hands clamp around your hips, holding you in place.
“Not a chance. I already told you you’re spending the night.”
You catch the inside of your cheek between your teeth. “Do you think that’s wise?”
“Probably not,” he admits. “But I’m still not changing my mind.” He leans in, placing a kiss on your shoulder. “Plus you’re not exactly in a state to go anywhere.”
“I could,” you mutter.
He raises a brow.
“…I could try.”
He shakes his head, an amused exhale leaving him “Stay. Just for tonight. We’ll figure the rest out tomorrow.”
Your body sags against him, the fight easing out of you as your fingers brush lightly over the his raw skin. “Just for tonight,” you repeat.
Though neither of you can really pretend this is just a one-off anymore.
➜ find my abbot masterlist here ⋆˚꩜｡
......fancy fussing over a different old man?
YESSSSS WHAT I NEEDED TO SEE DURING MY SHIFT
sprains & refrains | jack abbot
jack abbot x nurse!reader ⋆˚꩜｡
summary: you decide to come into work with a sprained ankle and hide it from abbot. he is not happy when he finds out.
warnings: minor injury, reader goes through like 10 different mood swings, flirting, teasing, forced proximity, reader also cries because abbot raises his voice at her, 2x sweetheart bombs, abbot is kinda mean for a sec but then makes up for it so its ok! yearning as always, because i am nothing without it ᝰ.ᐟ
wc: 4.7k
A sprained ankle is not a broken ankle. It’s simply a ligament that’s been twisted thanks to your own clumsy self who, for reasons that felt valid at the time, decided to go for a run and ended up catching it on a bit of uneven pavement that, frankly, should be investigated.
Because really, what kind of surface just does that?
You keep telling yourself it’s not broken, because you know it’s not, but that doesn’t stop it from hurting like an absolute bitch.
You did everything right before your shift. Iced it, elevated it, laid there with your leg propped up like you were in recovery from something far more impressive than a failed attempt at cardio. You even gave it time, which felt generous, considering your life does not pause just because your ankle decided to have a me-day.
And it worked. Sort of. It took the edge off enough that you could stand, walk, test a few steps without immediately wanting to swear at inanimate objects. Enough to convince yourself you could get through twelve hours.
You could’ve called in sick.
You did consider it, briefly, in that fleeting, rational window where you acknowledge what you should do before immediately choosing something else. But then you remembered your current financial situation, and decided to get your ass into work.
You have a wishlist. Not a small one either. A growing, evolving document that reflects your needs, your wants, your emotional state, and occasionally your poor impulse control. And unfortunately, your bank account seems to view it as more of a suggestion than a plan.
And bills, of course. Who could forget those. Always there.
And the closest thing you’ve had to financial support lately is Abbot dropping extra into your swear jar like he’s personally invested in your bad behaviour.
Which would be helpful. It really would.
If you hadn’t already spent it.
So you’re now limping into a twelve-hour shift instead of being horizontal in your bed like a sensible person. You adjust your bag higher on your shoulder as you near the hospital entrance, your pace severely delayed. Your balance and posture off too.
It’s fine. You can manage. You’d once stayed out for ten hours straight in eight-inch heels, this is basically the same thing. If anything, this has more arch support.
The automatic doors slide open like they’re welcoming you back into the worst possible environment for an injured ankle—bright lights, hard floors and a department that runs almost exclusively on people moving quickly and not looking where they’re going.
It all seems fine, until someone rushes past you with a stretcher, wheels rattling, and you instinctively shift your weight to avoid getting barged. Which is a terrible idea. You feel exactly how bad it is as soon as a sharp pain jolts your ankle, your whole body stalling mid-step.
You see white, your vision slipping somewhere unhelpful, jaw clenching, fingers flexing uselessly at your side.
You still until the pain fades and you can see colour again, before wobbling your way over to the nurses’ station.
“Nice of you to show up,” Diaz greets without looking up.
“I’m actually early today,” you bite back, dropping your bag under the desk and trying not to wince about it.
He glances up just as you’re taking in the patient screen, clipping your badge on, pretending everything is completely fine.
“How crazy has day shift left it?” you ask, turning back to him and doing your best to walk over normally to a seat. You lower yourself into the chair before Diaz has responded.
You look up at him, brows lifting in a silent well?
“Busy,” he says finally. “Couple holds, triage backed up for a bit.”
“So the usual then,” you mumble, scanning your badge and logging into the computer like that’s the only thing you care about right now, and not the throb trapped inside your shoe.
“You’re being weird.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah. Weirder than usual. Why are you walking like that?”
“New shoes,” you supply smoothly, clicking through charts.
Diaz looks down at your feet then back up at you.
“You wear those every shift.”
“Okay, that’s not true,” you say defensively, turning to face him and regretting the sudden movement because your ankle reminds you promptly what got you in this predicament. “I like to match them to my underscrub tops when I can. You don’t have to shame a girl so loudly.”
He narrows his eyes. “What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Was it a patient?”
“No,” you scoff. “I’ve just walked in—I haven't had the chance to piss someone off that quickly. It’s my own fault.”
“What does that mean?” he presses annoyingly.
“It means,” you sigh, like this is already being blown wildly out of proportion, “I might’ve slightly twisted my ankle on a run. That’s literally it. It’s fine. Barely even worth mentioning.”
“And you thought coming into work was a good idea?”
“I’ll walk it off ,” you counter quickly. “It’ll be fine. People do it all the time.”
He just stares at you like you’ve unlocked a new level of unbelievable. “You can’t walk off a sprain. That’s the exact opposite of what you should be doing.”
“Wow, really?” You blink at him. “Have you ever considered being a doctor?”
He shakes his head, a shit-eating smirk appearing. “Abbot’s going to send you home.”
“Abbot is going to do no such thing because he’s not going to find out. Now, don’t you have other things to be doing?”
“Yeah,” he nods, rapping his knuckles against the counter. “I do, actually—since both of my legs work and I’m capable of basic exercise without injuring myself.”
“Blow me,” you shoot back just as he’s walking away.
“Not on shift,” he throws over his shoulder.
By hour four, you’d decided that your bad mood was now a shared experience. Which, yes, was not entirely fair. But you’re never in a bad mood at work. You’re pleasant, you’re accommodating, you laugh at things that aren’t funny, you entertain the annoying patients, you care.
Which means that you’re allowed to be a little snappier, a little shorter, a little less interested in being everyone’s emotional support nurse today.
And anyway, you’re in pain. Which should legally excuse at least three personality defects per shift.
On the plus side, you’ve been very strategic about it. You’ve managed to limit your interactions with Abbot to moments where you’re already sitting down, which has worked beautifully. He can’t comment on your walking if you’re not walking.
It’s a solid system.
Except it only works if you never have to actually…do your job.
Which, unfortunately, is not how nursing works. Because as ahead as you are on your admin and charting, you still have actual patients to deal with.
You’ve just taken a patient’s bloods, chased up meds that should’ve been charted an hour ago, redone a set of obs because someone swore the machine was wrong (it wasn’t), helped reposition a patient who absolutely could not get comfortable, answered three separate calls that were somehow all urgent but also not urgent at all, and explained, again, that no, you cannot speed up lab results just because someone is bored.
And now—now—you are done.
Not with your shift, unfortunately, but with standing.
You are desperate for a sit down. Even if it’s just while you go pee.
Which is exactly where you’re going, keeping your head down to avoid eye contact with anyone who could possibly stop you and derail your very reasonable plan of resting your godforsaken ankle for two minutes. Maybe three.
You pass a patient bay, forcing your expression into something neutral when someone looks up at you, offering a quick, polite smile that says I’m here if you’re dying but, as long as you’re breathing, please do not bother me.
Everything seems to be going well—until you round a corner and slam straight into a very solid figure, taking a step back onto your bad foot which nearly makes you see heaven.
“Jesus Christ, watch where you’re going!” you snap, the words coming out tight, bitten through clenched teeth.
You realise who’s hand is on your forearm, and your mood gets worse. His eyes are already narrowed on you, giving you a slow once-over.
“Easy,” Abbot says lowly.
“Use your eyes next time.” You pull your arm back and try to step around him, but your ankle protests, your movement stuttering enough to give you away.
There’s a pause, long enough for you to think he hasn’t noticed, that maybe your bad attitude did its job and scared him off, so you do your best to continue walking.
“Wait—what was that?”
Maybe not.
You turn back to him. “That was you walking into me like you’re the only person in this hospital, apparently. Be more careful.”
“Okay,” he comes back pointedly, making a whole show of it—brows lifting, arms folding across his chest like he’s personally affronted. “Now I know something’s wrong.”
“There’s nothing wrong.”
“With that attitude? Yeah. There is.” He tips his head, watching you a little too closely for your liking. “What did you do?”
“Tripped.”
“Was it a patient?” he asks, like he’s just picked that straight off a script everyone seems to be working from today.
“That tripped me?” you shoot back, irritation climbing.
His expression doesn’t change. “Don’t be difficult.”
“I’m not being difficult,” you snap. “You asked a stupid question.”
“I asked if someone hurt you.”
“No one hurt me,” you explain quickly. “It’s my own fault. I sprained my ankle on a run this morning and I’m walking it off. It’s fine.” You gesture vaguely past him. “Can I go now and do my actual job?”
“You’re walking it off?”
“Mhm. It’s not even that bad.”
“I think you’re lying,” he argues, eyes dropping briefly before coming back up. “You can’t even put any weight on it.” His arm lifts expectantly. “Come with me.”
“No.”
“No?”
“Yes. N—O. One syllable. Very popular word. Frequently ignored by annoying people.”
He sighs, slow and long, like you’ve personally worn him out, and shakes his head like he’s reached the end of his patience. “Alright.”
You narrow your eyes. “Alright what—”
His hand lands on your waist before you can finish the sentence.
“Abbot—”
He doesn’t even dignify your protests with a response, just adjusts his grip like you’re something inconvenient he’s decided to deal with anyway, shifting you up and into him. Your arm gets hauled over his shoulders, his hand firm at your waist, pulling you close enough that arguing about it feels…theoretical at best.
And then he moves.
Which means you move.
Because the alternative is eating tile, and as much as you’d love to make a point, you’d love not faceplanting in front of half the ER more.
“This is degrading,” you mutter, glancing around for witnesses, and of course Diaz is there. Watching this unfold like it’s the highlight of his shift. You look away immediately, deciding you’ll deal with that problem later. Much later. Possibly never.
“Well, maybe if you cut back on the attitude, you would’ve been able to get here on your own.”
He nudges the door open to an empty room with his shoulder, holding it there as he finally lets go of you. His hand leaves your waist, your arm slipping from his shoulder, and you try very hard not to register how much easier it had been with him holding you up.
“Can you walk to the bed?”
“Can I—? Yes. Obviously. I’ve been walking this whole time,” you reply, waddling in.
“Just get on the bed.”
You turn back to face him. “Jeez. Want my clothes off too?”
There’s a very small, but noticeable pause.
“Not unless you’re planning on making this significantly more complicated than it needs to be.”
You tilt your head, feigning thought. “Depends. Would that get me out of the lecture?”
“No.”
“Shame.” You turn back towards the bed and drop onto it with a quiet exhale, the relief immediate once the weight’s off your foot. The sharp pain dulls into a deep, throbbing pulse, like your heartbeat’s relocated to your ankle just to spite you.
You flex your foot.
Instant regret.
You grimace.
Abbot doesn’t comment on that, but you can feel him clock it anyway. He grabs a stool, dragging it closer with a scrape that feels louder than it should, and settles in front of you like he’s exactly where he intends to be.
He pats his lap. “Let me see.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Let me see the damage.”
You reluctantly lift your leg up. Your calf brushes his thigh as you shift, your ankle settling into his lap, this whole ordeal feeling more intimate than it should. You decide you hate that. His hand slides along your leg and settles on your heel, the other bracing your ankle as he starts easing your shoe off.
But it moves wrong, making your breath stutter, the pain flaring up quickly.
He glances up immediately. “Sensitive?”
You swallow, eyes darting literally anywhere but his face. The ceiling. The wall. The floor. “Yeah. A little.”
“A little,” he repeats, like he doesn’t believe you for a second.
“Okay, fine. Not a little. It hurts. Are you happy now?”
“Over the moon.”
“Shut up.”
“Hold still.” He manages to get your shoe off, setting it down on the floor. His fingers hook around your sock next, peeling it down slowly. It shouldn’t feel like anything. It’s just a sock. Cotton. Friction. Basic physics. Except you can’t help but fixate on the way his hand seems to swallow your foot, which has probably tripled in size from the swelling.
“You planned to walk this off?” he asks, carefully lifting your leg so you can actually see the bruising starting to form—and properly take in the fact that your foot has, in fact, tripled in size, with absolutely no chance of it going back into your trainers without you cussing out the entire floor.
“It wasn’t that bad earlier,” you say weakly, noticing the pattern of bruising spreading across your foot like a bad anklet. You’d much rather something gold or silver with charms. Instead, you get tight skin with dark patches starting to bloom. That’ll look great with your sandals.
He meets your gaze, completely unimpressed. “Of course it wasn’t that bad earlier. You’ve spent hours on it.”
“I’ve spent hours working,” you correct, because that matters.
“You’ve spent hours making it worse, when you should’ve been resting it.”
You frown, the edge in his tone catching somewhere it wasn’t supposed to. “I didn’t think it was that serious,” you mutter, looking away.
“That’s the problem. You didn’t think. You just came in and decided to ignore it.”
You shift a little on the bed, the earlier irritation dulling into something else. “Okay—”
“You can’t put weight on something like this and expect it to just fix itself,” he continues. “You’re lucky it’s not worse.”
“I said okay.”
He doesn’t stop.
“And walking on it like that—”
“Can you not—” you start, but your voice catches and you feel that awful, familiar sting building behind your eyes. Oh, no. Absolutely not. Not here. Not now.
You blink hard, like that’s going to fix it. It never does. Then you try pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth, apparently a trick that’s supposed to work, according to a very desperate Google search titled how to stop crying in situations that do not require tears.
Nothing.
You cannot be crying in front of your boss. That’s humiliating. That’s practically career-ending. At the very least, Diaz will somehow find out, and then you’ll have to relocate. Change your name. Start over.
He looks up and you look away.
“Hey,” he says, quieter now, thumb tracing circles over the sore skin.
“Just stop yelling at me. I get it. I made it worse.”
“I’m not yelling,” replies gently.
“Could’ve fooled me.” You’re still not looking at him, blinking suspended entirely because you can feel the tears sitting at your waterline, just waiting to embarrass you. One blink and it’s over.
“I’m sorry for coming in hot. It’s just—I know you know better. You could’ve texted me, taken the day, and came back on the next shift. Now you’re probably going to need twice the time with all this swelling.”
That right about does it. The way his tone changes completely. Your eyes slip shut for a second and the tears fall. You let out a frustrated breath, turning your head away like that might undo it.
It does not.
“…Oh my god,” you mumble under your breath, mortified, trying to swipe quickly at your cheek like you can get ahead of it.
“Hey… hey,” he murmurs, softer now, shifting closer. His hand stills where it’s been resting against your ankle.
“Ignore it. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
“I am.” You pause, wiping under your eyes again, annoyed at yourself more than anything. “This is so stupid.”
“Hey,” he repeats, a little firmer now. “Sweetheart, look at me.”
You hesitate, mostly because your mind has now latched onto the sweetheart part.
“Look at me,” he echoes, and you reluctantly turn your head to face him again. “It's okay to be upset. You’re in pain, you’re tired and I was being an ass. I’m sorry for making you feel worse.”
“It’s fine,” you sniff, wiping the stray tears again, tidying them away so you can move on from the most mortifying shift ever. “Can we please never speak of this again?”
He nods, going back to your ankle, fingers pressing in different areas. “But you were kind of an ass to me too earlier,” he mumbles. “Very mean. I think I might’ve had tears in my eyes too.”
“You’re mocking me now. Very funny.”
“A little bit,” he admits sheepishly.
You stare at him, unimpressed. “I’m pouring my heart out—”
“You told me to use my eyes.”
“—and this is what I get?” you finish, ignoring that completely.
“You also told me to be more careful,” he adds. “Very aggressive tone.”
“So, what you’re saying is that I was being a raging bitch?”
He pauses at that, looking up at you. “No,” he replies, a little more seriously. “I’m saying you were in pain and took it out on me.”
You swallow because even now he’s still being nice to you, even though you probably don’t deserve it. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.”
“I just—” you exhale, frustrated. “It really hurt, and then you were there, and—”
“And I got the attitude,” he finishes lightly.
“Yeah. You always do.”
That earns the faintest smile from him—because, yes, he does. He constantly puts up with your attitude, your badly timed flirting, your mood swings, all the things he very much does not have to tolerate—and yet he does. Every time.
“I am sorry, by the way. Just so we’re clear.”
“You’re forgiven,” he replies easily, like it’s not even a question. “Besides, you’ve got nothing to apologise for. I was only busting your balls out of pure enjoyment.”
“…That’s a terrible thing to admit out loud.”
“Honesty,” he shrugs.
“Is not always attractive.”
“Seemed to get your attention.”
“Well, if you’re so desperate for my attention, you could just ask next time,” you quip, right as he lifts your leg from his lap and carefully lowers it back down. “I’ll be more than glad to provide it.”
He very conveniently ignores that.
“Very cute,” he says instead, nodding towards your baby pink painted toes.
“Oh, so that’s what we’re focusing on right now?”
He laughs as he pushes his stool back and stands. “No. What we’re focusing on is you spending the rest of your shift off that ankle.”
You narrow your eyes.
“Lay down properly,” he continues, gesturing to the bed. “We’ll get some ice on it, keep it elevated, and try to get the swelling under control.”
“I’ll just drive home instead if I'm being benched. No point in taking up a perfectly good bed that could go to someone who actually needs it. Gloria would have my head on a stick if she found out.”
“You wouldn’t even be able to get your shoe back on,” he counters. “Let alone brake suddenly if you had to. Just lay down and let me worry about the rest.”
You pause mid-argument, because…irritatingly, he’s not wrong, and you don’t particularly fancy starring in your own ER admission later tonight. “I’ll just order an Uber,” you pivot instead.
“No you won’t. Just lay down and stop arguing with me. I’ll get Diaz to bring you an ice pack, and I’ll drive you home at the end of the shift.”
“Please not Diaz,” you say immediately. “Anyone but Diaz.”
“I’ll bring you one then. Now will you please lay down.”
You roll your eyes and shift on the bed, swinging your legs up as you try to get comfortable, which is now an impossible task.
“Can I trust you to be alone for five minutes?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not going to find you somewhere down the corridor?”
“No,” you answer, a little too quickly. Then, because you have some self-awareness, you add, “Probably.”
He gives you a look.
“Okay, no,” you correct with a sigh. “I’ll stay here. Scout’s honour.”
He nods, tucking the chair back into the corner as he moves to the door. “Be good.”
“Yes sir,” you call out, just as he gives you one more pointed look before opening the door and leaving.
You feel a gentle tap on your shoulder, then hear your name being called.
You hum in response, somewhere between asleep and not, face turned into a pillow you definitely did not have before you conked out, limbs heavy in that delicious, disorienting way that says you’ve been gone for a while.
“Wake up, sweetheart,” you hear Abbot say.
You groan, dragging yourself back into consciousness inch by inch. “M’awake,” you mumble, which is a lie.
You think he called you sweetheart again—but you’re still half under, brain slow and syrupy, and honestly it could just be your subconscious trying to sweet-talk you into waking up. Your mind does weird things when you’re this out of it.
“Are you?”
“Absolutely.”
“You were knocked out pretty good.”
“I was?” you ask, voice thick with sleep.
“Yup. You were even drooling.”
Your eyes snap open. “I was not.”
“You were. Right there.” He points to his own cheek.
You immediately wipe at your face, mortified. “You’re lying.”
“Nope. Even left a stain on your pillow.”
You glance down quickly, scanning the fabric like it’s evidence in a trial, relieved when there’s no obvious damp patch staring back at you. At least… not one you can see. Which somehow makes it worse, because now there’s doubt.
“How’s your ankle?” he asks, walking towards the end of the bed, his hand careful as it comes to inspect it.
You follow his gaze, like you forgot it existed for a second. “Not as sore I don’t think. But I haven’t tried walking yet.”
“That was the whole point. Think you can make it to my truck, or do I need to carry you?”
You sit up slowly, rubbing at your eye with the heel of your hand, still dragging yourself out of sleep. Everything feels slightly out of sync. “Is it already morning?”
He nods, that familiar almost-smile pulling at his mouth, like he’s enjoying this more than he should. “It is indeed. You can’t hear Dana yelling?”
You go still trying to hear it, and your brain manages to tune into the right frequency just in time to hear a very clear Jesus Christ almighty.
“…Oh my god,” you mumble, blinking around like the room might have changed overnight. “That’s aggressive.”
“It’s called day shift.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You’re not staying for it.”
You reach for your shoe, only to realise your sock’s been crammed inside it, another thing you also don’t remember doing. But before you can untangle that mystery, Abbot gets there first, picking the shoe up and tugging the sock free.
“Hold on.” He drops into a crouch.
Your brain lags a second behind your mouth. “I can do that,” you protest. “You don’t need to be abusing your old man knees.”
He scoffs, rolling the sock between his hands. “My old man knees are fine.”
“Well I’m pretty sure your leg feels worse than my ankle after twelve hours on your feet.”
“I’m fine,” he assures you in that voice that means the conversation is over whether you agree or not, guiding your foot forward and easing the sock back over it. “How does that feel?”
“Like I could go on another morning run.”
“Don’t put me in a bad mood.” He straightens, one hand instinctively coming to your thigh to steady himself as he pushes up, his joints giving a very audible crack on the way which sells him out.
You smile smugly. “Yeah. Sounded great, that.”
“Need me to help you up?”
You shake your head and brace your hands either side of you as you push yourself up. It’s not graceful and you let out a grunt once you stand properly. Abbot hovers anyway, close enough to catch you if you tip even slightly off balance.
“...Thank you,” you say once you’re steady.
“For what?”
You gesture between the two of you, because it’s easier than listing it all out. “For all of this. I know I made your night ten times more difficult by coming in.”
“You didn’t,” he says, too quickly for it to be brushed off as polite.
You lift a brow. “Be serious.”
“I am.” His tone doesn’t waver. “You didn’t make anything difficult.”
You don’t believe him. Even if he is using that same voice again. You know you push it with him. Always have. There’s a part of you that’s permanently braced, waiting for the moment it tips too far, when he finally has enough and decides you’re more effort than you’re worth. Like he’ll take one too many hits of you and realise it’s too much, spit it out, be done.
But that moment never comes.
And you don’t really understand why.
Half the time, you have enough of yourself.
So the fact that he hasn’t—hasn’t even come close, as far as you can tell—sits somewhere under your ribs, awkward and hard to place. Not quite comforting. Not quite anything you know what to do with.
“Come on, let's get out of here before Dana starts throwing things.” He pulls you back to earth, like he always does, like he can tell when you’ve drifted too far in your own head. “We can grab breakfast at a drive-thru before I drop you home.”
“You’re too good to me.”
He snorts under his breath, as though you’ve said something ridiculous. “Don’t start.”
“I’m serious,” you insist, even if it comes out lighter than it feels. “You are.”
“Can’t be that good if I had you in tears just a few hours ago.”
You wave him off, taking a step closer. “That literally happens several times a day, don’t even worry about it.”
He reaches out as you close the distance, his hand settling at your waist, pulling you in enough to keep you balanced. “That’s not reassuring.”
“Well,” you shrug, lifting your arm loosely over his shoulders, “I do tend to cry less once I get a greasy breakfast and an iced coffee in me.”
“Is that right?” He turns towards you then, and it hits you properly, how close you are. Not just now. Several times throughout the shift. Closer than you probably should’ve been without either of you saying anything about it.
He smells good. Which feels unfair, considering he’s just come off a twelve-hour shift.
“…Proven method,” you add quieter, because you’ve momentarily forgotten your own argument.
“Well, we better hurry up then.”
You hum, even though there’s no real urgency in you. If anything, you’d rather drag it out as long as you can. You don’t say that, obviously. You just do your best to fall into step beside him and hope that he’s in no rush either.
➜ find my abbot masterlist here ⋆˚꩜｡
......fancy fussing over a different old man?
So I went an got the Quinn app for Shawn Hatosy AND OH MY GOD the second episode was so……..him saying good girl, telling her to claw at his chest, the noises the moans GOD I NEED HIM SO BAD. Patrick Ball next?? I’d pay big bucks for Patrick and Shawn on quinn doing a series together but with me in the middle
MADE A JENNIE EDIT
WHAT THE FUCK CHARLIE
OH I NEED THAT SO BAD HE DID THIS FOR ME I NEED TO GIVE HIM THE BEST HEAD OF HIS LIFE. NEED TO BE IN CHOKEHOLD WHILE HE POUNDS INTO ME HES SO CRAZY FOR THIS, SAW THIS AT WORK AND ALMOST MOANED HES SO BIG I LOVE IT
Heesung left Enhypen but NEW CHARLIE LIVE
Yeppie I guess
I actually hate hybe and belift so much y’all don’t even understand it’s either my bias or bias wrecker. First Garam, then Danielle, then Manon now Heesung this is crazy. Hybe genuinely has a problem that needs to be fixed ASAP. They literally have idols who do solo music while in groups. THE ENTIRETY OF BTS, Yunjin of le sserafim, Yeonjun of TXT, SEVENTEEN, like this is crazy. So many idols do this all the time, YUNAS SOLO IS LITERALLY BEING PROMOTED WHILE SHES STILL ON TOUR WITH HER GROUP LIKE HYBE ACTUALLY FUCK OFFFF I HATE HYBE, please sign petitions and make Hybe regret their decision
new Charlie video we cheered
