Had to get the gun out babe

20 something. In love with old men. Richie, Roy, Joel & Haymitch. Ya know, dads

[dadbodfanatic-x]

The fact that no one has made a fic about Richie from the bear saying “I swear to god I will fuck whatever I wanna fuck” IS CRIMINAL

[dadbodfanatic-x]

writing kelce swift love story but with Tom Brady and an original character named Norah

🎤 

NFL Network Interview – Game Day Impact

The following week, Tom sat down for a one-on-one with the NFL Network. He was fresh off the win, hoodie on and hair still damp, glowing like someone who just scored on and off the field.

Interviewer:

“Tom, let’s talk about the season opener. Record-breaking numbers. And the biggest demographic spike? Young women.”

Tom smiled knowingly.

“I mean… I am the quarterback in ‘So High School.’ I guess I can’t be shocked.”

Interviewer (laughing):

“True. But seriously, your fantasy draft stats are insane. First pick in a majority of leagues and the highest registration of female fantasy team managers ever. What’s it like having Norah’s fans show up like this?”

Tom leaned back, thoughtful.

Tom:

“I think it’s incredible. I love that she has fans who love her enough to show up on Sundays just because she loves me. That’s… powerful. And honestly? If dads and daughters are connecting now over football because she’s giving them a reason to tune in, I think that’s amazing.”

He grinned, eyes twinkling.

Tom (cont’d):

“And if they’re watching for a glimpse of Norah in the box seat? Hey, I get it. That’s my girl too.”

Interviewer:

“Any plans to shout her out on the field?”

Tom (smirking):

“She already knows. The wrist tape I wore last game? Had her initials under the wrap. But they’ll have to dig for that Easter egg.”

📲 

Fan Reaction Online

@QB4EverFan:

“I’m only here because Norah said his backwards hat ruins her. AND SHE WAS RIGHT.”

@NorahsLyricsDecoded:

“She said ‘he’s the dream I had before I knew what dreams could cost’ and now I’m watching full games just to see her blush in the box. This is cinema.”

@FantasyLeagueQueen:

“Drafted Brady because he’s her muse and now I’m undefeated. Coincidence? I think not.”

@GirlDadFootball:

“My daughter watches pre-game with me now. Thanks, Norah. Football is officially girl-coded.”

[eureka-its-zico]

Residuals Ch. 6

Ongoing Series

Synopsis: You and Robby spent seven long years together until the day it ended. You’ve done your best to create space; to become invisible. You can’t miss what you don’t see. Unfortunately, the universe (Gloria and the Board of Directors) seemed to have missed the memo.

Pairing: Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch x Reader

Genre: Established previous relationship, age gap (by about 15 years give or take), a little bit of tension mixed in with a little bit of hate yearning, cause she’s a saucy angsty fic ok

A/N: Thank you guys for always being incredibly patient with me while I weave out this plot, sometimes taking longer than expected. Your support and love for this series truly mean everything 🖤 This chapter begins the Fullerton crash-out moment. Just like Robby, reader is having a no-good, terrible day. There are hints at PTSD induced trauma that’s brought on by grief and similar situations. That being said, this chapter focuses on some heavier themes, and this is partly due to me being moody, being stuck in the hospital lol. As always, thank you so much for reading, and I hope you all enjoy. Much love, Jenn

P.s. thank you to @viridian-dagger for trusting me with using her character she’s building for an Abbot fic in this scene 🖤

Warnings: Mentions of death, language, infant death, mentions of abuse, ptsd, mild sexual content (under eighteen do not enter)

Words: 10.9+

Previous I Next

10:00 AM - 11:00 AM

It was the gasp that broke him. 

The soft rush of breath he’d been wanting steal all fucking day since he saw you. It surged him forward, eager and wanton to ground himself to the present of you being fucking here. Not a memory or an unwanted thought that had him chasing your ghost the rest of the day. 

You were here and grabbing him, directing him to focus on you.

 “Eyes on me.”

How could you not realize he was always searching for you? You were the anchor that kept him from drowning. The safe harbor he never realized he needed. The idea of losing you again, watching you leave without knowing that he was yours, would always be yours, would surely kill him. Robby’s desire to consume you, to show you, to prove to you with his body where his words failed intoxicated him. He couldn’t think past your lips and your eyes and Christ the way you looked at him. Robby would never get over the way you looked at him like he was your purpose for being. 

The look alone teleported him back to the first time the two of you’d ended up inside the medical supply closet. He walked in to find you scavenging for a replacement g-tube for your patient’s stoma, muttering to yourself about the lack of system. Robby leaned against the door and watched, listened, and couldn’t help but laugh as you huffed your way into finding the right size. 

You’d chastise him - “if you’re going to enjoy the view, at least enjoy the view and help me while you’re at it.” 

Robby pushed away from the door to stand inches from you. His eyes clocking the playful smirk and the challenge in your eyes for him to do something. He’d hinted at it all week and you’d told him, “Either make the first move or stop playing with my emotions, Robinavitch.” 

And so he made his move standing there inside the medical supply closet. His hand weaving his fingers to the back of your neck to pull you close so his lips could softly graze over yours; a test. Was it too much? This was the worst place for a first kiss — at work, in a fucking supply closet, and yet, Robby remembered the way your body melted against him, sighing into the kiss like you’d been waiting your whole life to feel him. He made sure to do it again hours later on the roof under a lilac sky. 

It was the sudden flash Robby saw that darkened your eyes and quickened your breath before his thumb stroked across your lips that told him he wasn’t the only one falling. He was sure you tried to fight turning your chin up for him, like a good girl, to make this easier. Your hands that you’d fought to keep at your sides were now embedded in his hoodie, fingers dangerously close to fumbling with the zipper. 

His own hands had worked their way under your scrub top to touch bare skin. The pads of his fingers playing with the drawstring of your pants. If he slid his hand further down between your thighs would he find you swollen and soaked for him? 

The thought alone had him pressing you hard against the tile. His hips rutting into you like a fucking teenager desperate to fuck up into your cunt and feel you clench around him. He wanted to mark you with lips and teeth; decorate your skin from the grip of his fingers on your hips. Robby wanted you to fucking feel him later in every movement you made; on every available piece of skin. He was desperate to hear you moan his name and decorate his back with stripes from your nails. 

He broke the kiss just enough to look at you, really look at you. Your eyes fluttered open but remained hooded. Your breath erratic and pulse frantic under the press of his thumb on your throat giving just the right amount of pressure you liked. Robby loved it when you wore this look; drunk on him and nothing else. 

He didn’t give you a second to breathe before his mouth was back on yours. His hand now fully moved to grip your throat, allowing him to move you where he wanted. The shift in roughness sent a moan from your throat to vibrate against his lips. Robby wondered if he'd pulled away just enough to hear it, to give it life, if it’d sound like his favorite kind he tore free from your lips while his head was buried between your thighs, his tongue coaxing you to fist his hair and pull his tongue deeper inside you.

He didn’t mind quickies with you whenever you could steal them, wherever you could but they were never his favorite. Robby loved to take his time. Worship every part of your body with his hands and mouth. To enjoy the fucked out expression and hooded lids and his name crashing in a scream against his chest as he fucked you through your next orgasm. 

He wanted to be home with you and not trapped in this fucking bathroom with your body sandwiched between him and the tile. Robby wanted to be anywhere else with you than here but, most of all, he never wanted this to stop. 

He wanted to keep feeling your fingers in his hair; digging in the back of his neck to pull him closer. The frantic press of hungry lips that deepened the kiss until it was nothing but tongue and a clashing of teeth. Robby knew it wasn’t long before the frenzy of the moment wore off. Old memories of the beauty of what could be pulling you both forward in a fervor of familiarity and lust. 

Once it wore off, you would both be left standing right back where you started, except worse. Robby didn’t want to pull away, to end this, but he didn’t want regret to be the new emotion that haunted you both. 

If he could just open up; tell you everything that's been building up. If he could just get you to do the same maybe regret wouldn’t be a possibility. Maybe instead, hope could take its place. 

Reluctantly, Robby disentangled his hands from the soft grip he held around your neck and pulled his hand from the warmth of your skin beneath your top. He broke the kiss last with an audible pop of lips breaking apart. For the third time since you’d entered the bathroom after him, blazing like the sun and ready to give him hell, Robby took in angles, freckles, and all the silly imperfections you pointed out and catalogued them. You would always be the most beautiful woman to him. 

Say something, his mind hissed. He needed to say something and fast because Robby could see the haze he’d created beginning to fade and quickly be replaced with what he didn’t want to see. He was still close, so close he practically could’ve breathed you back to him. You still hadn’t said a word, didn’t look away, and maybe, just maybe you hoped that he would. 

“I’m sorry,” he blurted. “I crossed a line. I shouldn’t have done that.”

No! No you fucking idiot! 

Robby watched in painfully real time as what was left of the fog in your mind evaporated. He watched it be replaced with embarrassment at breakneck speed - regret. The one fucking thing he didn’t want to see. 

His body felt suspended in a web. He couldn’t move fast enough to keep you from moving out from between the wall and his body. Your eyes locked on him one last time before your gaze cast downwards to the safety of a speckled linoleum floor. 

He tried to force himself to move forward - grab a hold of you - to keep you from bolting but his feet were cemented in place. You still weren’t meeting his eyes - locked in the safety of hiding. You cleared the raw emotion from your throat and when you looked up, Robby did take a step forward. 

Glassy eyes held him paralyzed in place while a smile heartbreakingly sad that it lifted the scab up from old wounds. 

“It’s okay. I shouldn’t have come in here in the first place. It’s my fault.”

Robby spoke your name praying it was enough. Enough to get you to let go of the handle of the bathroom door. Enough to notice that he had so much fucking more that he needed to tell you because you couldn’t just walk away again. Not after this…

He was too late. The sad smile rose in a weak attempt to be brave but all it caused was to break the seal of a lie you’d been desperately trying to hold together. 

“Really, Robby, it’s fine.” Your voice ached, a tear breaking free to slide down your cheek. “You’re right. This shouldn’t have happened and it was - it was inappropriate for me to come in here.”

You were opening the door as you spoke and he finally moved forward, his hand reaching out, pleading for you to take it. Your name was still sitting on his tongue as he begged you to wait, but you were already gone.

The bottom of his fist collided with the metal of the door. His forehead pressed against the cool steel of before he turned to look at himself in the mirror and laughed. Laughter was the only option he had to keep himself from breaking. A force of mirthless joy to combat the burning sting behind his eyes that threatened to send him crumbling back into the corner.

He could blame it on the panic attack, on Gloria, the OD kid, and the elderly Mr. Spencer with his children for causing his words to fail him. The unspeakable Adamson that loomed in the wings of his mind and the reason he’d come crashing inside the bathroom to begin with. 

All he had to do, all he had to fucking do was say a few more words. “I don’t regret this - regret us - but we need to talk. Come home. Come home. Come home. Come home…

It’s all Robby ever wanted was to see you walking through the front door. He’d take you back anyway he could have you. But he’d fucked it up. His leaden tongue refused to follow up his earlier words with the ones that needed to be said the most. Now - now you felt as lost to him as before, except worse. 

Robby didn’t need any more help from the universe when it came to you. He did a pretty good job of losing you all by himself. 

Air. 

You needed air and sun and anything that proved you weren’t trapped inside the walls of this fucking hospital. Before the way Robby looked at you in the bathroom was burned into your retinas. 

Stupid, stupid, how fucking stupid! It was official: running into the bathroom after your ex made it on the top five worst ideas you’d ever had. You shouldn’t have stepped inside that bathroom but if you hadn’t…if you hadn’t Robby would’ve been alone. Alone to combat the heavy crushing weight of whatever triggered him to seek solace inside a hospital bathroom.

No matter what happened between the two of you, you wouldn’t regret being there for him like you used too. In truth, when you finally realized what was happening, you expected him to push you away. When the panic attacks started, there were days when he’d allow you to comfort him and others when he didn’t want it at all. 

Maybe it would’ve been better - less cruel - if he’d pushed you away rather than left you to try and survive the rest of the day after that kiss. No matter how fast your feet carried you to the ambulance bay, it wasn’t fast enough to escape the memory of the heat in his eyes as it died into something soft and familiar. You couldn’t run fast enough from the way that softness shifted to alarm at what just happened and the feeling of him prying himself away again inch by painful inch.

The bitterness of an apology you knew was going to be said to take back everything that just happened came moments later. 

In the fog of your panic, you heard the faint sound of someone calling your name but you didn’t stop. Has someone seen you go in after Robby? Did someone see you leave the bathroom and had Robby followed after you? 

It was possible. He’d been moving towards you when you bolted but Robby wouldn’t chase you through the pitt or, at least, you hoped he wouldn’t. 

You didn’t stop until you made your way through both electric doors and stood outside. Your hands behind your head as you tried to remember to breathe - just fucking breathe - and took in a deep inhale through your nose. 

“There you are,” a familiar voice teased, “I was starting to think you wouldn’t show.”

Shit. Dana. You’d completely forgotten all about her and the inadvertent promise of talking. Forgot everything but the taste of Robby on your tongue, the scent of leather and sandalwood that clung to you now like a second skin, and the rich smoky sound of his voice calling your name. 

Fuck. You were screwed. So, so, fucking screwed. 

“What’s wrong with your face? You irritate it on something?”

On someone, you thought in reply, but that was thankfully kept safely to yourself. You needed to get your shit together before Dana sniffed out that something was going on; something happened between you and Robby. If she hadn’t already. 

“What are you talking about?”

Yeah, ask a question with a question. Classic deflection. With her cigarette clamped between her fingers, she circled around the offending area, your fucking mouth, and replied with concern, “It’s all red in this area.”

“Oh, I grabbed a sandwich from the chart. I probably scrubbed too hard getting the mustard off my mouth.”

If disbelief was a person, it would’ve been Dana. Her eyes calculated every part of your weak attempt at an excuse. It wouldn’t be hard for her to clock every single bit of your uniform that was different; scrub top untucked from Robby’s hands pulling it up or, apparently the most notable, the irritation from his beard around your mouth. 

“Huh,” she huffed, in a puff of smoke. “Imagine that.”

You expected her investigation to continue but Dana patted the space beside her on the wall. While you’d forgotten all about this upcoming talk, you could see it was something Dana was looking forward to. 

You didn’t have very many options. It was either go back inside and possibly run back into Robby - absolutely not - or be out here with Dana. You would pick Dana in a heartbeat.

You went to stand beside her, your back pressed against the jagged bricks pinching and pulling your racing pulse into a steady rhythm back to reality. The silence that came after didn’t feel frantic with a need to fill it with a stuttering of mindless words or excuses. It was comfortable, or as comfortable as it could be. Dana gave you the time to prepare for this conversation, as she always helped prepare everyone for everything. 

Unfortunately, there was nothing she could do to prepare you for having this conversation. 

“So,” she sighed. 

“So,” you replied, carefully looking at her through your peripherals. “You go or do I go?”

“Do you really want to know my answer to that question?

“Maybe?”

“Come on, kid. I think you have a whole lot of explaining to do here, don’tcha think?”

No, you didn’t think you had a whole lot to explain. It felt pretty simple in the grand scheme of things, but you didn’t say it. Didn’t want to start this conversation off with heated words that would only barricade you both from making peace with your presence being here.

“What do you want me to say, Dana?” 

It was a genuine question. You didn’t know where she wanted you to start because some things weren’t available to be talked about. Robby was one of those vague things; the last few hours of the downfall of a relationship is a sacred thing. You didn’t need to air out dirty details, to get confirmation on who did who wrong. It was an equally terrible, no good situation and you’d both contributed to it. 

A soft bark of laughter escaped her as she stomped out her cigarette. Her eyes drifted over the parking lot before she turned to home in on you. 

“Let’s start with why you felt the need to cut everybody out when ya’ left?”

Not everybody, you wanted to correct her. If you did that now, though, it would probably only lead to more hurt feelings but Dana was just too close to Robby. Her motherly hen instincts would’ve secretly been trying to right the wrongs she couldn’t understand or worse - picking sides. You took in a deep breath before you exhaled your next words. 

“It wasn’t an easy choice to make, Dana. I want you to know that.”

“It seemed pretty easy on my end.”

“Of course it would seem that way to you and I’m not saying it isn’t a valid response, but I didn’t just lose Robby when I left.”

“You made that choice, kid. Nobody made it for you.”

“And I’m not disputing that,” you replied, the irritation radiating underneath your words. “Let’s just be honest here for a second, alright? Would it have seemed fair to put you between Robby and me’s problems?”

“It’s not about right or wrong. I love you both. I care about you both and only want what’s best for you.”

“That is an easy sentiment to carry until one of us confides in you and you learn something that could change how you view us and could cause you to pick a side.”

Dana moved away from the wall, her arms wrapped around her middle. She took a few steps away from you before she turned. The coldness of her blue eyes felt glacier. 

“What is this third grade?” She scoffed. “I’m not picking sides on anything.” You couldn’t keep your brows from lifting up to your hairline; calling bullshit on her words before you could even reply. “What? I don’t.”

“Anytime we’ve asked for your opinion on something - any other coworkers - and it’s us against Robby, you always picked his side.”

“I do not always choose his side.”

“It’s okay to have favorites, Dana,” you teased. 

She turned away to look back into the ambulance bay. It wasn’t fast enough to hide the curve of a smile gracing her lips. When she turned back to face you, her face was schooled back into an impressive blank canvas. 

“Look,” you began, bouncing your butt off the wall to tuck your hands into your scrub pockets. “When I left, I did it not wanting to put anyone in a difficult spot of being put between us. I needed that alone time for myself and I was worried if Robby heard I was still here, just upstairs, maybe he’d come look for me - ask about me.” 

You were also worried that he wouldn’t. He’d let you go without fighting for you even though you’d been the one to walk away.

“If we couldn’t heal together I hoped…” The next words lodged themselves in your throat and refused to be said. “I hoped he’d begin to heal on his own.”

You hated how your voice cracked. A tornado of anger, sadness, regret, and grief thrashing into one chaotic broken mess. In an attempt to combat the sudden real possibility you might cry in front of her, you bit down on your lip and looked down at the top of your shoes. You wanted to make yourself as small as humanly possible because talking about this out loud for the first time was hell. 

You felt more than saw Dana come back to stand beside you. Her hand snaking around your shoulders to draw you close to her caused you to jump at the sudden touch. It jerked your head up from the safety of your shoes to meet her eyes that softened to something much kinder. 

“Well, unfortunately, he’s a stubborn bastard,” Dana offered to lighten the mood. “And the only thing he helps himself to is the shitty coffee in the break room.”

The two of you shared a laugh while she pulled you closer. Your heads coming comfortably together in the makeshift side hug you found yourself in. 

“I am sorry for not reaching out or telling you bye. I just knew you’d try and talk me out of it.”

“You bet your ass I would have.”

Your voice grew whisper soft, scared your emotions would betray you again: “I know. I needed to do this for myself, Dana. We were drowning and it felt like, if one of us didn’t make the hard choice, we might never surface for air again.”

Silence swelled around you. Your words hushed by the next breeze that rolled through the ambulance bay. It was the most honest you’d been with anyone that wasn’t your therapist. It was both terrifying and heartbreakingly relieving all at once for another human being to hear you say it. 

Maybe one day you’d be able to tell it to the person who needed to hear it the most. 

“How are you holding up with everything?”

You knew this question would come. You’d left seven months after the implosion of your makeshift happiness. Left behind the hurried glances of sad looks and whispers of rumors about what happened, which eternally were the worst. A pregnant woman no longer pregnant with no baby to show for it except at a funeral parlor and a small burial plot next to Robby’s grandmother because, “She’ll look after him in the meantime while we can’t.”

“I have more good days than bad now. It took me a long time to stop blaming myself for our son being still born. Sometimes, I still do and I have to remember it’s a process.”

“Sounds like you’ve been talking to a shrink.”

“I have.” 

Your confession caused Dana to pull away slightly. Just enough where you could comfortably look one another in the eye. She’d mentioned countless times for you to see someone and you’d always politely told her, “Maybe,” or “I’ll look into it.” Dana knew you never would. You were just pacifying her long enough for her to forget to ask until the next crack showed at work; the latest telltale sign there was a strain between Robby and you.

“Really?”

You attempted to shrug off her surprise. 

“It’s Abbot’s therapist, actually,” you answered truthfully. “I was standing on the roof -“

“It’s like a communicable hotspot up there,” Dana grumbled. 

You smiled around your words as you continued, “He told me not to be such a hard headed asshole like Robby and accept the damn help when it was offered.”

Dana still held you close, her eyes taking in your face and, for the first time since you've been back, you watched as her eyes began to well with unshed tears. It was all too much for you in that moment - to be held in your honesty. You looked away before your own tidal wave crashed against the wall you’d built. 

You will not cry. You. will. not. cry. 

You were back to finding safety in the tops of your shoes. Your body helplessly clocking every soft rub her hand gave your shoulder or tight squeeze. 

“I’m proud of you for taking care of you. I was so worried -“ Those simple fucking words, I’m proud of you, we’re an unexpected punch to the gut. You’d only heard them from Abbot the next time you’d seen him on the roof during your weekly check-ins. A life raft you’d unexpectedly learned you needed. It meant a lot to hear them from Dana.

The soft break in her voice forced your head to turn and face her head on. You weren’t surprised to find she wasn’t looking at you anymore. She was protectively turned towards her opposite shoulder with her free hand coming to wipe at her cheeks. 

“For a long time I was scared - so fucking scared - something happened to you.”

There wasn’t any point in telling her that her fears weren’t unfounded. You’d been walking with your own dark cloud for a while when Abbot found you that day on the roof. You’d been at your lowest and, for the first time, you were scared of your own thoughts.  

Dana finally released the hold she’d held on you to take out her pack of smokes from her thigh pocket of her scrub pants. With a shaky hand she dug a single Malboro out and quickly lit it. She took a heavy pull that hollowed out her cheeks while her eyes stayed looking at the opposite side of the ambulance bay. 

“Just promise me this time Houdini, that you’ll keep in touch after you disappear this time.”

Her words raised a smile on your face and you pushed yourself away from the wall. This time coming to stand in front of her, carefully out of the way of the cigarette smoke, and playfully gave a shrug. 

“Sure, but I don’t think you’ll be lucky enough to get rid of me anytime soon.”

Not if Gloria and the Powers That Be got their way. For a split second, you wondered if you should tell Dana what Gloria had offered an hour ago. There was a chance she might think you were being a snake or, just maybe, be the help you needed to warn Robby he needed to be on his best behavior, specifically today. 

You mulled over the idea a few times before two paramedics strolled out through the double doors and back into the ambulance bay.

“Don’t you know those things will kill you?” 

“I should be so lucky,” Dana quipped with a smile. 

You were about ready to chastise her that no, she shouldn’t be so lucky, when a speeding ambulance cut through the bay clipping Ziegler sending her spinning. 

“Holy shit,” you mumbled with your feet already carrying you forward. “Are you alright? Come here, Ziegler and let  me do a quick assessment.”

Ziegler just finished yelling in vain after the runaway ambulance, rotating her arm around in the socket. She came to a stop back in front of the gurney with her hands braced on either side. 

“I’m alright, Dr. Fullerton,” she attempted weakly to dismiss you. “Can you believe that shit?”

“Did you leave the keys in it?” Her partner asked. 

“Yeah. I leave them there in case someone needs to move it.”

“To the chop shop?”

Your words garnered you a glare from Ziegler who kept attempting to ward off your continued attempts at assessing her. 

“Who steals an ambulance at ten am?”

You weren’t sure if she was necessarily asking you or just anyone willing to share in her outrage. Dana flicked out her cigarette and shrugged as she replied, “It happens.”

“Come on, Ziegler,” you motioned for her to move back inside the pitt. “Let’s go back inside and start getting all this sorted out.” 

You watched her rotate her right arm in its socket for the third time and wondered if you should remind her it was protocol for her to be cleared for duty. She was going to need to be seen by you or another doctor just to make sure nothing was fractured or tore out of place. 

Ahmad was waiting for you all at the last set of double doors. His gaze centered on Ziegler and asked why she left the keys in the ignition. You weren’t ready to stand around and listen to them bicker back and forth like a set of siblings, so you took this moment to start heading back to trauma. Dana would no doubt be starting the protocol for Ziegler to be looked at anyways, and that also meant Ahmad and the nurses would start placing bets on where the stolen ambulance was going to end up. 

You’d be placing your bet soon after you saw some of the news footage. 

You made it all the way up central and were almost back up in triage when McKay came in from the south hallway. The med student Javadi, hot on her heels. You weren’t sure if McKay was coming to confer with you about a patient she may have pulled from triage. Usually, they were all supposed to bring their questions to Robby, but so far today it seemed a few of them were forgetting procedure and heading straight to you. 

You could definitely see why he was getting annoyed. 

“Can I help you, Dr. McKay?”

Her smile was tight; the kind of hesitation you knew was a prelude to an inquiry you might want to avoid. 

“Actually, I came to see if you’d gotten a chance to talk to Robby about David?”

Her question was enough to send your mind careening back into the mess you’d been in only twenty minutes ago. Robby’s words bitter and hot searing against your skin as he reminded you that he was attending. He was the one in charge of dealing with this mess and it probably wouldn’t get any better the more McKay or you poked at it. 

He’d also said he didn’t want you here. That was before he kissed you, your brain easily pointed out, and you were quick to tell it to shut up. 

“I did speak with Robby about the situation.”

“Okay and? How did it go?”

Your hand moved to grip the back of your neck, as if it would be enough to keep the stress from making you jump out of your skin. 

“Not great, Cassie.”

“He needs to take this more seriously. As someone who's been on the receiving end of a man’s anger, it’s not a place to be, including young women.”

That was the hard truth all over the world: being a woman was dangerous. There wasn’t a woman you didn’t know that had a questionable story or an all around bad one about something that happened to them. Hell, you’d had your own terrifying moments. 

How was it rational to believe that simply walking to your car became an Olympic sport in survival? The expectations high and the good ol’ fashion stigma of “Boys will be Boys,” was somehow still a rampant idea system that was used to judge whether or not a young girl or woman deserved what she got. 

“Well what was she wearing? Did she provoke him? Maybe she led him on?” 

The list could go on and on and in the court of public opinion, women would always be judged first before the actual perpetrators. So, yes you understood where McKay was coming from and her concern was more than valid. 

 “I hear you, McKay and I understand. My concern is for everyone involved and that does include the wellbeing for the girls and David. I didn’t see him, but to me it just sounds like a depressed kid dealing with a lot of shit and not knowing how to express his emotions.”

“Yeah, emotions that make him write out a list of girls he wants to eliminate,” McKay shot back. 

“Have you never written anything down before? Sad thoughts? Angry thoughts? Or wrote out some questionable texts to a friend or significant other in the heat of a moment?” 

“Sure. Everybody has.”

“Exactly. Therapists tell us to write out our emotions, don’t keep them bottled up, but nobody tells you that your thoughts can be later turned against you.”

“That’s because thoughts lead to actions. Come on, Fullerton, you’re not really defending this kid, are you?” She asked exasperated. 

You took a quick glance down the halls and around the nursing station to make sure Robby wasn’t walking by. You didn’t want him catching you talking to McKay and his bad mood following you into the next room with a patient. Or for him to follow you into the next room. 

You let out a sigh before you spoke. Your thoughts are moving at lightning speed because your job was to help and, unfortunately, you saw multiple people in this situation who needed it. Sometimes, figuring out the best way to help people, even with good intentions, could end up with messy results. 

“Sometimes we just need to vent and it’s not pretty, and no I’m not defending him. What I’m saying is I also see a young boy who needs guidance and our help. While making sure nobody is harmed in the process and that is all Robby is trying to do.”

You wanted to ask her what she would do if it was Harrison? How would she like the situation handled if the shoe was on the other foot, but kept your mouth shut. How many times have you, as adults, said some out of pocket stuff that was equally as concerning? That was threatening or putting another person in harm's way with you being the one wanting to do the harm? It was true that the world tells you to express yourself, and sometimes the expression it receives in return can be an ugly one.

McKay’s ankle monitor came from a situation just like that. A colorful dispute with Chad’s new girlfriend, Chloe, had that ankle monitor strapped to her leg and held her prisoner to the reminder of the price we pay when our emotions get the best of us. Your own instances throughout life where you’d reacted poorly to situations in your own life were a vehicle to remember we didn’t always make the best choices all the time. 

“I’ll try and speak to him again, McKay. I promise.”

“Thank you,” she sighed. “I don’t mean to be up your ass about this and I get where you are coming from it’s just…this is concerning. Those girls deserve to be safe too.”

“I agree with you, McKay. We just want to make sure everyone is okay. I’ll come find you when I talk to Robby.”

“Okay thanks. Oh, yeah, I almost completely forgot, Dr. Fullerton, this is Javadi. New student doctor.”

“We’ve met previously in the breakroom. Glad to see you back out on the floor, Javadi.”

She appeared to be as flustered as she’d been sitting in the breakroom, but the silent way she’d been beating herself up for a simple mistake was gone. Or at least, you hoped it was gone. 

“Thanks. Dr. Robby thought I should help Dr. McKay in triage.”

In a nervous tick, you watched as Javadi slapped the pad of her notepad into her palm a few times before she caught it. Her hand clenched around it and you wondered if she was trying to fight the urge to talk more. You made sure to give her a friendly smile before motioning in McKay’s direction. 

“He set you up with one of the best. Dr. McKay is a great doctor and teacher.”

“Be careful, Javadi. Dr. Fullerton likes to dish out flattery like they’re candy,” McKay teased. 

“Only when the compliments are deserved,” you corrected. “I’m on my way back to triage to find my next victim. You got anything?”

McKay lifted up the iPad she’d been holding and tapped a code to unlock the screen. The brightness illuminated from the screen brightened as it opened onto the FirstNet charting system. She tapped on 2 North and once the patient’s chart was on the screen, she passed the iPad over to you. 

It didn’t take long for you to discern that the name, age, and lack of ID were indications that this was a patient who was hiding. Whether from someone or just the system in general, it meant you had to tread carefully with how you went in. People suffering mental health problems could come in as an undisclosed 5150, but when you saw the chief complaint you knew immediately she was either a scared girl or possibly a scared sex worker. 

“I saw this on the board and was going to take Javadi in with me. It feels like a good teaching moment and how mandated reporting works.”

While the information given in the chart was most likely false, the alias she’d chosen today came with previous charts and visit notes caulk full of very red and angry notes that popped open in a side bubble. One of the doctor’s having labeled her as ‘possible drug seeking.’

“Mind if I take this one?”

A few years back, Kiara snagged you to be one of the doctor’s on her street team. She’d cornered you wherever she could in the emergency department, hounding you left and right, and pleaded with you to come out with her. Kiara did need the extra body and eventually Robby agreed it might be good for you to try and assist those unlikely to seek medical attention on their own. 

It was a little after he’d completed his Residency that Robby had taken some time off to go to Africa and help Doctors Without Borders. Whenever he talked about the experience, he told you it’d been the most meaningful and best decision he’d ever made. While he wasn’t trying to send you to a different continent completely, Robby did think taking a few weekends with Kiara would be a good thing. 

Of course, he’d been right.

The people Kiara and the rest of the team mostly saw were homeless individuals and sex workers. It was Kiara who taught you how to listen to them and to watch how you asked your questions. To wear your kindness in your tone and to let compassion choose your words wisely. 

McKay didn’t bat so much as an eye. Her hand extended out the iPad for you to take before shoving her now empty hands into her scrub pockets. 

“No, no, by all means go ahead. Just - do you mind taking Javadi with you? I feel like this one is important.”

“Yeah, of course. Javadi, are you ready?”

You kept the tablet held tight in your hands. Your head nodding in the direction of the room to inform her you were about to start heading that way. 

“Yeah. Yes.” She took a step around McKay to get beside you. The two of you walked in sync before she continued, “What exactly is the chief complaint?”

“It’s labeled on here as ‘possible pregnancy’ so she’s either here for an ultrasound to confirm or plan b.”

“How will we know which one she’s going to need?”

“That’s easy, Javadi: we’ll be able to tell.”

And you were able to tell in heartbreakingly real time the minute you stepped inside the room and peeled back the privacy divider. The girl was young - late or early 20’s at least - with her clothes and six inch platform heels scooped up into a haphazard pile in the chair. 

It was easy to spot the unease that rippled through her. The way her eyes - at least the one that wasn’t nearly swollen shut in the right socket - cautiously watched you both as you entered. There was a brief moment of defiance - her jaw tightening to prove she didn’t care about whatever you thought of her - but it didn’t last. 

You gave her your best genuinely warm smile in greeting and knew she didn’t trust that either. 

“Good morning, Kat. My name is Dr. Fullerton. I have a student doctor here with me. Is it okay if she comes in with us?”

“It’s fine.”

The words fell mumbled to the floor. You didn’t blame her for not looking at either of you for a prolonged period of time. She probably didn’t want to see the look of pity you know your eyes currently hold or the look of shock that was very apparent on Javadi’s face. 

There were contusions and lacerations in multiple areas of her body. A trail of them started at the top of her knees and seemed to spread ever upwards; blossoming into a flower of the aftermath of what occurred. From what you could see at least one elbow was badly scraped, possible deep burn caused from either a carpet or from pavement, and small lacerations on her hands and lip. 

“Can you tell me what brings you in today, Kat?”

You made sure your words were soft. An open invitation for her to share what she was comfortable with because it was obvious she was too scared to share any true information during registration. 

“I need to get the plan b.”

“Sure. We can do that. Can you tell me how you got your injuries?”

You knew how and it made your stomach turn. You both knew it but it wasn’t your place to force her but you knew, regardless of what she said, you were mandated by law to notify law enforcement of any kind of sexual assault. 

Kat shrugged and dared to glance up at you before looking back at her fidgeting hands. 

“I took a nasty fall down a flight of stairs.”

“That’s one hell of a staircase,” Javadi replied, a reflex that flushed her skin and left her eyes panicked. 

“You’re not wrong,” Kat quipped. 

“Do you mind if I examine some of them? I’m worried about your right eye, especially. It’s swelling up pretty good.”

Kat nervously glanced from you, the room, and back to the safety of her lap. 

“Is that going to take a long time? I - I kind of need to get back to work.”

Your stomach tossed the hour old coffee you’d had for breakfast at the idea of this poor girl, after everything, going back out there. No doubt in an incredible amount of pain and dealing with something hidden. 

“It depends if the exam findings indicate anything that appears worrisome. Your wellbeing is important and should come before work.” 

You set the iPad down on the counter and pulled a pair of gloves from your scrub cargo pocket. You made sure all your movements were slow and precise. You didn’t want to do anything that could possibly trigger her anxiety or worse. You held your hands out in front of you so she could see you were coming towards her face. 

When your fingers touched down on the edges of her cheeks you warned her, “I’m going to apply a little pressure,” and proceeded to push your thumbs against her maxilla and up towards her nasal. A sharp intake of air that bounded through the room in a hiss made her pull back from your hands. 

“I’m going to order a CT to rule out any facial fractures. Have you felt dizzy at all? Any bouts of nausea or vomiting since you…fell?”

“No. I mean, I get a little dizzy but it’s ok. Is the CT going to take a long time?”

“I’m super curious what your name is today?” Your head jerked at the sound of Langdon’s voice. His body leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, as he regarded your patient with humorless disdain. “Val? Eva?” 

“What are you doing?” 

Your voice held its own venom and was verging on acidic when you glanced back over at Kat. You knew she was a sex worker of some kind and what kind it was it didn’t fucking matter. She was a badly bruised woman, wearing fingerprints as a necklace for Christ sakes. It was obvious she’d been in an apparent struggle. There was no safety net for her and women like her when stigmas of their choices in life suddenly became everyone’s to judge. 

Well, you weren’t fucking having it here, not in front of you, not in front of a med student, and not fucking ever. Langdon jutted his chin towards Kat as his arms dropped at his sides. 

“She’s a frequent flyer and has been flagged at multiple other hospitals for drug seeking.” 

“Can I speak with you for a minute?”

Your words were brimstone and you watched as the playful gleam in Langdon’s eyes dimmed into panic. He thought you would have agreed and sent this girl packing. You clocked the way he jumped as you snapped the gloves off your hands rougher than usual; rough enough they almost broke. 

“I’ll be right back, Kat, alright?”

“Okay.”

God, her voice was fucking meek, like she wanted the world to make her disappear more than she was struggling to stay present in this room. You swung off the circular roller chair and bolted for the door with your hand tapping at Langdon’s shoulder and pointing out the door. Once he was clear of the doorframe you made sure to shut the door behind you. 

“I’m going to ask this as polite as I physically can right now, Langdon -“

“Look, Fullerton -“

“No, you look!” Your voice snapped like a rubber band. It was louder than intended but you were struggling to refrain yourself. “Did you take a good look at the woman sitting in that room?”

“Yes, I have fucking eyes,” he replied, his own irritation finally breathing life back into his eyes. “I can see who she is perfectly.”

“Who she is? She is a person who came into this emergency department seeking help for a sexual assault she believes she won’t receive proper care for because of what she does.”

“How do you know she didn’t do that to herself to get pills? We see it all the time in here, Fullerton and you know it. They’ll try anything to try and hide their addiction but will also try everything to make sure they get their fix.”

“Yes, I’m well aware of the signs. I’m also well aware you’re being biased towards my patient, not yours, because of what she does for a living. Also, you really think she choked herself?”

“It’s happens,” he shot back at breakneck speed. “There’s been multiple reported cases of men and women assaulting themselves for multiple different reasons.”

“This isn’t a fucking podcast, Frank. The imprint of the bruises from the fingers are literally twice the size of her hands. The bruise pattern on her thighs and the neck would form differently if she’d done them herself.”

A scoff came from him as he looked down at you. The disbelief making his angular jaw appear snarkier than usual. 

“All of the sudden you know forensic medicine?”

“Actually, yes. I took a few semesters in forensic medicine to help assess at the medical examiner’s office for crimes. Not a podcast.”

“Is there a problem here?”

At the sound of Robby’s voice you felt your body war with mixed emotions. It was unrealistic to think that you’d be able to completely avoid him after what just took place in the bathroom. You couldn’t run away from him forever. You’d already tried it once and look how well that went.

You just hated how easily your body shifted gears. How the sound of his voice alone made the tension ease from your shoulders. To relax and know he was here, but this was work not a damn romance novel, and there was still a real chance he might change gears and side with Langdon. What if he also wanted to dismiss her? You knew he wouldn’t - his time in Africa had taught Robby a lot about what it could cost him for assuming anything about a patient, but there was always a chance you could be wrong. 

“No problem,” you replied, peeling your eyes from Langdon and landing them on Robby. “Dr. Langdon here just forgot we’re meant to treat all patients with respect, no matter our views, and that more than 82% of sex workers experience some form of assault from clients and of that 82% less than 5% will ever report it because of people like Dr. Langdon.”

You could feel the weight of Robby’s gaze flickering between you and Langdon. He was trying to garner what he’d missed but you didn’t have time to tune him in. The longer you were out here talking with them the higher the risk Kat might start to believe you were both getting security and not the treatment and care she needed. 

“Robby, she’s been flagged for possible drug seeking in multiple hospitals, not just ours. It’s a fair assumption to make.”

Langdon’s gaze was all for Robby. No doubt secretly pleading for his mentor to have his back in this situation. It didn’t matter if they both went against you. You weren’t backing down in the slightest.

“See, you keep using key words like possible and assumptions in there,” you shot back. 

“Alright, enough,” Robby’s voice sliced through the growing argument. “Dr. Fullerton, I’m going to go in with you to assess the patient visually and Dr. Langdon, you know we treat every addiction, possible or not, on a case by case basis here. We do not make assumptions without first garnering all the facts.” 

If you were feeling extra petty, you would’ve stuck your tongue out at Langdon as Robby made a move towards the patient’s room. But you didn’t. Because you were a professional. 

You kept the pace with him as he entered the room and almost slammed into his back. It was all the indication you need to know Robby had finally laid eyes on Kat. It was a brief pause - a moment of hesitation to school his emotions before he stepped to the side to allow you room to come in. 

At his entrance, the alarm in Kat was visceral. Her back went rigid. Her words clipped on her tongue at whatever she’d been talking to Javadi about. She didn’t just look like a deer in the headlights, she acted like one too. 

“Kat, this our senior physician, Dr. Robby. I asked for his help during our assessment.”

“Hi.”

Cautious. Unsure of if you were both about to throw her out or worse possibly have her arrested. 

“It’s just like Dr. Fullerton said - I’m just here to check on you. I also want to apologize on behalf of my resident earlier if anything he said upset you. That’s not how we operate here.”

Wearily, her gaze slid over him waiting for the second pin to drop. When it didn’t she gave a nod of understanding but her eyes spoke plainly she didn’t trust it. 

“Thank you.”

Robby’s steps were tentative towards her as he pulled out his own pair of gloves and began putting them on. 

“Can you tell me how this happened?”

He asked the question while he gently took her face in his hands and began to apply pressure just like you had moments before. 

“I took a nasty fall down some stairs.”

When he reached near the middle, she winced again. 

“Does it hurt when I apply pressure?”

“Yes.”

“On a scale of 1 through 10.”

“It hurts but I’ll live.”

Robby glanced back at you over his shoulder briefly before he dropped his hands down to take one arm at a time in his hands. Examining to clock each laceration on her hands and up to her elbow. You knew he’d also seen the bruises on her legs and when he finished with her arms he let her know he was going to be feeling around her middle. 

“Dr. Fullerton, suggestions?”

“I’m sending her up to CT to check any possible fractures in the maxilla, nasal region.”

“Good. Add in a CT also for chest and abdomen along with an x-ray.”

“Why?”

You received your answer when his hands moved bilaterally left and right pressing on the medial of her abdomen. 

“That hurts, ya know.”

“I know. You’re sure you fell down a flight of stairs?”

“You calling me a liar?”

The earlier meek demeanor Kat held washed away in an instant. Her eyes looked up at Robby like she had to prove it was just stairs. She wasn’t a victim and didn’t want to be treated like one. 

“Not calling you a liar,” you cut in. “Your injuries unfortunately don’t seem to be from falling and landing on concrete.”

“I fell.”

“It’s okay if that’s how you want to play this,” Robby spoke gently. His arms crossed over his chest as he regarded her. “We won’t force you to share more than you’re ready to, but we just want to make sure you’re safe.”

“I’m good. Great even.”

“Okay. Well, you’re in good hands with Dr. Fullerton. She’s one of our best.”

He was already removing his gloves and heading for the door. You moved like his shadow trailing behind him to make sure no one came and swept him up before you had your chance to ask him one last question. Before you stepped all the way out of the room, you looked back in and called to Javadi. 

“Can you put in the orders for the ct and x-ray Robby suggested and a urine. Tylenol with codeine for pain. If it comes back negative for pregnancy go ahead and put in for plan b. I’ll be right back.”

You hand tapped the doorframe in passing as you turned back around to find Robby already halfway down the hall. Shit, you needed to grab him before you lost him but before you left you stopped Princess to ask if she could join Javadi in the room until you returned. 

“Robby!” 

Robby turned quickly at the sound of your voice. The look on his face vaguely reminiscent of what you’d seen…how long ago? How many minutes have passed by since he’d caged you against his body? The heat of him searing into your skin and the faint taste of him still coated your tongue. 

This close, you couldn’t keep your eyes from dropping back to his lips or ignore the way your skin ached to feel his hands gripping you, pulling you in closer and closer until you combust. 

You scrubs still fucking held the scent of him. It was messing with but not how Robby kept fucking looking at you like this. Like he’d grab you in a heartbeat to kiss you again and you fucking wanted him too. 

“I shouldn’t have done that.”

No. He’d made himself clear. He’d overstepped. You’d overstepped by not pulling away sooner; by fisting your fingers in his hoodie and trying to pull him impossibly closer. Your senses heightened to the pads of his hands on bare skin he’d hungrily reclaimed with his teeth nipping at your bottom lip just before his mouth dropped back onto yours stealing what little air you’d gained.

Overstepped. You were found wanting more than you should’ve and were reminded in rapid speed that you weren’t together. All the things you need to say to one another left buried in a wreckage you both were too scared to touch. 

Quickly, you broke contact and found the safety of the tops of your good ol’ shoes. When you were sure your heart and your dumbass libido was back in check, you allowed yourself to look up. 

“Do you know where Kiara is? I want her to talk to the patient in 2 North before I call the cops to report the assault.”

“You mean the assault she labeled as falling down the stairs?”

Robby had a point but still…

“We both know she didn’t fall down the stairs, Robby.”

“Yeah, we do but unless she’s willing to state it herself we can’t force her. Calling the cops could possibly make her not trust us period and not come back at all.”

“By law we have to report suspected abuse even if they won’t admit it. What if she’s in danger, Robby?”

“What if us calling the cops without her acknowledging what’s happened to her just puts her in more danger? Did you think about that? The cops are going to have their own questions about what she was doing and the kind of work she does. I would hate to see a victim arrested all because she wasn’t ready to talk. Sometimes helping our patients doesn’t always come in the form of how we want to help them.”

He was right. Robby knew it and so did you. If you called the cops without her being ready to speak with them it would only complicate things. You wanted her to trust you and in doing this would only complicate that. Letting out a sigh, you placed your hands on your hips and felt your foot begin to tap.

“I at least want Kiara to speak with her. Maybe she can help lead her in the right direction so we can find the asshole who did this to her.”

“I agree.”

“Okay. Cool. So, where is she?”

Robby shrugged and an exasperated chuckle rolled like smoke between you. You wanted to curl up in the sound. 

“How the fuck should I know?”

“You’re attending, aren’t you? Shouldn’t you have sonar or something that alerts you to everyone’s locations?”

“Ugh, no I don’t have any of that because that sounds like it teeters on being unethical and illegal. Last time I saw her she was speaking with Theresa in Central 12. Maybe start there.”

“Thanks.”

That would’ve been the perfect break for either of you to just walk away. Why couldn’t you just walk away? Clearing your throat you found the strength to start turning around. Your brain desperately homing in on seeking out Kiara so you weren’t thinking about deep brown eyes that held a depth of mourning you could physically feel. 

You’d made it all the way back to central, your gaze scanning every room as you went, until the sound of Dana calling your name brought you back to the surface. 

“Fullerton, can I get a little help here?”

You felt your brow rise in question as you continued to make your way across the room. Your eyes took quick notice that Dana was surrounded by Donnie, Perlah, and two other nurses you hadn’t yet met. It could only mean one thing. 

“Nope.”

“What? You don’t even know what I was gonna ask!”

“You look like a mini army and that only means one thing,” you shot back. 

Your assessment was rewarded with the sound of a man screaming. He wasn't screaming tangible words or cussing left and right about being let out. It was animalistic and born of frustration. It could only be The Kraken.

“Sorry. Would love to help, but can’t. I’m 10-6 looking for Kiara.”

“Coward!”

You glanced into Central 12 and found no Kiara. It only meant you needed to keep searching and you would. Kiara was fantastic at what she did and where the proper words might fail you, Kiara would not. You just hoped that she would be able to at least help Kat to understand that you were looking out for her safety. 

You were about to backtrack through the south hall when a shout from the ambulance bay tore your eyes to the doors. Paramedics were rushing in with one holding an IV while another was running close beside it. Their body was almost on top of the gurney themselves which begged the question: where was the patient? 

It took your brain longer than you it should’ve to register the tiny body on the gurney. A little girl - unresponsive and lifeless with each push on her tiny chest. The only rise you saw was from the bvm pushing the air into the mask and down into her body.

“Trauma 1 now! Somebody get Robby! Tell me what we got?”

“One-year-old was found unresponsive by dad half an hour ago. Unresponsive to external stimuli and stimulations. Been administering compressions and rescue breaths for the past ten minutes.”

“Was she found next to anything she might have swallowed? Any open wiring?”

“All dad could tell us was that he and the girlfriend left her in the room to nap and that she has a heart condition.”

“What heart condition?”

“Dad was unable to tell us. Just told us to contact her biological mom who’s currently at work. Guy was just babysitting.”

You got the gurney lined up with the bed when Robby appeared just in time for all hands on deck to transfer the baby. 

“Jesus,” Robby grumbled, launching himself to the head of the bed barking out orders as he went. “Are we at least getting in contact with mom to get some fucking information?”

“We’re making that phone call now,” Jessie informed the room. 

You tried your best to stay clinical - every move was calculated and unbiased because you couldn’t break. Everyone around you scrambled with new pads and and fluids; checking for rhythms that weren’t coming and signs spontaneous breathing had occurred. 

You weren’t aware that Santos had entered the room until she was beside you asking what she could do. Nurses in the room took turns switching from compressions to breathes in rapid succession as every eye stayed glued to the monitors. It didn’t matter if anyone or no one believed in God or some form of higher power in that moment. Every breath made was a collective prayer that this little girl would make it. 

If sheer willpower could make it so, the energy in the room would’ve performed a miracle. The sad realization was that no matter how good you were, no matter what you tried or didn’t try, the crushing reality that this wouldn’t end how you wanted. 

Ten of the tiniest toes, ten of the tiniest fingers you’d ever seen and you’d only got to hold them for only a little while. 

You couldn’t make yourself stop working - stop trying. Somewhere outside of this room a mother was receiving the worst news of her life at work. Somewhere outside here she would be racing to PTMC to learn she would be going home to an empty nursery filled with so much love and memories that it’d haunt her. 

You wanted to keep fighting - going until your body gave out - to bring her back. It was the one thing you’d ever prayed for in your entire life - that someone would be able to save yours and Robby’s son. That you’d got to hear the sound of his first sweet intake of breath just before he cried. 

You were concentrating so deeply in switching every two minutes, listening to the call outs for what came next. You didn’t notice Robby was beside you - on you - until you felt his hand gently on your waist to keep you steady. His lips quickly moved to your ear just to say, “Go. I got this.”

The desire to fight him, to snap and rage that no you weren’t leaving because you had to do this. You needed to make sure that whatever was in your power another mother wouldn’t experience what the two of you had. You were so close to snarling the words but the heavy weight of sadness that darkened his eyes stopped you cold. You couldn’t trust yourself to speak; your mouth forming around nothing before you safely shut it. 

You took a moment to tear your eyes away from him to look around. The defeat and grief that held the room in a chokehold. The mess all over the floor and a tiny - too fucking tiny - body that laid on a hospital bed. He was going to call it - he should call it. 

You couldn’t be fucking in here. 

The burn behind your eyes was the first warning that you were about to break. Everything was coming in way too fast and suddenly the weight of failure made you claustrophobic. Every breath became too thick; too heavy to swallow around sobs that were threateningly close to clawing their way out from your throat. 

All you could do was nod and give the room one more passing glance before you tore your gloves off and bounded out of the room. You needed fresh air. You want to hear the sounds of life outside of this hospital; the ugly smell of city smog and the sounds of the metro and cars. Anything at all to make you get out of your head and thinking about how you were going to break a mother’s heart when she arrived. 

Most of all, you needed to run from the memory of that day and how unfair it was to notice he had his father’s nose and your eyelashes. Ten of the tiniest fingers that were so long you knew he might be tall - like his dad. 

You were bogged down by the would-be life of your son, and now this little girl, that they’d both never get a chance to have. No first words or first day at kindergarten. The first time either of them learned to ride a bike. First school dances and the wonder of seeing who they became. 

The world became less of an amazing place under the weight of their loss and you were failing to keep another mother from suffering. For the second time in less than half an hour you barreled through the ambulance bay doors and tried to keep the crushing weight of grief from crashing you down to your knees.  

As always, thank you for reading! Reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3

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[dadbodfanatic-x]

ahh it was perfect! I love this so much!

[eureka-its-zico]

Residuals Pt. 5

Ongoing Series

Synopsis: You and Robby spent seven long years together until the day it ended. You’ve done your best to create space; to become invisible. You can’t miss what you don’t see. Unfortunately, the universe (Gloria and the Board of Directors) seemed to have missed the memo.

Pairing: Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch x Reader

Genre: Established previous relationship, age gap (by about 15 years give or take), a little bit of tension mixed in with a little bit of hate yearning, cause she’s a saucy angsty fic ok

A/N: This chapter was so long, and I apologize because it also drove me absolutely crazy, lol and I've edited this into near extinction. I will say that I slightly rearranged two events to make this chapter work going into episode 4, and it's between Dana’s smoke break and Robby’s breakdown. I’m paranoid about this chapter, but I’ve done the best I can. But also, things are not as they appear.  As always, I hope you all enjoy this chapter. Thank you for the continuing support of me and my fic, and for being here. It means a lot. Much Love, Jenn. Also, shout out to @viridian-dagger for always being my hype man and talking me off the edge of deleting this chapter all together. ILY.

Warnings: Mentions of death, language, soft mention of infant death, sensitive material

Words: 15.6 +

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9:00 AM to 10:00 AM 

There were a lot of memories that played like the greatest hits of his life on repeat in his head. Sometimes, they weren’t always pleasant to recall, but the ones that were worth remembering, worth the solace they offered his drowning mind, were a lifeboat in a sea of bad.

The first time you said his name was number one on that list. It was simple, but that evening, when you’d said it, it had changed everything between you. It’d been right after shift change, sitting in the designated spot the two of you claimed as yours on the roof. Two cups of shitty cafeteria coffee in hand to try and combat the fatigue because neither of you were quite ready to call it a night. You kept calling him ‘Robby’ or ‘Dr. Robinavitch’, not that he minded either, but for once, he just wanted to know how your lips formed around each syllable of his name. 

“You know, we’re off the clock. You can just call me Michael.”

“Okay. Michael, but only if you don’t call me Fullerton.”

Your name sat sweet as honey on his tongue, and Robby savored the taste. He would say it with wonder and reverence because fuck he got to love you, every part of you, and you loved him back. You’d loved him back. 

The other memories included the first day he met Jake, both hesitant and unsure. Later, the coffees they’d come to share after work just because Jake “missed you, ya know?” His graduation from medical school with his grandmother in attendance. Jake’s first multiple three-pointer game and Robby’s and Jake’s first “man trip” with fishing, campfires, and hot cocoa. The first night you stayed over at his place was sporadic; the downpour of rain kept you trapped inside his two-story apartment. Robby laid beside you, his arm securing you to his chest, and traced the outline of how you snuggled against him. The soft snores that rose with each breath you’d later deny. 

The night he’d asked you to marry him. 

Robby wished he’d made the gesture more romantic - you deserve the whole walkway of trailed petals with dozens of roses and candles and him dressed up (or as dressed up as he got) bending down on one knee. A small speech prepared even though Robby hated them. 

No. He could never write a list accurate enough to explain how he knew you were his, and life just felt more complete with you in it. Robby didn’t know if he believed in God or fates or any of that bullshit but, with you, for brief moments he was willing to believe his life amounted to something good, that he deserved someone like you, if you were in it. 

Instead of romance, Robby asked you while you’d both been in the bathtub. Your back pressed against his chest, legs woven together under bubbles and scented soaps. It’d been a rough day for you and all Robby wanted was to make sure you decompressed. It wasn’t part of the plan for him to join you, but when you’d asked with pleading eyes for him to get in, Robby couldn’t deny you. 

You were - are still - his favorite person. He could never deny you anything. 

By the time he’d come around to ask you, he was sure you were both on the verge of becoming raisins, but he couldn’t bear the thought of moving you. Your back was stuck to his chest with your head resting on his shoulder. His fingers lazily ran up and down your arm because he needed to touch you; Robby was obsessed with feeling his hands on your skin in any form he could get. 

He’d been running his fingers over your shoulder and down your arm. Up and down, up and down. The last trail his fingers made came on your hand. Robby eyed your ring finger and considered what it would be like to have his ring worn there. How it would sound to say your name - your full name - with his last name attached. 

Robby wanted more nights like this. More nights and days and all the years spent with you until either the earth crumbled, or the years took you from old age. It was that moment he’d whispered out, “Marry me,” against your neck. He felt your body grow deathly still. His heart was hammering in his chest because stupid, stupid, stupid! Of course, he should’ve done flowers, dinner, and made it an evening to remember. Not sitting in a fucking bathtub after a long twelve-hour shift. 

He prepared himself for the worst when you turned to look at him. Dilated pupils are okay; that’s a good sign. He tried to calm himself, but waiting for you to answer was torturous. Your eyes roamed the outline of his face, searching for any hint of deception or trickery. You wouldn’t find any because Robby fucking meant it. He wanted you. Every inch of you for the rest of his life. No matter the time or space between. 

Your fingers laced into the hair of his beard and gently pulled. 

“No jokes, Robby.”

“I’m not joking. Marry me.”

“Only you would ask something like this in a bathtub.” You smiled, and Robby was sure he would combust. “Yes. My answer is yes.”

It’d taken hours for Robby and you to dry up all the water that sloshed out of the tub.

A fresher memory had joined the older ones, one that he didn’t want and was sure would become a nightmare stalking the halls of his mind. It was newer, barely minutes old, but enough to join the legion of others. Except this one hurt. This was one he wished his mind hadn’t catalogued for later. 

Robby knew he saw your hand twitch at the computer. The way you balled each hand into a fist to keep from reaching out and to stop yourself from touching him. The way a mist of concern sat just above the two of you, your eyes chasing any hint of a sign from him that the touch would be okay - being here was okay. 

It was at that moment that Robby wished you’d asked your questions; touched him without giving it a second thought. He’d been doing it most of the morning because even after all these years, you were still using the same shampoo and fuck he missed the smell of you on his sheets. 

The day he came home and found you gone. The house bare of any trinkets and clothes and essential items that made a home were silently exhumed and removed any traces you’d even lived there. Everything was just gone. One of the few things you’d left was your engagement ring sitting on top of a letter. 

Robby finally broke that night as his body collapsed against the wall. The fragments of himself he could no longer hold together came apart, and he’d never been able to pick them back up. 

Robby hated seeing you here, invading the space he’d made without you in it. Or maybe hate wasn’t the right word - bitter could be one. It caused him to feel bitter about the two years he missed loving you, sharing a life with you, and hearing you laugh at his bad jokes and the way your hand fit in his. The weight of your thighs around his hips and the soft moans of his name he tore from your pretty lips. 

Mostly, he was bitter towards himself because what option had you both left each other but this? 

So, Robby listened as Nick’s mother's soul exploded in a brilliant burst of pain. He took in the anguish of knowing what it felt like to have lost someone and could never get them back. He listened to her come undone and remembered when not that long ago, he’d sounded the same. His world caving in against the wall of an empty home. 

The first time anyone loses a patient is hard. The hardest part about it was gauging the effect the death would have on the med student, and by what you witnessed pushing open the curtain, Whitaker was not taking it well. But also - 

“Whitaker, you need to switch out with someone.”

CPR was tiring. Two minutes of continuous compressions - good, solid compressions - gave anyone the beginnings of fatigue. The longer someone stayed doing only compressions, the more likely it was that they weren’t getting to the adequate depth required to count. 

You came to stand beside Langdon, who considered you with a nod before turning back to watch Whitaker. Whitaker, who was obviously doing this too long; the collar of his shirt and hair both darkened in sweat. 

“We tried switching with him, Dr. Fullerton,” Donnie advised you. “He refused.”

“I’m fine,” Whitaker cut in with his objection. “I can keep going.”

Someone should say something - do something. It felt cruel to allow him to continue working on this patient for so long. There was a piece of the puzzle you were missing, and it was evident in the way Dr. King wouldn’t meet your gaze or Donnie, who looked tired of pushing round after round of Epi. 

Only one person was working for a miracle in this room. 

It didn’t feel like your place to correct him on his posture, to reprimand him for not switching out, or to call him to get him to finally let go. Luckily, someone who could was standing right next to you. 

Your elbow collided gently against Langdon’s side, jarring him out of whatever far away place his brain deposited him at. 

“I’m sorry, am I missing the reason why you’re assaulting me?”

You sent your eyes in the direction of Whitaker and back to Langdon. Back and forth, back and forth. You were sure he had to follow your lead, but you were rewarded with a shrug and raised brows. You felt your brow rise in frustration while you used your head to point in Whittaker’s direction. 

This time, Langdon followed your lead and glanced between Whitaker and you. Finally, he got it. 

“Right. Call me if there is a resurrection.”

You gave that man way too much credit. 

“What! Where are you going?”

You followed Langdon out from behind the curtain, one arm still holding it shut behind you so no other patients could see. 

“Langdon,” you hissed. “Where are you going? You can’t just leave the med students alone in there with the patient.”

“I’m not. You’re here.”

“Langdon! Langdon!” Did he just wave bye to you? “Get back here!”

He did, in fact, not come back and continued walking over to Perlah. You watched for a few seconds while he started up a whole conversation, one you obviously couldn’t hear, and wondered how unprofessional throwing something at him to get back over here would look. 

Taking a deep breath, you did your best to prepare to go back into the room. Unsurprisingly, nothing changed in the moment you’d chased after Langdon. Whitaker still refused to switch, continuing chest compressions. The faint sound of palm on flesh and his labored breathing filled up the small space. 

“How long has it been?”

Your question was open to whomever wanted to answer. You didn’t expect it to be Whitaker and found Dr. King eager to respond. 

“I’ve counted about eight minutes, and that’s not accounting for the possible thirty from downtime.” 

It felt like everyone was waiting to hear what you would suggest. Did you have a different course of action than what Robby had given? Would you call for them to try something else, anything else, besides what they’d been doing? 

Sadly, you could see it’s what Whitaker hoped for. He’d only glanced at you once since you walked from behind the curtain. A sharp inquisition over whether you would chastise him or help, help him heal what must have felt like a failure or force him to come to terms with the mortality of his patient. 

You came closer to the foot of the bed. Your eyes trained heavily on Whitaker and took note of each labored breath and each inch his palms didn’t dive deep enough to be beneficial. He was beyond exhaustion, but he wouldn’t relent - the regret, the could’ve, would’ve, should’ve had already taken hold and wouldn’t let go.

“Whitaker,” you said his name gently, trying to coax him out of the relentless trance of deliverance. “I think it’s time to stop now.”

For the first time, he looked at you, really looked, and all you found staring back at you was a young man defeated. The failure was evident in the deep creases of his face and the sagging of his shoulders. His eyes pleaded with you before he spoke. 

“Please. Dr. Robby said that we have one more Epi we can do. Please, just one more. This could be it.” 

“Hold compressions.”

There was a moment of hesitation before he stepped back. Dr. King and Donnie stood perfectly still with all eyes glued to the monitor. Every line that indicated life on the monitor ceased, and it proved without a shadow of a doubt that Mr. Milton was gone. 

Whitaker didn’t wait for any instructions on what to do. His cross-cross palms went back to the center of the patient's sternum and began to give the same shallow compressions. You wanted to tell him they weren’t deep enough, his shoulders weren’t vertical with his palms; you wanted to point out the improvements that needed to be made and the fact it was all being done in vain, but why? Whitaker was fighting a losing battle with denial, and eventually, he would have no choice but to admit his patient wasn’t coming back. This particular miracle wasn’t meant to be. 

You were ready to tell him it was time, as gently as you could, when another body entered the room. One of the other med students from this morning you hadn’t met observed the room with a calculated glance - eyes catalogued the scene to memory, and whatever she saw in those brief seconds didn’t seem to impress her. 

She turned to you and plastered on a half smile, eagerly extending out a hand in greeting. 

“We didn’t get a chance to meet earlier. I’m Dr. Trinity Santos.”

You reached out to take her hand and found her grip firm, commanding. You weren’t sure how to direct the conversation past here. This didn’t feel like an appropriate place for twenty questions. 

“Do you need to present a case, Dr. Santos?”

It was the only alternative you could think of for her presence in the room. 

“No. I was wanting to ask Dr. Robby if I could perform a procedure.” 

“What procedure?”

You wondered if he had sonar hearing. Or if saying his name called him like a spirit to a ouija board. 

“Is the third Epi on board?”

“Three minutes ago,” Donnie replied. 

With his arms crossed, Robby came to stand directly beside you. To be fair, there wasn’t much available space to begin with in any of the ED rooms. At times, a full team performing a code would be jammed arm-in-arm, moving around one another like a giant living organism. Except it wasn’t a room full of bodies. There was room - there was fucking room - and it didn’t make sense why Robby stood arm and arm beside you. 

“How long has he been going at it?”

“10 minutes in here, 30 minutes or more of prior downtime.” 

Robby took in Dr. King’s words while looking at Whitaker. You could see the worry building and took comfort in the idea he would call it. He would do the right thing and end this. 

“Don’t suppose you’d let me try a pericardiocentesis?”

“For what?”

“For practice. In case it’s tamponade.”

“None seen on ultrasound.”

“Dr. Santos,” you cut in, “Did you read up on this case?”

You hadn’t meant to cut in, but you didn’t like where this was going. You could sense it as a sixth sense. You’d gone to school with plenty of potential med students like Dr. Santos. They were smart, capable, and always wanted the chance to perform - to learn. In that pursuit for greatness, however, they tended to forget to have some humility. Patients and death went hand in hand, and it was a delicate thing. 

“No, I hadn’t gone over the chart.”

“Then why are you thinking tamponade? Are we assuming a spontaneous collection of fluid occurred?”

“It’s possible. He had a chief complaint of chest pain.”

“Whitaker explained that this was not seen on ultrasound. Chest pain occurs in different types of cases, Dr. Santos. These are patients, not guinea pigs.” 

“This is a teaching hospital.”

“It’s not a cadaver lab.”

It was Robby’s turn to cut in and bring you screeching back to the present. The look he gave you was a testament to you overstepping.  

“What do you call this?”

You had to give it to Santos, she was persistent. She also had a point. Robby’s gaze was still on you, watching you for what you weren’t too sure of. At Santos’s words, you tilted your head in the direction of Whitaker, driving her point forward. She had a point. He needed to end this. 

“Do you need a break?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

Dr. King was the only one able to call it like she saw it.  Whitaker didn’t look fine. He looked brow-beaten and exhausted, on the verge of collapse from whatever the voice in his head was shouting. 

You could practically feel the annoyance rolling off Robby as he looked between you and Santos. It traveled through to his words, making each one sound like it’d been dragged through gravel. 

“Hold compressions.”

Everyone knew what would be shown on the monitor. The only person in the room unable to grasp the reality of the moment was Whitaker. The alarm on the monitor sounded, and without waiting, his palms fell back on top of Mr. Milton’s sternum. 

“Still no rhythm.”

Donnie confirmed Whitaker’s worst fears. All the effort he was putting in, everything he was trying to do, was turning up with no results. You wanted to ask if he believed in God. If he was praying to someone in particular or to anyone who was listening. Maybe he wasn’t doing either of those things and simply listening to his thoughts grow steadily louder until all he could hear were demands and pleading. Bargaining with death just not to take this patient. Anyone else but this one.

“Whitaker.” Your tone was soft. The way mothers comforted their children soft. The way only death can make everything loud and quiet all at once. “Whitaker, it’s time.”

He didn’t respond to you. His vision laser focused on the task at hand. 

“Ok, Whitaker. I think that’s enough.”

This time when Robby spoke, it jarred him out of his trance. A panic washed over him that sent his head whirling to take in every nurse and doctor that stood in the room with him. 

“It’s been four minutes since the last Epi. One more minute. Please.”

The answer should’ve been a resounding no. It’d been over ten minutes of life-saving measures on a patient; no one knew the exact amount of time since he’d coded. It could’ve been seconds, minutes, or over half an hour ago. Regardless of the time, no life-saving measures were proving successful. It was cruel to allow him to continue. Robby should say no - would say no. 

He didn’t. You watched as Robby simply nodded his head in resignation and looked down at his watch, giving Whitaker the minute he’d pleaded for. 

“Can I speak with you for a minute?”

The words were out before you could stop them. Robby glanced up from his watch, his eyes scanning over your face. A part of you wondered if he could tell what was coming the way you both used to be able to know the change in each other's moods. The cusp of a storm rolling in your eyes only highlighted the flashes of irritation in the lines of your face.

“Sure. We’ll be right outside.”

It was a hard balance to find when searching for privacy in a hospital. What was the right distance between the room where Whitaker and team were working on Mr. Milton and the nurse's station and other patient rooms? The truth was, unless you were both quiet, there was no way someone wouldn’t possibly overhear. 

“What are you doing?”

Robby’s hands slammed into the pockets of his hoodie. His eyes flickered over you for a sign of where this conversation was headed. 

“You’re going to need to give more specifics.”

“Fine. Whitaker. Why aren’t you calling it? Why allow him to keep going?”

“I’ve given him one more minute.”

“Yes, one more minute on top of the 10 minutes or more that he’s been doing this. We all know the patient is gone.”

A hand moved out from its place in the hoodie’s pocket and attached itself to the back of his neck. Oh, you were really, really irritating him. A tight smile formed his lips into a line.

“No, what I’m giving him is time to come to terms with losing his first patient. You and I both know it never gets easier, and the first one is always the hardest.”

“You’re right, Robby, it won’t ever get easier. Every day, stepping into work, we know it won’t be easy. This isn’t teaching him about loss. It’s teaching him to run from it to delay the inevitable.”

Like you? How long have you been running?

The unspoken question sat like molasses in your throat. You couldn’t swallow past the formulated thought that converged into words. You kept trying to swallow them down, down, but Robby knew they were there. It was the quicksand of your relationship - him knowing what you wanted to spit out and equally knowing he could fling that same question right back. 

“Let’s not forget something here.” Robby moved in, whispering the words and your name in warning. “You are down here for your own reasons with Gloria, but I am still attending.” Not for long. The thought came violent and sharp as it lashed across your mind. “Shouldn’t you be seeing patients?”

Again, you were dismissed. Again, he was letting you know your place when you overstepped. 

“Robby, I’m just trying to help.”

Why did you say that? Why? Because you fucking meant it. He didn’t know about Gloria and the administration's offer, whether you took it or not. It didn’t matter the dozens of years he’d spent in this hospital learning, teaching, growing. And Robby? He’d egg them on until they finally did it and would act like it was their loss, but it would be his. 

No matter how much he bitched, Robby was driven to help people, to save them. His compassion and empathy were a testament to his character and what solidified your love for him. If he was no longer here, lost in the chaos of the moment, you knew it would break him. 

“You want to help? Go back to cleaning the board and some beds while you’re at it. I have to get back in there.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He moved around you to head back into the room, dismissing you completely. A flash of agitation flared white hot behind your eyes. You could chase after him, but what would be the point? You cut one last look back at the room, at Robby, before turning tail back out into the chaos of the pitt. 

Luckily for you, you didn’t have to wait long for a distraction. An officer walked through the ambulance bay, hand wrapped firmly on the arm of a suspect who had an obvious head wound. Blood had run down the man’s forehead, down past his cheek, and was staining the collar of his shirt. As you got closer, you could see it was dry, and no new blood appeared to be flowing from the wound. He was, however, shouting. A lot. 

Your eyes skimmed to the officer and noticed a deep wound, possibly a laceration from some sharp object, across his opposite forearm. 

“Can I get a little help here?”

For a brief second, your feet halted. Did you just hear an accent? An Irish accent? You weren’t the only one who needed a moment. Princess was walking up to meet you when you watched her feet halt for a second. Her eyes turned to you as if to explain what she’d just heard. 

“What’s going on?” 

That’s right. Take initiative. You were a doctor, and you were at work. You weren’t here to ogle men with or without accents. No matter how handsome they were.

“Got a call from his mother for a wellness check. He has schizophrenia and hasn’t been taking his medication.”

Oh, boy, the accent was heavy. Thick. It drenched every word to the point your eyes were homing in on his lips, which were surrounded by a full beard, to watch for consonants. He was about Robby’s height, scruffier, but the same dark eyes you’d grown to love were housed inside an unfamiliar face. Close-cropped hair with shaved sides completed where the familiarities ended, and when you found him staring back at you, you fought the urge to squirm. 

Clearing your throat, you asked, “If it’s a wellness check, why is he bleeding?”

“He didn’t take too kindly to the wellness check.”

“Please, you gotta help me! They want to place a chip behind my ear. They want to listen in - to find me so they can hurt me - please! Please! Help me!”

“Do you know where you are right now?”

“He took me to a fucking lab like a rat! Oh, God, don’t cut me open! No! No! Don’t you fucking touch me.”

Jessie walked over to try and assist the officer and immediately sent the patient into a frenzy. He was scared; all he saw was his mind's worst fears. A sterile white place, patients in gowns with tubes, and the rest of you covered in medical scrubs. You glanced over your shoulder. Eyes scanning over the nursing station for Dana, who came into view. A hand removing her glasses as no doubt the shouting was reaching further back. You did not need Robby coming over to wonder what was going on. 

“Dana,” you called. “Do we have a room open for…”

“Mr. James Schauffer,” the officer called over your shoulder. 

“Central 3 is open for now. Do you need me to get Robby?”

“No. I got this, Dana.” You brought your attention back to the screaming man and took notice of the way his wrists tugged violently at the cuffs. They would only tighten the more he struggled, which ran the risk of him causing more harm that went well past superficial. “Let’s get him into central 3 and Princess, get me 1 milligram of Haldol, please.”

“On it.”

You moved forward towards the room with the officer at your back. The closer Mr. Schauffer came to the room, the more agitated he became. His feet planted into the linoleum just before he let out a shriek that rattled your eardrums.

“Jessie! A little help!”

It was a reflex that sent your body barreling forward to try and calm him. You were trying to gently help the officer unlock Mr. Schauffer’s legs and edge Mr. schauffer towards the door when he bucked back. The back of his head collided hard with the officer’s face. 

“Motherfucker,” he muttered.

The word was somehow more charming with an accent. His hand released for a split second to check for blood on his nose, but the second was enough for the patient to gain more footing. He kicked a leg out against the door frame and pushed back. His shoulder colliding against your chest and knocking the air from your lungs. 

Fuck. It was going to bruise. It may or may not bloom in color but you’d definitely be feeling it later. You would’ve fallen back if it hadn’t been for Jessie and Matteo running up behind you. Matteo gently moved you out of the way so the two of them could assist the officer in getting Mr. Schauffer inside the room. As soon as the officer finished handcuffing him to the bed, Princess arrived with the medicine.

“Observe him after you’ve given him the medication. If he’s still agitated, give another 1 milligram, and once he’s calmed down, come find me. We won’t be able to assess him until he’s relaxed - or asleep.”

“Sure thing.”

You walked over to the counter. Your hands moved to tug at your undershirt, while your other hand softly touched around the area where his elbow had struck. 

“You alright?”

You hadn’t heard Dana walk up, but you weren’t surprised. She was always considered a ninja. 

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. I need one more room to work on the officer that came in.”

“The one with the Irish brogue.”

Did she just wink at you? 

“Ugh, yeah.” Unsure of what she was getting at, the words came out in a stuttered laugh. “That would be the one bleeding. Hey, how do you know he’s Irish?”

“Tommy took me to Ireland for my birthday one year.”

“Wow. Fancy.”

“Yeah, it was pretty nice. He’s kind of cute.”

“Who? Your husband? I’d hope you’d find him cute-”

“No! The Irish cop.”

She had to be kidding. She just had to be, and you were sure with the Cheshire Cat grin that was eating up the sides of her cheeks, Dana most definitely was. 

“Dana - no.”

“He keeps looking at you -“

“How about that room, please?”

“And now he’s walking over here.”

“Dana,” you warned, just as the said officer in question walked over to the nursing station. His wounded forearm was raised as if to remind everyone he was also in need of treatment. 

“D’ya think I could get a bit of assistance?”

“Dr. Fullerton was just about to take you to North 8. Don’t worry, Officer -“

“Donnelly.”

“Officer Donnelly. She’ll get you patched up, good as new.”

You wondered if this was the type of embarrassment daughters felt from overbearing mothers who claimed they meant well. You were hoping you didn’t look as flustered as you felt, but worried your smile was more tight and less friendly than you’d tried for. 

“8 North is down this way, Officer Donnelly. I’ll take you there now.”

“That’d be great, and please, call me Finan.”

You could feel the beam of joy radiating off Dana like she was the damn sun. There would be no living with her after this. With a wave of your hand to indicate which direction to move, you pushed away from the nursing station. No, you would not look back to see if Dana was watching like the hawk she was because you knew, without a doubt, she was. 

You were about to enter the hallway when Princess stopped you. 

“Mr. Schauffer is responding to the Haldol.”

“Great. Thank you, Princess. If you can, keep an eye on the head wound. I’ll be there shortly, and could you please bring me a sutures, negative, and lidocaine to 8 North? Unless, you’re allergic to any of that?”

Your head whipped to glance at Officer Donnelly and practically wanted to kick yourself. You should’ve been asking about allergies to medications and the small amount of patient history you could and yet…

Officer Donnelly gave you a bright spine-tingling smile and you fought the urge not to blush.

“No, Doc. I’m fit as a whistle.”

“Dr. Fullerton,” Princess cut in. “I’ll grab everything now and head that way.”

“Thanks, Princess.”

Officer Donnelly, or Finan, was waiting for you by the door. Thankfully, if what Dana said had been at all true, he was not looking at you. He would be scanning the hallways full of gurneys with patients and staff walking back and forth between rooms. You were only a few feet from him when Collins walked in tandem beside you. 

“Is this the Irish officer I’ve heard about?”

Damn. News traveled incredibly fast down here. Your money was on Perlah. Or Princess. 

“Wow, word travels fast. That would indeed be him.”

“He’s pretty cute.”

Maybe she’d been talking to Dana. Cautiously, you glanced over at her and were greeted with a soft smile that brightened her eyes. Her expression was teasing while she looked between you and the officer who was now looking dead at you both. 

“So I’ve been told,” you replied carefully. “Did you come to talk to him?”

“No, no. I wanted to ask you for a favor.”

Her words made you stop and turn to face her. It was strange to think Dr. Collins would need anything from you, especially with how brilliant she was. You could imagine the couple years you hadn’t been here, she’d only improved further. 

“A favor?”

Was there an echo in the room, or was it just you? 

“I’m not all too sure if you’ve heard about there being…rats in the workplace.” 

Dr. Collins visibly gave a shiver as if just mentioning them left a rotted taste in her mouth. Her eyes roamed around the both of you to make sure your current location was safe. 

“I’ve heard and, unfortunately, had one on my foot.”

“Oh, hell no.” 

The soft outburst of disgust caused a huff of laughter to push through your nose. A genuine smile lifting the corners of your mouth. 

“I need you to help me make sure Robby stays on top of taking care of them. They’re a health hazard. Imagine what could happen if one of them bit us? This is why I have a strict no vermin in the workplace policy.”

“Sounds like a very reasonable kind of policy to have.”

“You would think that, but Robby is treating this like a joke.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” you mumbled to yourself before you replied, “I’ll talk to him about it the next time I run into him, Dr. Collins.”

“Thank you,” she sighed with relief. Her gaze turned to look at Officer Donnelly’s position at the doorway, and her gratitude turned mischievous. “He really is cute.”

The two of you parted ways, and you found yourself stepping inside 8 North. Officer Donnelly sat without being prompted on the gurney and planted his arm down on the rolling tray as soon as you motioned for him to do it. Princess came in with everything you asked and with a few things you’d forgotten. 

You quickly set to work cleaning up the area briefly before numbing the area with lidocaine. The entire time you worked, you could feel his eyes watching you, committing your face to memory like it would later be important. 

God, if you didn’t at least attempt to make polite conversation, did that make you a poor doctor? You could hear your patient satisfaction dipping and Gloria speeding down to discuss it. It wasn’t mandatory to talk to everyone, but it was found to create connections with patients, so it didn’t feel so sterile and clinical. It made them feel like their doctor cared. So, why couldn’t you even ask about the weather with Officer Donnelly? 

One of the reasons you couldn’t talk about the weather was how you’d noticed how tight his uniform was around his biceps. Or the scars that littered his arms as engraved memories of stories. Or, maybe, the fact that Dana was begrudgingly right; he was kind of cute. 

Oh, this was ridiculous. You were a grown woman. 

"So, Officer Donnelly -“

“Finan. Please.”

“Okay. Finan. I wonder if you’re aware you have the staff in an uproar."

"It's the accent, right?"

You took the chance to peek at him after tying off one of the sutures. His gaze was fixed on watching your hands as they worked, but the minute Finan felt your eyes shift up, his rose to greet yours with a wink. 

"Uh-huh," you replied. "So, the real question is: Is it real?"

Finan sent his hand clashing over his chest. His mouth is in a wide O in mock shock. 

“You wound me, love. I’m 100% an Irishman, through and through."

He was getting too comfortable flirting with you. You should say something to deter this kind of behavior. You were at work. You were a professional - a professional who was constantly within 10 feet of their ex and still held a heavy lingering feeling for said ex. 

Flirting with Finan could be fun. He was good-looking and obviously very, very charming, albeit it wasn't just the accent. At the end of the day, the possibility that the relationship could become more - him desiring what you couldn’t give - kept you from straying too far into giving in to the thought. You’d tried this before, and it ended disastrously. It would always be this way as long as your heart belonged to him. 

Although, Finan was pretty to look at. 

"And how does an Irishman end up in Pittsburgh?"

"Ah, you see, that is indeed an interestin’ story; interestin’ stories are better shared over dinner."

You tried to hide your smile by looking back at your work. Focused on pulling the needle carefully through the skin and to the other side.

"Smooth," you quipped.

"I'd like to think so."

He sounded pleased with himself. You weren't brave enough to check on that assumption. You focused on each new pull and tug of the needle. The tight butterfly knots to gently pull the skin together and keep it closed. If you’d had it your way, you’d never look up again. Unfortunately, the universe didn’t listen. 

With one last knot the wound was officially closed. You’d just placed the instruments down when Finan’s voice drew you back to him. 

“So, about that dinner?”

“How’s it going in here?”

Losing a patient was never easy. Losing a patient this early in the morning could have repercussions in fucking up your entire day. 

Robby knew this.

Hell, it’s happened to him more times than he’d like to count. Death, no matter the form, was a part of his day. It was the second most natural thing besides birth, but unlike birth, death was filled with emotions that counteracted celebratory feelings of joy. It was heartbreak and agony with a mountain of never-ending attempts at finding some semblance of normalcy of who he was before and after the grief constricted every part of his being. 

You knew what that was like. The constant struggle to save everyone that came through those hospital doors and send them home whole to families that cherished them. You knew what it was like and the burden of failure if you weren’t able to perform miracles. 

Robby just couldn’t grasp why you didn’t understand what he was trying to give Whitaker. The time for the weight of failure to creep in was within seconds after the realization the patient was gone.  No matter what was tried, it wasn’t enough - it never was. This could be a dark cloud following the kid around all day, making him hesitant to jump back in and take cases he could learn from. Robby just wanted to keep that from happening. 

He should’ve been off to find Mohan. She’d been waiting to present her case when he’d paused in the middle of hearing details about the patient and treatment plan. Instead, here he was trying to find you to what, exactly? 

Robby should be worried about other things. He has an entire department to manage and maintain on top of overseeing patients. His plate was full. He didn’t need this. He really didn’t fucking need this and yet…

Robby was searching for you anyway. 

Dana was at the center of all the chaos, as usual. The closer Robby got to the nursing station he could see a cop talking to her, notepad out and jotting down information. Cops were a normal thing inside the Pitt. Hell, he’d already seen a few since the beginning of his shift. The only unusual thing, this one in particular, seemed to be taking a statement from Dana. What the hell had he missed? 

“Everything alright here?”

“Officer Martinez, this is Dr. Michael Robinavitch. He’s in charge of the emergency department.”

Officer Martinez took a couple of steps forward, his hand outstretched in greeting. Robby met him halfway to quickly shake his hand. 

“Everything’s fine,” Dana continued. “He’s waiting on Dr. Fullerton to assess the patient they brought in before he can take’em to central booking. Princess said it looks like a small laceration on the left temporal region.”

“And this was obtained -“

Robby looked between Dana and Martinez, waiting for one of them to answer. 

“During a wellness check given by the mother,” Martinez offered up. “He became combative and assaulted my partner with a pocket knife.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, Donnelly wasn’t too much of a fan either.”

“I sent them to North 8 for Fullerton to patch him up.”

If Robby hadn’t spent the last twenty years working with her, he might’ve missed it. The slight uptick of her mouth was a hint to the smile she was trying to conceal. He could feel his head tilt; his curiosity peaked, and his eyes asking the question ahead of his lips. 

“Am I missing something here? Does she need help?”

“No, no, she’s got it. Just, ugh, Officer Donnelly seemed to take a real likin’ to her, is all.” 

And there it was. 

Now that Dana had it out in the open, her smile was full blown in all its glory. It was a warning. He should ignore it and stay focused on the cop waiting at his counter. He should offer to go check on your other waiting patient so they could leave and take up one less bed he didn’t have. Unsurprisingly, it isn’t what he did. Not even close. 

Robby forgot to even respond. To ask questions or take a fucking interest in anything else past hearing Dana’s words. His feet were already moving him back towards the hallway - away from Mohan, away from being a responsible fucking attending - all because the idea of some cop flirting with you filled his vision with dark spots. 

What the fuck was it with cops flirting with his exes today?

First, Collins, and now you. He’d tried to ask her about the cop who’d given her his card. Robby simply wanted to know how it went - that friendly ex who was supportive, but Collins shut it down. For good reason. Maybe he’d been overstepping. It was possible. He’d been trying to be friendly, and instead it could’ve come off like infatuation, in a nosy way. Possessive in a bad way. It’s not what he’d wanted. 

But with you…he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t be able to hide the possessive way he’d want to tear you from that room. 

“Where are you going?” 

His skin prickled, and when Robby glanced back at Dana, he knew she could see it. Her grin only grew wider as she continued to watch his retreat. 

“You’re trouble,” Robby’s words were a soft declaration; Dana knew what she was doing. His eyes pointed the accusation in her direction that she accepted with a soft laugh and a shrug. 

“I’m simply informing you where one of your doctors is.”

“Can I get some information on how my partner is doing?” Officer Martinez cut in. 

“Heading that way right now,” Robby shot back.

And he was headed that way. His feet carried past the nursing station, past Dana, in a way he knew he would pay for later. The rational side of his mind was shouting very sane reminders that you weren’t his anymore. He shouldn’t fucking care if some asshole was flirting with you. He was a professional. You weren't his anymore. You weren’t his anymore, you weren’t his anymore- 

“So, about that dinner?”

Robby wished he had never heard those four words. His knuckles collided with too much force on the door - thundering through metal and causing you and, who he could only assume was Officer Donnelly, to look at him like you’d just got caught doing something you shouldn’t. 

“How’s it going in here?”

God, he hoped he sounded calm. Cool. He was fucking cool. His gaze flicked between you and the cop and felt the cool, calm, and fucking collected wall he tried to barricade himself behind begin to crumble. You were looking at Robby, but the cop - the cop was looking at you. Looking at you with a look Robby knew all too well. 

His teeth ground together as his eyes zeroed in on where he sat. You must have read him before Robby knew what was happening. You were up, gloves removed by the wrist, expertly flipping them inside out and into a ball that you threw in the trash next to him. 

“It went good,” you answered beside him. His eyes tick to your mouth and back up. “Finan, I mean, Officer Donnelly’s stitches should heal just fine without minimum scarring.”

Finan? In that short amount of time, you’d been learning his name. 

“That’s good. Dana sent me here to check for his partner. He’s worried about you,” Robby directed over your shoulder to Finan. 

“He’s a good friend,” he replied coolly. He collected himself from the exam chair. “He worries like a mother hen.”

“I bet.”

Robby’s words came out clipped, harsher than he meant. He crossed his arms over his chest to try and stop a hand from itching the back of his head. Anything to keep you from clocking every noticeable tick of annoyance. 

“Take care of yourself out there,” he mumbled to try and soothe his earlier words before turning to you. “Dr. Fullerton, mind if I speak to you for a minute?”

“Yeah, sure thing. Take care, Officer Donnelly.”

Robby waited for you to pass by him at the door and out into the hall. It gave him enough time to look at the cop - Finan - one last time. An unhappy smile tightening his face into a scowl. Robby didn’t flinch when the other man rose to his full height, eyes rising up to meet the challenge. 

Mine. 

The word lashed through his mind and darkened his eyes in a silent message he knew Officer Donnelly would receive loud and clear. He shouldn’t be possessive. It’s what his common sense was telling him, but his emotions were drowning out all reason when it came to you. 

Robby gave him one last glance before he turned to walk to where you waited for him. His hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie to stop himself from touching you. Fuck, he just wanted to touch you. To know if you were somehow, somehow, still fucking his. 

“You needed to talk to me?”

Yes. He wanted to talk to you about a lot of things. He needed to ask questions, to hear answers and explanations on why you left. To ask what he did that finally made it impossible for you to stay. He wanted to shout at you, hold you, keep you away, and bring you all back again. Robby wanted to just fucking touch you, really touch you, how he used too and kiss the air from your lungs. 

“We’re going to do a debrief with Whitaker and the other med students. I’d like it if you’d attend.”

“You finally called it?”

“Yeah, it was time.”

“It was time after the third push of Epi.”

Robby pressed his hands deeper into his pockets. He focused on the way the fabric stretched out against his hands and not at the flare of agitation. 

“I wanted to give the kid time to process. Is that really so bad-“

He spoke your name the way priests spoke of saints; Robby couldn’t keep the blind devotion from seeping into his tone. It threaded through his vocal cords and coated each syllable with worship and relished the way it affected you. Suddenly, the first question he wanted to ask was if you missed the way he’d groan your name like his favorite sin as he pushed inside you. 

He wondered if the sound of his voice saying your name elicited the same kind of memories. To stroke his ego, Robby liked to think so. 

“No. It’s not. Adamson would’ve done the same if he’d—” you cut yourself short before you could finish. 

The realization of where the conversation was headed tearing your eyes away from him to the safety of the floor. Robby’s spine went rigid at the mention of Adamson. A sore spot for how long? How long would the mention of his name send him reeling, struggling to find safety anywhere that wasn’t his own mind? 

Quickly, you cleared your throat and tried to shove past the conversation. Robby wasn’t sure if you were doing it for yourself or for him. 

“Well, he’d do the same exact thing. You’re looking out for your med students. You’re doing good, Robby.”

He would’ve given anything to hold this moment right here with you. Freeze it in time with you fucking looking at him like this. The way you used too. Robby could be stubborn and delusional at times when he needed to escape, but this? He wasn’t making what he was seeing up. The way you were looking at him now, it gave him hope. 

Or hell maybe he was deluding himself. 

“I’m going to go check on the guy they brought in,” you pointed over your shoulder. “I’ll try my best to not be late.”

“I would appreciate it. Hey,” don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t fucking say it, “So…Finan, huh?”

You’d been mid-turn when Robby called you back. His hand was already grabbing at the base of his neck as if to brace for impact for not controlling his damn mouth. Your response came in a raised brow, a smile you tried to keep hidden by a failing grimace, as you pointed an accusing finger at him. 

“Don’t you dare start.” 

“It’s a harmless question. I thought I overheard him asking about dinner.”

“Robby,” you warned. 

He threw his hands up in mock surrender before he shoved them back into the safety of his pockets. 

“Oh,” you snapped your fingers and spun to fully face him. He braced himself for you to yell at him about boundaries and overstepping and instead was surprised with: “Where are you at with the rat thing?”

Robby’s brow furrowed as he leaned his shoulders in towards you. 

“You've been talking to Gloria?”

“Nope. I can’t just inquire about the current rat issue and where you’re at with that?”

“I’m currently dealing with patients. I haven’t had time to make a collect call for the nearest pest control company.”

“You should probably get on it before said patients write about it online. Then Gloria will really be on your ass.”

God, you had a point. An annoying point. First Collins, then Gloria, and now you. What the fuck was it with everyone riding his ass about the rats?

“You should go back to worrying about your patient and let me worry about the rats.”

“You don’t seem that worried.”

“Are you still talking?”

“Uhm, yeah. That’s usually what happens when you direct words at someone - they talk back.”

Robby shook his head to try and cover the smile that was forming on his face. It shouldn’t have been so easy to slip back into old habits, like nothing ever happened, but it was. It wasn’t just you that needed to get back to the safety of work; Robby did too. Without thinking, he reached out and took hold of your shoulders and gently directed you to turn around to face your way back to Central. 

“Go. I expect you to not be late to the debrief.”

“Yes, sir.”

Your tone was playful; bright and airy. You gave him a wave goodbye, your back turned from him, and he wondered if you were trying to hide a smile too. Robby was so busy watching you walk away, when he shouldn’t have, that he didn’t notice Officer Donnelly come up beside him. 

“D’ya think you could do me a favor, big man?”

Robby bristled at the nickname, causing his earlier irritation to return as he stepped to the side giving him a perfect view of Officer Donnelly. His hands were tucked inside his police vest with his head turned in your direction. 

Mine. 

“What can I do for you, Officer Donnelly.”

Robby knew he didn’t sound friendly and he could fucking care less. Officer Donnelly sized him up before a smirk cracked his lips. Robby watched his fingers dig in his shirt pocket until he produced a folded piece of paper. He extended the paper out between his fingers towards Robby and waited for him to take it. 

“Can you make sure Dr. Fullerton gets this? We never did get to finish our conversation about dinner.” 

He shouldn’t react. He was at work and it wasn’t like Robby never heard a nurse or another attending say something about you, but this…this was different. Back then, Robby knew without a doubt you were his. He was secure in that fact. Now you’d walked away from your life together, from him, and all that certainty was gone. The idea of anyone else having you - loving you the way he had, the way he still wanted too - was too much. 

He plucked the paper from between Officer Donnelly’s fingers and rolled it into a tiny ball. His eyes darted down to his hand to make sure the stupid piece of paper was nearly ground to dust. 

“Sure. But I wouldn’t expect a call.” 

“Oh? And why’s that?” 

“You're not her type,” Robby shrugged, hating himself for how the lie felt in his mouth.

“You keep tellin’ yourself that, big man,” Officer Donnelly smirked.

He patted Robby on the arm and winked at him before he moved past him to head back towards the central rooms. Where his partner waited and where you’d just gone. Robby’s fist tightened around the paper that no doubt held Officer Donnelly’s phone number one last time before he tossed it in the trash where it belonged. 

By the time you’d finished assessing Mr. Schauffer’s head wound and sealing it with medical glue, you were late to the debrief when you’d told Robby you wouldn’t be. Not in a cute fashionably late kind of way, either. It was more the awkward first day of school kind where the class gawks openly at the new kid kind.  

You stepped from behind the curtain and saw everyone had their head down and eyes closed. A moment of reflection and quiet not only meant for the loss of the patient, but also the doctor. It’s what Adamson had taught all of his med students - Robby and you included. 

Adamson was a big believer in healing. A believer that doctors who shared in the grief with their patients were better for it, comforted and consoled families better. It made us all more human and empathetic - to never forget that’s what you’d all gone into medicine for - to save the lives you can, be the guard to ward off death when you could, and the beginning of acceptance when you couldn’t. 

He’d been the one who taught you all about ho’oponopono - the importance of healing others along with yourself. 

“Please. I’m not asking you to do this to try and hurt you. It’s to help you heal. Remember Ho’oponopono - I love you. Thank you. I forgive you. Please forgive me. Please. Please just try. For me.”

Instinctively, your eyes clamped shut against the surge of emotions that swelled beneath your chest. They pushed and burned behind your eyes threatening to break you all over again from flashes of memories of the tiniest fingers you’d ever seen - got to hold - and the shaking of Robby’s chest as he kissed his sadness against your hair. 

The mornings where Robby tried to get you to recite the shema his grandmother shared with him when he’d lived with her. He tried to teach you the meaning and it mattered to you, because it mattered to him. Learning the things that shaped him; molded him into the man he was, was as much a part of your being as breathing. 

But grief, the agony it brings, is a force of nature no one can fathom until they’re in it. The way smells and sounds can sprout unwanted memories to flood to the forefront. Touching and seeing objects creating a visceral response so violent it almost feels like you’ve been gutted. In the beginning stages, you couldn’t see past all of it and wondered how you’d ever be, well, you again. That it was natural to seek answers and okay to realize that sometimes, in life, we didn’t always get them.

Ho’oponopono. 

It taught you the forgiveness you needed for yourself and those around you. Robby was just continuing the tradition here in this room with all of his students in his own way. 

“Okay. That’s it. Let’s go save some lives.” 

And just like that, quiet reflection was over. Robby ushered his arms forward to move everyone out of the room. You were about to turn tail and run in the opposite direction, in case he came barreling towards you asking questions on why you were late, when Kiara stepped in front of you. Her arms open wide for an incoming hug. 

“Dr. Fullerton! Wow, it’s such a pleasure to see you again. Did you transfer back to the emergency department?”

You embraced her quickly and tried to politely take a step back. Robby was making his way towards where the two of you stood. You took the chance to slowly move out of the room knowing Kiara would follow for the answer to her question. She seemed so genuinely happy to see you - truly the only one so far - that it just felt nice to have your presence appreciated instead of despised. 

“No, I’m just here to help for the day,” you offered in response. 

“Well, whether it’s for a day or however long: I am happy to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too, Kiara,” and it was good to see her. 

Kiara was an instrumental part of what kept the Pitt running and not turning into a madhouse. Well, more than it actually was. You spared a glance back over your shoulder to see if Robby was coming towards you, and found he was talking to Whitaker. 

He was checking in with the kid, like Adamson would’ve, because Robby knew better than most how a death could follow a doctor around the rest of their shift. Make them hesitate to step forward and help the next patient or dwell too much on their failures. 

A warm hand on your arm brought you back from your thoughts. Your head whipping back to Kiara because, fuck, of course you need to worry about your friend in front of you and not your ex who was behind you. What had you missed? Did she ask a question or was talking about something specific or a topic in her own life? 

God, you really need to stop hyper focusing on Robby. It was making you appear dumbstruck in a very unflattering way. 

“How are you doing with everything?”

You knew what she was asking without verbally doing so. Her kind eyes felt like they were performing an archaeological dig on your past that you’d buried inside these very walls. She’d been here through it all. The beginning and the end. The day you should’ve been home instead of here at work. 

A tight smile creased your lips. How should you answer? Realistically, Kiara knew you wouldn’t answer honestly. It was something Robby and you had in common; running from your problems and refusing to speak on them. If you ignored it enough maybe everyone would stop asking. 

“I’m great.” You dragged out the M, turning the word into a chant. 

From the look on Kiara’s face you’d done a terrible job convincing her. No real surprise there.

“You sure? I’m always available to talk.”

“I know, and I appreciate it, Kiara. I have patients I need to see, but it was great seeing you.”

You stepped around her and moved back towards the central nursing station. Where the board would be with its never ending list of patients, which would be safer than opening up about your feelings. Shit, there were a lot of them and some that would never see the light of day. They were your secrets to hold onto because the person that needed to hear them first probably never would. 

You were almost back to the board when you felt a tap on your shoulder. When you turned to see who it was, you found Whitaker, still covered in a light sweat taking a step back from you to give you a shy wave. 

“Yes, Whitaker?”

“I just wanted to ugh, to say thank you. You were right about visually checking in with patients. Maybe if I’d done it sooner…I…I don’t know maybe we'd have been able to get him back.”

God. You didn’t want to admit it but Robby…Robby had been right. The kid was devastated and you weren’t sure if there was anything either you, Robby, or anyone else could say at this exact moment to make him feel otherwise. Whitaker was ready to be scolded; made to feel small for something no doctor would’ve caught until the inevitable happened. 

“Whitaker.”

“Yeah?”

Man, if anyone was in line for the crown of puppy dog eyes, it’d be Whitaker. Hell, maybe he’d be the actual puppy. 

“What did Dr. Robby say to you?”

Your question threw him off. His brow hunched down to shadow over his eyes as he glanced uneasily behind him. 

“He gave me a speech about it being Mr. Milton’s time to leave this mortal coil. What happened today wasn’t my fault because no doctor would’ve caught what was wrong with him in time.”

“Do you think he’s wrong?”

“Who? Dr. Robby?”

“Yes,” you nodded. “Do you think he’s wrong?”

Whitaker wrung his hands together before he found a safer place to put them in his pockets. 

“No. I don’t think he’s wrong. I just can’t help but think of what you told me earlier.”

“Whitaker, no matter how many times we peek in on our patients it will never be enough. Say you had gone to him sooner and he was fine and came back later and found him like you did, would it change anything?”

“I might’ve been able to establish a baseline for him or - or caught him just after he coded.”

“Or you might check on him a dozen times and still not have caught it in time,” you sighed. “You have a lot of potential to be a great emergency medicine doctor, Whitaker and part of that is learning that no matter how hard we try we don’t always get to save the day.” You gently patted his shoulder and hoped it didn’t feel as awkward as you felt giving it. “Don’t let this keep you from helping others today. Okay?”

Slowly, Whitaker shook his head. You weren’t too sure if anything you said helped. Usually, Robby was the one people ran too for a pep talk or Abbot. Although, Abbot could be a little…dicey. And by dicey, you mean his responses were a lot of tough love and less coddling - in a good way. You’d been going for a mixture of both and were tempted to ask Whitaker if you’d pulled it off. 

“I’ll see you out there, Whitaker.”

“Hey, Crash!”

Javadi really did hate that stupid nickname Trinity. 

Trinity thought it was funny, but for her, it was a constant reminder of everything she felt like she wouldn’t be. 

Yeah, she was incredibly smart; a kid genius. It’s how she was referred to constantly. Yes, she had the academics to back up the claim but on one hand Javadi could count how many dates she’d ever been on. How many sleepovers she’d been allowed to attend. Hell, she didn’t really have a social life worth mentioning if she was being honest.

She’d been excited to come and be amongst peers and show them what she was capable of and what did she do? Fucking fainted. Now she was the punchline to another joke. Again. 

Not only the joke but now someone Trinity wanted to use to get close to pimp out her mom for a recommendation.

“Do you think Dr. Robby and Dr. Fullerton were a thing?”

“I - I - I’m not sure. Why is that your question?”

“Oh, come on. Seriously? The way he looked this morning when she walked in? They’ve either dated or were fucking on the down low and it went bad.” 

“I don’t think this is appropriate to talk about our attending and a senior doctor—“

Javadi could hear the eye roll in Trinity’s voice before she seen it. 

“Oh, come on, Crash. Live a little.” 

“I’ve lived plenty.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Trinity snickered, walking ahead of her. 

“I’m sorry, does this conversation have a point?”

“I’m just trying to figure out whose good side to get on. You know, whose recommendation is going to carry more weight in the long run.”

Trinity was unbelievable. Javadi wanted to act surprised by this, but found it hard to muster up any actual shock. Even just to pretend. So, she didn’t say anything. She found an opening to break away and took it. Her feet carried her right into Matteo who was holding up a man who had a nail sticking out of chest. 

“What happened?”

You abandoned the board idea after your brief talk with Whitaker and went back out to help McKay in triage. There was a broken finger that needed a stent and a man who came in for a toothache. TGloria would be wildly impressed with your bed clearing skills. 

While you took care of these, you heard of the man with the nail in his chest and the call for a code STEMI. While a part of you was starting to miss the action the Pitt held, you knew it was safer to be out in triage. Triage meant no Robby. Triage meant that you could safely keep your thoughts in check and focus on patients and getting through the day with your sanity in check. 

You knew Robby was dealing with the parents of the fentanyl overdose. An elderly patient and his children who Dr. Collins expressly told you he’d intubated against his own DNR and Robby’s express advice that doing so would hurt him further than help. You would take the toothaches, the weird sex fetish, and whatever else triage had in store for you.

Except…

You hadn’t forgotten you were meeting Dana during her smoke break. It’d been your idea to talk because you were positive if you didn’t, the day was going to be a nightmare. Anything you could do to decrease the likelihood of that happening should’ve felt like a win. 

It fucking didn’t. 

There was too much history between Dana and you for the talk to be a simple discussion of grievances. She was going to ask questions, questions you weren’t ready to answer. After she asked her questions she’d want to discuss them, because that’s what people who weren’t trying to bury shit did. 

You’d rather a lot of it stayed buried. 

Glancing at your watch it was closer to that time than you liked. You tried to think of some meditations to try as you headed in Dana’s direction and realized in rapid clarity it wasn’t going to work. Were your palms starting to sweat? The short answer: yes, yes they were. 

"Dr. Fullerton!"

The voice was feminine, soft. Your best guess was that it belonged to one of Robby's new med students. You were surprised to see Dr. Mohan coming up beside you. You’d been focused on dealing with Dana, you'd completely forgotten that she’d requested to speak with you. You’d told her you would come and find her three patients ago. 

“Dr. Mohan, I apologize. I got wrapped up in dealing with triage and forgot to come find you.”

You prayed that the sincerity you felt carried into your words. Dr. Mohan responded with a small smile of her own.

“No need to apologize, Dr. Fullerton. I understand. Is now a good time to talk?” 

Yes, you wanted to say. It’s the perfect time to talk because the one of the two people I’m scared to death to talk to is waiting for me. 

Lucky for you, your brain hadn’t run away with the controls of your mouth just yet. 

"Is there something I could help you with, Dr. Mohan?"

There was no denying that you weren't curious. She was as experienced as they came - still learning but highly perceptive and thoroughly educated from what you'd seen. So, her need to talk to you could only mean one thing. Your fears were made real as soon as she spoke.

"I was wondering if you could speak to Dr. Robby on my behalf?" That sentence was enough to make you start walking. "He's been hounding me the last few weeks about my patient-per-hour ratio and claims I work too slowly. I'm just trying to make sure my patients feel seen and are heard."

"Dr. Mohan -"

"You have the highest patient satisfaction scores to date for the hospital. That alone proves that taking time with patients isn’t a bad thing -“

“Dr. Mohan,” you interjected again. “Patient satisfaction is an admirable goal to have. To care about your patients and fight for their care; it’s important.”

“Why do I feel a but coming,” she mumbled. 

“But,” you continued, “Robby isn’t wrong. My numbers are high because I’m upstairs in family medicine. It allows for longer patient one-on-one visits. This is the emergency department where time is limited as well as information.”

“And I’m well aware of that.”

“Are you?” You questioned. 

You could see the earlier friendlier demeanor she held turn guarded. A part of you hated it. You didn’t want her to build a wall or be worried about asking you for help later, if it was warranted. You also couldn’t allow her to take where Robby was coming from in a bad light because all hospital administrators worried about metrics. They thrived on it to keep the flow of income for a hospital. 

Doctors worried about patients and fought insurance companies for lifesaving procedures and administrative staff when their focus didn’t align. Unfortunately, hospitals were a business. 

“Dr. Mohan, I don’t mean to come off as a hard ass. I’ll still talk with him about it. Emergency medicine is a rough place to be with, what I believe, higher expectations than most. We can either cut it down here or we can find somewhere else more of our speed.” 

“Like you did.” 

Ouch. But a fair ouch. 

“More or less.” 

You waited for her to gather her thoughts. She hadn’t walked away from you yet, which was a good thing. Maybe you hadn’t burned whatever bridge you had built with her too severely for you to try and cross later. 

She took a deep breathe, reading herself to continue the conversation when you both heard it. The shouting of a man and the yell of Dana right after. 

“Mr. Bradley! Mr. Bradley, you can’t be back here! Security!” 

You weren’t security. You were far from it, but the national average of assaults against medical staff was high and it was Dana. The thought of something happening to her spurred you blindly forward. Your feet weaving you through beds and staff who’d stopped to wait and stare until Olson or another security guard arrived. It was frowned upon for hospital staff to engage, but when you saw his hands flail and almost tag Dana, you didn’t hesitate to move in. 

Without thinking, you moved Dana behind you and put yourself in front of her. Your arms outstretched to ward off any blows but to also try and keep him calm. 

“Hey! This is a hospital! You don’t have any right to enter a patient's room -“

“She fucking killed my son!” Mr. Bradley turned to the girl to rage his grief. “You killed my son! And you’re a fucking liar!” 

You had only seen Nick Bradley’s parents from afar the first time Robby spoke to them. After that he’d moved them to a private room while Robby offered them two final tests to give them time to come to a harsh reality. By the way his words broke around every syllable, he was beginning to realize his son wasn’t going to be coming home with them. Not today. Not ever. 

Ahmad came up from beside you and grabbed a hold of Mr. Bradley with Olson assisting on the other side. Together they began to pull him back towards his son’s room. 

“Dana, get Robby.”

“Already on it kid,” she called as she moved around you, jogging back to her station. 

You followed Ahmad and Olson as they walked with Mr. Bradley until they secured him back in the room. You watched the way his body collided into the chair, hands grasping to every remaining hair follicle as grief tore through his body in a sob. 

You weren’t prepared for him to look up at you. His eyes beseeching to tell him what he wanted to hear before he’d even spoken the words. 

“My son is gone. Isn’t he?”

All you wanted was to collapse into the chair beside him. Tell him how you understood the immense pain of losing a child. Of coming home to a room that became a tomb. The life that was real fading into a mind where memories will slowly begin to fade and smells that were distinctly theirs haunt you in the worst way. 

You wanted to tell him that, over time, the pain of loss begins to ache just a little bit less but it never really does. It doesn’t ache as strongly, but it still aches. You still missed, still loved, and still asked why, why, why on repeat expecting someone to fucking answer. 

Instead, you copped out. You swallowed past compacted words and struggled just to say a few. 

“Dr. Robby will be with you shortly. Please, stay in your son’s room.” 

Enjoy him while he’s here, was the undertone of what you couldn’t say without breaking. You hoped before you turned to leave Mr. Bradley could see in your eyes you understood his grief - a shared pain that never went away. 

Mr. Spencer’s children finally agreed to let their father die with grace. It should’ve been a relief, but Robby was finding it hard to locate any. He’d just sat with a family of an 18-year-old kid and broke apart their faith to tell them to prepare for the worst, was struggling to comprehend how to help a mother with a son who was pissed off at the world, and just shared in the private grief of a sister forced to come to terms with a brothers death.

It was barely going on 10 AM, and Robby couldn’t explain the level of exhaustion his body felt. 

The whole time after he’d placed the intubation tube, Robby asked himself why he hadn’t fought harder against the children’s decision to do it. It was his job to do what was right for the patient and yet, he’d seen two people, much like Mr. And Mrs. Bradley who were struggling with the idea of letting go. 

If someone had given Robby that option with Adamson, with you, he would’ve taken those few extra minutes and treasured them for what they were. Instead, Robby’s loss had been sudden and all at once. There was no band-aid gently ripped off, but a fucking avalanche he never made it through. He just wanted to give them the chance to prepare for goodbye.

But why this room? 

Robby knew he couldn’t say anything about it. He’d noticed the looks everyone had been giving him all day. The way they tiptoed around asking the question (except Dana and Collins, apparently) if it would be too much to work today. 

Robby was fucking here wasn’t he? That’s what counted. He was here to continue the work Adamson left behind and the memory of the way he’d trained him to save lives. That doctors had the possibility to heal more than just the body with those in a deeper kind of pain medicine couldn’t fix. 

It’s why he’d told Mr. Spencer’s children about Ho’oponopono. It’s what Adamson would’ve done and it’s what Robby knew they needed to begin to get over the hill of loss. 

As he recited the words to them, standing there in a room he never wanted to see again, he thought of you. It was the last thing Robby possibly could want to happen. To add in your presence in a room that was sure to send him crumbling like a house of cards. 

“I love you. Thank you. I forgive you. Please forgive me.”

Simple. That’s what he told the son. They were a set of simple words that helped at the beginning stages of loss. It was all meant to be simple. Simple and yet, he’d been unable to get you to do it. 

He’d failed you just like he’d failed Adamson. 

Robby moved away from the bed to allow Mr. Spencer’s children to come closer to him. His eyes scanned the animal mosaic he’d learned to hate and just wanted to run. He still needed to take a piss so…Robby could probably get away with it. 

He’d just notified Princess to come find him with any changes when he finally noticed you leaning against the wall outside the room. Robby wasn’t sure he could handle you here outside this fucking room after he’d just shared Ho’oponopono. It felt like some sort of fucked up cosmic joke. 

On instinct, he shoved his hands inside his pockets before he stepped outside the room. His palms balling into fists in a weak attempt to drive away the havoc of being stuck between you and this fucking room. 

“It is I,” you motioned towards yourself as you pushed off the wall, “your arch nemesis.” 

Fuck, he couldn’t stop himself from smiling. Robby hated himself just a little bit for it. 

“God, what is it now?”

“Relax, I'm not the harbinger of bad news. Unless, you know, it depends on what your idea of bad news is.”

“Cute.”

Robby felt like he had to be going crazy because did you - did you just wink at him? 

“Thanks. But I came to talk to you about a few things.” 

Robby couldn’t deny his interest had peaked. However, not in the way he would’ve liked. His earlier concern that you were here to cause him more of a headache than he already had was becoming a stark reality. He tried to fight the urge to run a hand over his face and lost. 

“Okay - shoot. What is this about?”

“First: Dr. Mohan came to speak with me about how you’ve been talking to her about her patient to bed ratio.”

“Jesus Christ,” he laughed, shaking his head towards the floor. “Of course she did. She saw you and immediately went crying to the newest doctor about how I ride her for not working at the pace I know she can.” 

“You aren’t always the easiest person to talk to, Robby, especially on days like today.”

“No. Don’t you start too,” he warned. 

“I’m not going to repeat what’s already been said, but this is exactly my point. You’re fucking prickly and I’m trying to help you, you grumpy bastard.”

“You just can’t help yourself can you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Injecting yourself where you’re not needed. Dr. Mohan is well-aware of a resident's hour to bed ratio that needs to be met. She came running to you, to be coddled, and you gave in. We don’t coddle down here.”

“I am not coddling her, Robby,” you snapped.

No longer were your hips casually leaning against the wall. You were up and facing him and the earlier mirth at bringing up Mohan turned the air to ice. 

“Then what do you call this?” He gestured between the two of you. His hands shoving violently into his sweater. “Dr. Mohan limits herself with what I know she’s capable of. The emergency department isn’t someplace where we can take our time with patients, you know this -.”

“Yes, and I informed Dr. Mohan of the exact same thing. I didn’t try to contradict what you’ve told her, only that maybe your delivery of the pep talk you’re going for is maybe too harsh. Jesus, Robby, since when did you become Gloria?”

“I’m not Gloria -“

“If not Gloria then you sound an awful lot like her.”

“Maybe because every single day its the same bullshit message about metrics and data and fucking patient satisfaction instead of worrying about the safety of our staff or the lack of staff.”

“Speaking of safety—” you interjected.

“Jesus fucking Christ, what?! What now?”

“First of all, don’t raise your voice with me,” you snapped back. “McKay told me her patient earlier who made herself sick, her son, David, has a list of girls he’s talking about having eliminated? Why haven’t you called the cops?”

“Here we fucking go,” he groaned into his hands. A dry laugh pushing past his lips. 

“Yes, here we go because this is fucking serious, Michael.”

He felt his eyes narrow in on your position at the use of his first name like a damn mother chastising her child. A wife patronizing her husband for not noticing something he fucking should’ve. 

“You don’t think I don’t know that? I also don’t want to ruin some kid's life because he’s had a few bad thoughts like the rest of us all have experienced. And what the fuck are you doing here? You’ve been here less than three hours and you’ve already given me a migraine. Nobody asked for you to be here.”

Too far, his brain warned but it was too late. He couldn’t take the words back. There wasn’t a way for him to bridge the gap he’d torn further between you. 

“Fine, Dr. Robby,” you spat. “But when something happens with that kid and he hurts someone just remember you could’ve gotten him the help he needed. Before those girls, young girls needed protecting and given all of them a chance. Demanding that boy to speak to someone isn’t ruining his life - it’s fucking saving it.” 

Robby fought against the urge to reach out to grab you. To keep you from walking away like this because this isn’t what he wanted but he was tired of hearing everyone run to you to fix things. You weren't attending - he was. Robby would be lying if he couldn’t admit it was getting under his skin that everyone seemed to want to come to you, like you could change his mind. 

Robby was positive that if either of you had the ability to change each other’s minds, it would’ve happened a long time ago and the ashes of your relationship wouldn’t exist. 

It had to be the room. It’s what you tried telling yourself. It was a mixture of that room and hearing Robby speak about that fucking ritual that sent your blood roaring in your veins. Your eyes blinked rapidly to surpress the tears that threatened to consume you as Robby’s soft pleas echoed through your mind. 

“Please, baby. Just try. For me. We can do it together.”

You told yourself it didn’t matter anymore. It’s been two years. Two years of attempting to move forward and telling yourself the life you had before with Robby was dead. You weren’t the same people anymore. How could you be? 

Two years and still he was a stain you couldn’t wash clean.

The talk started okay but just like a majority of them near the end, it turned heated. Both of you forgetting you weren’t at war with one another. You told yourself repeatedly it was the room he’d walked out of. You told yourself it was hearing his voice recite the words Adamson shared with you both in different times in your life. 

You should’ve walked away and tried to have the conversation somewhere else. The should haves were going to eat you alive, as they always did when it came to Robby, but it wouldn’t matter if it was a different day, time, or place. You both had forgotten how to speak to the other with your walls down. 

You’d gone back to triage to try and work through your own emotions this fucking place was stirring up. You didn’t need this. You didn’t fucking need this. You should be upstairs at Dr. Nave’s practice, continuing to pretend that Robby didn’t exist five floors beneath your feet. Pretending you were different people and your old love didn’t have room in the new person you tried to become. 

You truly did fight to not let Robby’s words fesĆter in your veins until they turned corrosive. It didn’t matter how he spoke to you; let it go. But like so many things that dealt with Robby, you just couldn’t. 

With Dana’s break pushed back, you used the excuse of waiting for her to go out to stay around the nursing station. Your eyes roaming the surrounding rooms and halls for Robby to make his entrance. The minute he walked into view, you were going to grab him and tell him how you felt about him dismissing you; talking to you like you were just anyone else. 

Whether either of you liked it, you were both here to work. Personal baggage should never keep the two of you from being professional. No matter the personal feelings, you deserved to have the respect of a colleague and he was going to give it to you. 

It was getting closer to Dana’s break and you thought you’d never see him when you finally spotted him. Robby bolted out of the pediatric room that held Mr. Spencer. He must have received an urgent call was your first thought, until you realized the reason for his swift departure had him speeding towards the private disability bathroom. 

Your common sense told you chasing someone into a private area, a fucking bathroom at that, could get you labeled as crazy and bordering on harassment. But in complete and total honesty, you weren’t thinking clearly. You thought this plan through for all of a solid minute before you rounded the nursing station, your eyes looking out to see if anyone had noticed him speeding inside and you no doubt about to follow behind. 

Fuck. What if he’d locked the door? 

With one last pass around the room, you reached out and grabbed the handle and, to your very deep surprise, found it unlocked. You checked to see if anyone was looking before you opened the door and stepped inside. This time you did make sure it was locked. 

“Look, Robby -“

“Jesus fucking Christ what are you doing in here?”

You used your hand to shield your eyes in case he was using the restroom. Because that’s what they were fucking used for not cornering your ex to yell at them. But Robby was huddled in a corner. His arms high above on the wall with his head tucked close to his chest. You hadn’t noticed before but the sound of erratic breathing was filling up the small space. 

Fuck, he was having a panic attack. 

Instantly, all your earlier desire to tell him how much of an asshole he was evaporated. Your feet were carrying you forward to grab a hold of his sweater, tugging at the pocket in an attempt to get him to turn to look at you. 

“I was coming to give you a piece of my mind but that can wait. Robby. Look at me. Hey. Eyes on me.” You placed your hands on his waist and gently pulled him away from the wall, guiding him to turn to look at you. 

When the panic attacks started, Robby told you the only thing that used to pull him out was reciting the shema. He’d shared it with you a few times and at this moment, you were struggling to remember how it went. The declaration fell clumsy and mumbled from your lips. 

You heard him begin to recite it along with you and you watched as the panic began to slowly subside. When you were sure he was okay you allowed your hands to release their hold on his hoodie. It wasn’t until you went to take a step back from him that you noticed the panic had been replaced with a look you knew all too well. 

You were an idiot for coming in here.

"Robby."

You gave life to his name - praising, cursing, and loving him all in one breath. You wanted that one single use of his name to tell him everything you could never say. I'm sorry. I should never have left, but I was scared of who we were becoming. I miss you. I hate you but I also love you beyond reason. We can't do this, but I can’t imagine being anywhere else but here, collapsing into the ether with you.

That single word was a warning that this was a mistake. You never should have followed him into the bathroom to air out grievances like a sixteen-year-old girl fuming at her first and only love. There were so many smarter options than cornering yourself inside such a small, cramped space with the man you'd left.

You hadn't expected to see him in the trenches of his panic attack. The overwhelming urge to take care of him surging you forward, hands fisting in the hoodie to tug him around.

"Eyes on me."

That's how you directed him - spoke him into following you until you were his center.

It shouldn't be a surprise when the panic fed him a half-truth. You used to be the home he found shelter in when the storms became rough. You'd been so much for one another that it was idiotic to think it could just stop, because you first needed to not care for all feelings to wither and die. The problem was you did care - would always care - for Robby because you never stopped loving him.

You watched him do exactly as you instructed - eyes on me, and saw the realization that you were here, right here, with him dawn behind the hood of his lashes. The two of you were alone for the first time since you'd both laid eyes on one another that morning. It was the one chance for privacy and he wasn't going to waste it.

Robby encroached on the space between you, long legs eating up every available inch until there was none left. You either allowed him to be close or you didn't. Your own panic rose up because, no, no you couldn't do this but while your feet backed away your heart begged you to stay where you were. It didn't matter in the end. Robby's focus was trained on you, and when you tried to create more space he continued to follow until your back collided against the wall.

The next breath you took sent Robby's cologne invading your senses. The front of his chest pressed close enough you felt every inhale and exhale he made while his hands moved to gently cup your face in his palms. You couldn't stop the involuntary reflex of pressing your check into his palm.

Fuck, fuck, fuuuck you missed him. The ache of missing him never went away and never truly lessened. This, whatever the fuck this was, would not end well. You had an obligation to stop this. To be the sane one in this situation, but you couldn’t deny that deep down, you didn’t want it to stop.

Robby's eyes traced over every inch of your face. How many times had he seen you? He'd woken up to you in every state imaginable. He should know every line, old and new, blemish, and everything in between. Yet, he seemed to be etching this new version of you freshly into memory.

His head dipped down, and you had to stop from tilting your head back like you always did. Like you used to. This wasn't like then. You weren't together. You were not together.

Robby used the tip of his nose to gently glide across yours.

"Robby." It came out as a whisper. A plea. This shouldn't happen. This wasn't smart for either of you, but you fucking craved him in a way only Robby could sate. In a way that proved you were still his. "Don't."

He traced his nose one last time over yours before he pulled back enough to look you in the eye. Whatever he saw was confirmation for his hands to tip your head back to that perfect angle. The one he knew gave him just the right depth to kiss the air from your lungs. 

Robby traced his thumb along your lower lip and when a soft whimper escaped through the part he created, Robby’s lips came crashing down on top of yours like a man starved. 

As always, thank you for reading. Reblogs and comments are always appreciated.

Tag list: @whatdoesntkillyoumakesyoustrange @travelingmypassion @jupiter-sky @catsgoogander @rosiepoise88 @It-jakeseresin @blackpopcorn @celmentine111002 @dcgoddess @lazyandromeda-temp @sydney-m @imonmykneessir @kniselle @heauxplesslydevoted @nowandajenn @corcovados @teenwolfbitches28 @dulcebloodhnd @callsignvenus @hey-im-jamie @bunnyearsandburgers @valentinevirgo @cannonindeez @evienorville @keerybub @allthingsimagines @hanybunch @calaryssia @ninquellote @profoundlynerdywolf @bunnyearsandburgers @-thatgirloverthere-

[dadbodfanatic-x]

AHHH! WE HAVE LIFT OFF BABY.

[dadbodfanatic-x]

it can all be true.

I love Taylor Swift

I love Matty Healy

I think if they never tried they would have been the biggest “what if?” Of each others lives

I also think that they’ve been weaving eachother in and out of their respective works for a lot longer than any of us realize

but I feel like we can all see that they both seem happier and more content with their current partners.

I feel like Taylor and Travis look and act fantastic for each other & I also feel like Matty and Gabriette are perfect for each other.

they each learned that they weren’t the people they had in their heads for 10+ years and that’s okay! We can respect it!

[onceuponaoneshotfanfic]

I Keep These Longings Locked In Lowercase Inside A Vault

I'll Write Your Name Chapter 10

Roy Kent x Latina!Popstar!Reader

5.9k words

Warnings: Language, angst and pining, mentions of an almost-hookup, Roy is still an idiot

A/N: I know it's been a minute, thank you for your patience! I'm trying really hard to get back into good writing habits, especially because I miss all of you (and Roy!). I hope you enjoy!!

Roy swore the pounding was in his head. He wasn’t sure what kind of tequila he’d been taking shots of all night, but it sure wasn’t anything like he’d had at the clubs of London. It’d definitely done a number on him, based on the incessant banging that wouldn’t go away, no matter how tightly he squeezed his eyes shut. No, wait, it wasn’t incessant, and it wasn’t even that loud. In fact, it was almost… timid. Like someone knocking on a door in the early morning.

He opened his eyes. It sounded like knocking because someone was knocking.

“Come in,” Roy grumbled, propping himself up on his elbows.

When the door opened, a pair of tired eyes met his. She wore pyjamas that were familiar to him now, but instead of the smile he knew so well, she wore seriousness all over her pretty face. “Hey,” she said plainly. “I know we were supposed to stay a couple days but…” She leaned coolly in the doorway. “I’ve got some things I need to finish. For the tour-” She held Roy’s eyes firmly. “For the album. So, if it’s alright with you, we’ll head out as soon as you’re packed.” She pushed herself off the doorframe.

Something in Roy’s chest tightened as he took in her stony expression. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s fine.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed, suddenly embarrassed by the fact that he was only in his boxers. “Listen, I-”

“We’re fine, Roy.” Somehow, her tight smile was worse than the blank expression. “Seriously. We don’t need to talk about it.” She shrugged, not quite meeting his eye now. “We both drank way too much,” she chuckled hollowly, tucking some stray hair behind her ear. “And I think the alcohol made us forget that we’re pretending.” She nodded to him, that smile becoming her charming one, the one she wore at red carpet events and celebrity-filled parties. “We’re good, Kent,” she assured him.

“We’re good,” he echoed, wishing he could say something more, something to make everything better. “Alright, then.”

Good. Roy didn’t feel good while he packed his things back into his suitcase. No, he felt that pounding in his head and that tightness in his chest. He wanted to kick himself for listening to his drunken cock and ruining things between them. The evening- no, this whole ‘fake dating’ operation- had been going so well. The two of them had become real friends, close friends even. She had managed to become one of the most important people in Roy’s life in such a short period of time. He knew, deep inside, that even after all… this had ended, they would still be in each other’s lives. The press would go on about how refreshing it was to see exes remain so amicable, the way they did about him and Keeley. And he’d watch her move on to other men, to men she truly cared about, and he’d be happy for her as he listened to the beautiful love songs she wrote about them. And he’d move on too, wouldn’t he? And she’d be happy for him, right?

“Kent? You ready?”

Instead of answering, Roy blinked at the woman who stood in the doorway. Kent, she’d called him. In that same tone she’d used when they first met and weren’t friends. What happened to Roycito? And why the fuck did he care so damn much?

Her raised eyebrow reminded him that she’d asked a question. “Yeah,” he grumbled, grabbing his zipped up suitcase. “I’m ready.”

~

Once again, I sat on a plane with Roy Kent in complete silence while I wrote a song. Unlike our flight to L.A., this time we didn’t smile at each other or laugh or tease each other across the cabin. This time, something thick and heavy hung in the air between us as Roy read his book and I kept my head bent over the lyrics that flew out of my pen.

Maybe I should have asked Roy to talk about things. Maybe I should have let him explain. But, if I was being honest, I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want his awkward mumblings about how drunk he was and how he didn’t mean any of it. I didn’t need another rejection. And I definitely didn’t need him suggesting that we end this whole arrangement. Because that would probably mean an end of our friendship, which, somehow, felt even worse than the idea of being blatantly told Roy wasn’t interested in me romantically.

As I snuck a glance at him through my eyelashes, I made a decision: it was better to be friends with Roy Kent than be nothing at all. Even if it meant pining over him throughout my tour and having him be clueless about how every word of every love song was for him. Even if it meant having to watch him move on once the end of this fake relationship finally reared its ugly head. I wanted to have Roy in my life, no matter what. Even if it wasn’t the way I wanted.

It was strange. I’d had plenty of boyfriends and plenty of platonic guy friends. But nothing quite like what I had with Roy. Everything was just so easy with him. While I was definitely attracted to him and spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about him, it wasn’t overwhelming the way it had been with other men. My feelings didn’t render me tongue-tied and unable to form a single coherent sentence; I was too comfortable with Roy for that. He set me so at ease and just felt like home.

And if I wanted to keep the home I’d found in this friendship, I needed to pretend like that’s all this was: friendship.

Feeling emboldened by my decision, I set my notebook down and crossed the cabin to plop down beside Roy. He looked up with raised eyebrows, as if he was waiting for me to break the silence. His eyes held that nervousness they’d carried all morning, tinged with what could be mistaken for a little bit of hope.

“Did you really bring the cowboy hat home?” I blurted out.

A surprised smile broke through that bearded face. “Fucking ’course I did,” he chuckled, shutting his book and laying it on his lap. “I looked damn good in it.”

I scoffed and rolled my eyes. “And which one of my brothers told you that? You know they were just messing with you, right?”

“Fuck off.” He nudged me with ease, as if we hadn’t tumbled into my bed together the night before. “I think I should wear it to all your shows this summer. I could start a trend. Instead of those little friendship bracelets, people can trade cowboy hats.”

Pretending my heart didn’t skip a beat with each little touch, I shoved him back. “How about no,” I snarked. “I doubt Keeley wants you trying to start any fashion trends anyway, Roycito.”

His face seemed to brighten when I called him the silly little nickname. “Fine, sunshine,” he chuckled. “No fucking cowboy hats.”

“Thank you.” With a friendly smile, I settled into the seat, allowing my shoulder to brush his and stay there. He picked his book back up and resumed reading, with the corners of his mouth tugging upwards now. Deciding I had not gotten enough sleep the night before, what with all the tossing and turning and writing I’d done after Roy left my bedroom, I closed my eyes and allowed myself to rest my head on Roy’s shoulder. I was torturing myself, I knew. I was setting myself up for a future heartbreak that would stay with me long after the public relationship ended.

But fuck, Roy’s shoulder felt so warm and comfortable, like I belonged there.

Yeah, I lied to myself as my nap began to claim me. Friends is enough for me.

~

Roy couldn’t help but feel weirdly important as he sat in the recording studio. Jamie looked downright thrilled to be sitting beside him, grinning like a complete moron, wearing an outfit Roy knew the striker had spent far too long putting together. Keeley, unsurprisingly, was cool as a cucumber on Jamie’s other side; still grinning, but definitely more at ease.

Jamie had all but begged for the chance to come with Roy to the recording studio, to see the artist herself at work. Although Roy had initially shrugged the striker’s requests off, figuring the popstar would want as few people as possible to know details about the album she hadn’t even announced yet, she had surprised him by not only saying yes but by also inviting Keeley to the session. She’d even greeted the model with a friendly hug and a kiss on the cheek, eliciting a pleased smile from Roy’s ex-girlfriend. Roy scolded himself for ever thinking the popstar was jealous of his ex; he scolded himself even more when he felt slightly disappointed about that.

He turned his focus to the recording booth, where those pretty eyes were focused on her notebook. He wondered what song she’d be recording today; some part of him was hoping it was that lake song she’d sung to him back in L.A., the one that made his chest fill with warmth. It his favorite song he’d heard from her- maybe his favorite song ever now- and he was dying to hear it again.

Instead, her producer hit play and filled the studio with a different song, one Roy hadn’t heard before.

Drownin' in the Blue Nile

He sent me "Downtown Lights"

I hadn't heard it in a while

The hair on the back of Roy’s neck stood straight. He kept trying to tell himself that that night had been a blur, but he remembered every detail, every single moment- including the song he’d hummed on her front porch. It must be the favorite song of some rockstar prick she’d dated before. Because she couldn’t be referencing Roy in a song- right?

What if he's written "mine" on my upper thigh only in my mind?

One slip and fallin' back into the hedge maze

Oh, what a way to die

I keep recalling things we never did

Messy top-lip kiss, how I long for our trysts

Without ever touchin' his skin

How can I be guilty as sin?

Her eyes locked on Roy’s, eyes sparkling with something he couldn’t quite identify. It sent chills down his spine. Her face was firm, determined, as if the two of them were having a serious conversation. For a moment, he forgot about Jamie and Keeley sitting beside him. Hell, he forgot how to fucking breathe as he absorbed every word she sang.

I keep these longings lockеd

In lowercase, inside a vault

Somеone told me, "There's no such thing as bad thoughts

Only your actions talk"

These fatal fantasies

Giving way to labored breath, takin' all of me

We've already done it in my head

If it's make-believe

Why does it feel like a vow we'll both uphold somehow?

While Roy scrambled to understand the meaning of the words she sang- in a voice he could only describe as sultry and longing- Jamie leaned over, nudging Roy pointedly.

“Oi,” the striker hissed, eyebrows scrunched in repugnance. “Is she singing about having a fucking wank to you?”

If Roy wasn’t already blushing, he sure as hell was now. “Fuck off,” he growled, elbowing Jamie. When he glanced around the footballer, he caught Keeley’s gaze. She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously- oh fuck. Keeley knew something was up. Whether they were dating or just friends, Roy had a hard time hiding things from Keeley. He must have had guilt written all over his face based on the way she was looking at him.

Rather than face Keeley’s glare- the one so harsh it would surely drag a confession of his stupidity out of him- he turned his attention back to the recording booth. She smirked as she sang; putting on an act for Jamie and her producer, Roy reasoned. He shoved away all those thoughts of her bed in Los Angeles; they’d just gotten past it, he reminded himself. No reason to keep dredging that shit up.

They don't know how you've haunted me so stunningly

I choose you and me religiously

What if he's written "mine" on my upper thigh only in my mind?

One slip and fallin' back into the hedge maze

Oh, what a way to die

I keep recalling things we never did

Messy top-lip kiss, how I long for our trysts

Without ever touchin' his skin

How can I be guilty as sin?

He sent me "Downtown Lights"

I hadn't heard it in a while

Am I allowed to cry?

She closed her eyes, a look of sadness and peace crossing her face as her voice quieted. Roy felt something ache in his chest, an ache he squashed down as hard as he could. Something he’d been squashing down for a while now, actually.

He was still squashing that feeling when he was alone in his house that night, drinking a beer and reading a book. When the text alert went off, he expected his fake girlfriend, probably inviting him to another recording session, or maybe even a concert rehearsal this time; he’d jokingly asked for a sneak peek recently and had only received a teasing smirk in response. Maybe she was finally inviting him.

Instead, when he opened his messages, he found a text from Keeley:

What the fuck did you do?

~

A small groan slipped past my lips as I stretched on the floor of the studio where my rehearsals took place. I’d lost track of how many hours had just gone by, hours of dancing and jumping and strutting and singing. I glanced over my shoulder, at the dancers who were cooling down and chattering amongst themselves. They hollered my name and waved as they began to leave, reminding me for the millionth time how lucky I was to be touring with such an incredible and talented group of people.

“When do I finally get a preview?”

That gruff voice sent a shiver down my spine. I turned back around to see Roy standing over me, eyebrow quirked teasingly. He carefully sat down beside me, wincing when a small crack came from his knee. Another shiver rushed through my body when I saw his eyes rake down my bare legs before landing on my face again.

“No previews,” I reminded him, unable to help my grin as I looked at that hopeful face. “You get to see the show when everyone else does.” I shook my head. “Spoiled man, you hear a few new songs and think you get to see the whole damn show. Besides-” I gestured to the bare studio. “I want you to get the full effect, Roycito. The lights, the crowd, the costumes-”

“I bet Roy’s really looking forward to the costumes,” one of my dancers giggled as they passed by us.

My cheeks burned as I stuck out my tongue at her. “Good night,” I retorted before turning back to Roy. “The costumes are kind of amazing,” I admitted with a proud grin. “The designer I worked with is a genius.”

“You’re probably easy to design for,” Roy chuckled, shaking his head gently. “You look like a fucking Barbie doll or something.”

All I could do was blink at Roy and his compliment and his soft smile. A fucking Barbie doll. Was he really so damn clueless, I wondered. Every stupid thing that came out of that stupid mouth of his made this whole “friendship” thing harder than it needed to be. At least soon I’d be on tour, occupied and busy and distracted and working my ass off. Maybe that would help take my mind of the man who was still sitting there, smiling like everything was fine between us, as if we hadn’t almost-

Stop it, I scolded myself for the millionth time since we’d returned from L.A. Friends don’t keep thinking about the time they almost hooked up with each other- right?

“We should get going,” Roy finally said, nodding towards the door. “Sydney’s probably hungry.”

My idiot heart skipped a beat at Roy’s concern for my cat, who probably liked Roy even more than I pretended not to. “Yeah,” I sighed, standing up. “Let’s go, Kent.”

~

“Thanks,” Roy mumbled to the two beaming teenage girls who thrust friendship bracelets at him. He mindlessly slipped them onto his wrist, which was quickly becoming covered in the beaded gifts. At this rate, he’d lose circulation in his arm.

Still, he couldn’t help but smile back at the people, all dressed in sparkly outfits and wide smiles, who shrieked and waved when they saw him. He was no stranger to screaming fans, people absolutely thrilled at the mere sight of him, but this was…. different. First of all, he was usually fawned over by football fans, especially men who’d grown up watching him on the pitch. They chanted about him being here, there, every-fucking-where, asked him to sign kits and balls, praised him for Greyhound victories or chastised him for their losses.

These fans were excited to see him because he was…. Roy. The devoted boyfriend, the muse. It was utterly bizarre to see girls, not much older than Pheobe, shout his name and wave at him as though he was one of the teen idols that probably hung on their walls at home, as if he was still the hot young thing he’d been in his Chelsea days. What a strange new kind of fame, he thought as he, flanked again by Keeley and Jamie, entered the V.I.P. tent they’d be watching the concert from.

“Does that really say DADDY?” Jamie’s face was comically offended. “What the absolute fuck?”

Keeley grinned at Roy. “I think it’s cute how excited they are to see you,” she offered, nudging him playfully. “Word around the Twitterverse is that you’re quickly becoming her fanbase’s favorite boyfriend.”

Roy grunted and glanced down at his wrist; sure enough, he spotted the bracelet Jamie had been so offended by. “Don’t know why,” he grumbled. “I haven’t done shit.”

“Oh hush,” Keeley scolded. “You post lovely things about her, you showed up to her fundraiser and her niece’s birthday, you’re here accepting these cute little bracelets and smiling at her fans. Who doesn’t love a supportive boyfriend?”

Weird. Not too long ago, a comment like that would’ve had Roy’s heart skipping a beat, the idea that Keeley was reminded of what a good boyfriend he could be. But, not for the first time, he realized he wasn’t flustered or excited or anything when he looked at Keeley. She was just Keeley. Keeley, his ex, his friend, his publicist- who didn’t quite seem to believe his lies about nothing happening between him and the singer, but had still let him off the hook.

Maybe time really did heal all, he pondered as he waved stiffly at a beaming teenager who was filming him on their phone. Maybe, finally, after all this time, he was over Keeley Jones.

If that was the case, then why the hell was he still doing this fake relationship thing?

Before he could spend any time answering that question, the lights of Wembley Stadium went down, prompting the crowd to erupt into the most high-pitched shrieks Roy had ever heard in his life. Wild was the only word he could think of to describe the ear-shattering chaos. He tried to recall how loud the crowds were when he wore an England kit; were they this feral? Even if they were, that was for a team representing their nation; this was for one woman.

And before that woman appeared onstage, her voice filled the dark stadium, low and, once again, sultry. Roy’s heart skipped a beat when that familiar voice hit his ears, and he found himself fiddling with those damn friendship bracelets.

I was supposed to be sent away

But they forgot to come and get me

I was a functioning alcoholic

'Til nobody noticed my new aesthetic

All of this to say I hope you're okay

But you're the reason

And no one here's to blame

But what about your quiet treason?

She appeared, as if by fucking magic, on the now lit stage. Somehow, the crowd’s screams grew louder as she continued to sing, all glowing smiles in a sparkling bodysuit that left little to the imagination- not that Roy needed his imagination anymore.

Her movements were flowing and easy, reminding him of the way they’d danced together, with her hips swaying hypnotically. His face went warm with the memory of her body close to his at the quince, moving in sync, smiling and laughing together, exchanging light kisses for the benefit of her family.

Roy knew there were tons of cameras and eyes on him. Hell, Keeley and Jamie were both eyeing him; Jamie was smirking, teasing Roy with his raised eyebrows, and Keeley… well, Keeley looked as suspicious as she did that day in the recording studio, when they listened to Guilty As Sin…? and she interrogated him about the song’s meaning.

But he didn’t think about the eyes and cameras and the livestreams and the tweets and the TikToks, or even his friends beside him. He just watched her, amazed that one person could be so magnetic, so full of energy. She was fucking non-stop, singing and dancing and smiling and just sparkling. He couldn’t help his own grin as he watched, unconsciously bopping his head along to the familiar pop hits and tapping his fingers along the barrier in front of him. Somehow, in the crowd of thousands, her eyes met his more than once, prompting his smile to widen each time; in the back of his head, he noted that there would probably be some great photos and videos of those moments. Keeley and Lanie would be fucking thrilled. But those thoughts about publicity and gossip were buried deep behind his growing blush and racing heart.

His eyes never left the stage as he leaned towards Keeley. “D’you think you could get me and Pheebs tickets to tomorrow night’s show?” he asked over the music. “She’d lose her shit over all this.”

Keeley smirked as she studied Roy, more starstruck than she’d ever seen anyone in her life, even more than when she introduced Rebecca to Mel B at a charity event. She wanted nothing more than to ask him again about Los Angeles, about what had shifted between that had the charming singer serenading him with that song at the recording studio; but Keeley knew all she’d get were more growls and eyerolls.

So instead, she nudged him playfully. “Yeah, Roy. I think we could manage to get you tickets to your own girlfriend’s concert. Shouldn’t be too hard to arrange.”

The corners of Roy’s mouth ticked up at Keeley’s teasing tone, but, again, his gaze never left the singer.

Near what he knew was the end of the show, someone handed her a guitar and she approached a single microphone, looking, for the first time all night, a smidge nervous. But even that sudden shyness looked so lovely on her, charming and endearing. She smiled, a more timid smile now, and breathed deeply into the microphone.

“I hope you’ve all been having a great time tonight,” she said, laughter coloring her voice. The crowd went absolutely insane over the short sentence. “I love getting to share my music with you, getting to hear you all sing along and enjoy yourselves.” She strummed the guitar absently. “Would it be alright if I played something new for you guys?”

Fucking hell. If Roy thought the crowd couldn’t get any louder, he was proven dead wrong. Wembley was positively shaking with excitement and screams he felt sure could be heard well across the country. And there she stood, smiling as if this were the most normal thing in the world, as if her life wasn’t some fairy tale Roy couldn’t believe he got to see up close and personal.

It was an eternity before the crowd quieted enough for her to finally begin playing the tune that Roy was thrilled to recognize from those quiet afternoons by the lake, afternoons that felt like a distant dream now.

I'm like the water when your ship rolled in that night

Rough on the surface but you cut through like a knife

And if it was an open-shut case

I never would've known from that look on your face

Lost in your current like a priceless wine

The more that you say

The less I know

Wherever you stray

I follow

I'm begging for you to take my hand

Wreck my plans

That's my man

He had a stupid smile on his face. He knew it. But fuck, there was something so thrilling about seeing her finally share those songs with her fans. After watching her toil away, listening to her wake up in the middle of the night to pluck away at the piano, trying to sneak peeks at the words she scribbled down on napkins in the middle of dinner, Roy couldn’t believe he finally got to hear her debut a piece of the album he knew this crowd would love.

Life was a willow and it bent right to your wind

Head on the pillow, I could feel you sneaking in

As if you were a mythical thing

Like you were a trophy or a champion ring

And there was one prize I'd cheat to win

Roy’s apparently permanent blush deepened at the mention of trophies and champion rings, at the way her eyes locked on his with the words that were clearly supposed to be a reference to him and his job. He really shouldn’t be amazed at her ability to put on an act, he scolded himself. Yet over and over again he let himself marvel in her ability to wear those smiles on her lips, to paint a sparkle in her eye and a blush on her cheeks, to act like there was something special about him, something as magnetic and magical as her.

“This is amazing!” Keeley chirped in Roy’s ear, grooving along to the mystical tune. “Really beautiful!”

“Yeah,” Roy huffed, shaking his head, eyes never leaving the stage. “She really is.”

Keeley pursed her lips and raised a cool eyebrow but didn’t utter another word. In fact, no one said another word to Roy for the rest of the song; he was clearly under some sort of spell, one cast by a guitar and a pretty voice. At the end of the song, he added his own claps and cheers, pride beaming from his face as he locked eyes with the singer.

She returned the guitar to a waiting stagehand and took the microphone in her hand. “I’m so glad you all liked it,” she giggled, awe on her pretty face. “How’s about another one?”

How the fuck did the crowd manage to get even louder? Roy pondered as his eyes scanned the faces of the crowd, mostly women, screaming and cheering and smiling and crying. It was like nothing he’d ever seen in his life. He snapped back to attention as a bouncy pop tune filled the stadium, lights shining on the popstar striking a confident pose that complemented the bright little skirt and top she’d changed into a couple songs ago.

Nice to meet you, where you been?

I could show you incredible things

Magic, madness, heaven, sin

Saw you there and I thought

"Oh, my God, look at that face

You look like my next mistake

Love's a game, wanna play?"

Roy couldn’t help but chuckle at the exaggerated expressions she made as she sang, as if showing that she was in on some joke. He’d heard bits and pieces of this song but, like many of the other tracks she’d been working on, she’d refused to allow Roy a peek at the finished product. Part of him wanted to be annoyed with her for keeping him in the dark, but now, seeing it performed live in front of a packed stadium, he couldn’t complain too much.

So it's gonna be forever

Or it's gonna go down in flames

You can tell me when it's over

If the high was worth the pain

Got a long list of ex-lovers

They'll tell you I'm insane

'Cause you know I love the players

And you love the game

Oh fuck, did she really just point at him as she sang about players and games? It was so damn cute and flirty and fucking charming; it drove the whole stadium bonkers. Jamie threw an arm around Roy, laughing in the manager’s ear in a way that would normally have Roy threatening to throw punches. But, with all those smiling teenagers watching him and giggling to each other, he couldn’t help simply shaking his head and smirking, in absolute awe of the power a single woman could have over thousands of people.

The song was incredible. Pop perfection, one might say. It was clever and cute and, well, fucking fun. And she twirled around the stage, flanked by dancers Roy recognized from the times he picked her up from rehearsals, hoping for a sneak peek of the show he had to admit was pure spectacle. She was a spectacle, in the best possible way.

“Thank you!” she called out, miraculously not as out of breath as Roy felt. “That is Blank Space, and it is the first single from my new album, Calamitous Love!”

Roy was going to go deaf. How was he supposed to handle more of these shows, with all the screaming and cheering and hollering? But when he saw her, beaming with the album cover- with the Scrabble letters spelling out the title and the little details he knew he’d have to dissect later- on the screen behind her, laughing at the reaction from her fans, Roy couldn’t help but ponder if going deaf would be completely worth it.

Roy felt oddly proud of himself as he recognized the next couple of songs, mentally thanking Phoebe for all the exposure she’d given him and pretending that he hadn’t been listening to these songs in the car by himself these days. He knew the show was coming to an end, and some little part of him was genuinely… disappointed. But he didn’t focus on that, not when she was positively glowing as she sang, her expression sparkling as she gestured in his direction.

He's so tall and handsome as hell

He's so bad, but he does it so well

I can see the end as it begins

My one condition is

Someone prodded Roy’s shoulder. Turning around sharply, realizing how tense his shoulders had been as he watched the popstar, Roy blinked in surprise at the sight of April looking up at him expectantly.

“Come on, Kent,” the assistant said simply. She offered Jamie a small smile before returning her eyes to Roy. “Let’s go.”

A deep frown settled on Roy’s face, his thick eyebrows all scrunched. “But…” He shook his head. “The concert,” he said dumbly. “It’s not over.”

Something in April’s face softened as she gestured towards the exit of the VIP tent. “She’s going to come out this way,” she explained slowly. She leaned close to Roy, speaking so only he could hear. “Lanie and Keeley were thinking it’d be cute if you were there when she gets offstage. A little hug and kiss kind of thing, you know.”

Without even a glance at Keeley, Roy nodded numbly. “Right, right,” he mumbled. A little hug and kiss kind of thing. Fuck, they hadn’t kissed since…

Nope. Stop it Roy, he scolded himself. Nothing happened.

April turned on her heel and led a still thunderstruck Roy out of the VIP tent. He couldn’t quite help the way he kept glancing back over his shoulder, trying to catch one final glimpse of the popstar singing about being seen in someone’s wildest dreams. He’d heard the song so many times on the radio but now, seeing her up on stage, looking like a fucking princess, he felt like he was hearing it for the first time.

It felt like an eternity before he finally could see her again, from the half-hidden spot April had led him to so they could wait for the end of the show. Her eyes found his as the music slowed, her voice deep and almost quiet.

Say you'll remember me

Standing in a nice dress

Staring at the sunset, babe

Red lips and rosy cheeks

Say you'll see me again

Even if it's just pretend

The lights went out as the stadium exploded into cheers and screams, the vibrations pulsing through Roy’s body as he stood still, hands behind his back so he wouldn’t fidget with his fingers so damn much. The popstar had disappeared from the stage, where Roy’s eyes were still locked, desperate as her fans to see her back up there.

Instead, he realized she was strutting towards him, flanked by her dancers, who were just as sweaty and breathless as she was. The fluffy skirt she’d been wearing onstage was gone, revealing one of those little bodysuits that hugged her beautifully. The moment their eyes locked, she broke both into a smile and a run, launching herself into his arms the way she had when the Greyhounds had been named champions.

Roy opened his arms for her automatically, chuckling into her frizzy hair and giving her a squeeze. He ignored the fact that fans were shouting their names and taking photos and videos of their embrace; he just wanted to hold her tight, to let his hug tell her how incredibly proud and impressed he was after watching her put on an impossibly incredible show.

She was the first one to pull back, laughter in her eyes as she gazed up at him. “Sorry,” she exhaled, still holding onto Roy’s arms. “I know I’m all sweaty.”

Her flushed cheeks and breathless chuckles had something short-circuiting in Roy’s still cloudy brain. “That’s alright,” he blurted out. “I like it.” Her wrinkled nose and small smirk brought Roy back to earth. “I mean, I’m used to it,” he clarified, shaking his head. “Because of football.”

“Sure, Roycito,” she laughed, releasing him and nudging him back towards the way he’d come.

Remembering April’s words- a little hug and kiss kind of thing- Roy paused and grabbed her hip. She quirked an eyebrow at him, wordlessly asking what he was up to. He pulled her to himself and cupped her face with his free hand, tilting it to his. Their lips attached effortlessly, as though no time or awkwardness had passed since that night in her bedroom. She tasted familiar, light and delightful, and she melted against him with ease. For a moment, Roy forgot where he was, content to just have her in his arms, feeling, for the first time in what seemed to be ages, that everything was alright between them.

He let her end the kiss, her eyes sparkling in that way he’d been missing. All she did was chuckle and shake her head at him, as if assuring him that she, too, was happy they were back on track.

Instinctively, Roy reached down and intertwined their fingers, giving her hand a small squeeze as they disappeared from the shouts and cameras of the crowd.

Taglist: @infinetlyforgotten@ladygrey03@book-of-roses@thatonedogwithablog@misshall14@wibblywobblyvampywolfystuff@akornsworld@itswhateveripromise@purecinnamonextract@oceanncurrent@dearvoidgoodnight@hopefulromances@respondingtoshowerthoughts-blog@hotleaf-juice@emmy2811@captainorbust-blog@preciousbabypeter@shion-ah@royalestrellas@eugene-emt-roe@littleesilvia@teenwolf01@sisinever@yagotgames@queen-of-the-downtown-scene@emmaallisonann@mrdsturd@confessionsofatotaldramaslut@charkachow@mrdsturd@littlepinapple@sunfairyy@shadowzena43@uhmidkmuch@imsoluckyeverythingworksoutforme@alicedsworld@222333777@thegivenvoid @tortilla-maria1@treblebeth@maackiimoo @di-essere-amato @sortzz @i-am-mrsreckless

[dadbodfanatic-x]

THIS IS MY FAVORITE ONE! Omg the art?! I love this so much. 😍😍😍😍

[dadbodfanatic-x]

what if I paid someone to write a story like the Kelce Taylor swift story but with reader/Tom Brady because he’s my new obsession

[javierpena-inatacvest]

Chapter 6- Undeniable

Summary: when your car breaks down, you’re forced to ask Frankie for help. You’re not sure what you hate more- that you have to ask him for help, or that there’s a part of you that maybe can tolerate him

Word count: 6.2k

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader (reader has a name/nickname, no use of y/n)

Warnings: Angst, tension (in a good way??!!), yearning (AHHH), teenage Frankie (and current day Frankie, for that matter) are down so bad, Santi and Benny play Dr. Phil

A/N: okay I said there would be smut this chapter, but I am a liar, and I am sorry 🤥 I flip flopped some scenes around and it ended up making more sense for some ✨things✨ to happen next chapter instead 🤷🏼‍♀️ I seriously love these two more and more every chapter, and this may have been my favorite one to write so far!! Thank you SO much for all the kind things you’ve had to say about this story- it really means more to me than you know 🥺💛 (sorry for any errors, I didn't have time to edit this chapter as well as I should have!)

All The Things We Never Said Masterlist

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Frankie, Age 18, Summer of 2007

“Jesus Christ, Morales, you got bricks for feet, or what?”

The Garcia’s newly installed basketball hoop had been a welcome addition to the neighborhood rotation of afterschool hangouts. Santi knows just as well as Frankie and Benny that it’s really nothing but a ploy to keep the boys occupied and out their parent’s hair, but the three have gladly accepted the olive branch Santi’s parents have extended to them, regardless of motive.

Now that the heat of late May has begun to sear off the pavement of Everett Street and the dwindling motivation of senior year is in full force, basketball has quickly taken over as the new after school activity.

Benny and Santi love it because it gives them a chance to get out the competitive angst they’ve had locked away since football season has come to a close.

Frankie loves it because it gives him something to keep him occupied until you come home from soccer practice.

Even then, he still finds himself anxiously counting down the minutes until your car pulls into the driveway, stepping out of the driver’s seat to give him that same goofy wave of approval that frees him from his friends’ constant bickering about where the three point line lays on the cement.

Ever since he told you he was leaving, there’s a part of him that debates forgoing basketball all together, just so he can make it to your house that much quicker when you get home. Now more than ever, he’s hyper aware of every second he has left with you, the internal countdown constantly nagging in the back of his mind before it’s four hundred miles that separate the two of you, not four houses.

Because now, not only does he have 74 days left to figure out how to say goodbye to his best friend, he has 74 days left to figure out how to tell her that he’s head over heels in love with her.

That’s what’s on Frankie’s mind as the pass Santi’s thrown at him rolls right past his shoes and down the driveway.

No shit, he’s got bricks for feet.

“Helloooooo? Earth to Frankie? You gonna get the fuckin’ ball, or what?” Santi shouts, wildly waving his arms, trying to snap his friend out of whatever weird daydream he’s stuck in.

“Oh, y-yeah. Yeah, sorry.” Frankie stammers, half jogging for the bouncing ball, tossing it back to Benny, also barely paying attention enough to keep the rubber from smacking him upside the head.

“Fuck, dude, you tryin’ to kill me, or somethin’? A heads up would be nice next time!” Benny scoffs, trying to downplay the fact he’s nearly just shit his pants from the ball that came out of nowhere and almost took him out.

“S-sorry. My bad.” Frankie grimaces, sheepishly running his hand through his thick, messy curls before rubbing the back of his neck.

Santi and Benny exchange confused glances with each other before turning their attention back to their clearly pre-occupied friend.

“Hey, you good, man?” Santi asks, scrunching his brow at Frankie’s tortured scowl.

“Yeah dude, you’ve been like, super out of it the past couple of days. Everything okay?” Benny adds. He tries to discreetly nudge Santi, givinging him a look that’s meant to ask if there’s something he’s missing. The best Santi can give him back is an ambivalent shrug, just as lost as his friend as to why Frankie’s mentally residing on another planet.

“Yeah. I’m- I’m fine.”

Sure, Santi and Benny aren’t as emotionally mature as their friend, but they also aren’t stupid. It’s obvious there’s something he’s keeping from them, and they’re far too relentless to let it go until they find out.

“Dude… C’mon.” Santi prods, taking a step towards Frankie to poke him on the shoulder.

“Yeah, spill the fuckin’ beans, Frank. What the hell’s goin’ on?” Benny chimes in, following Santi’s lead with another forceful poke.

“It’s nothing! Jesus, will you drop it?”

Santi smirks at how agitated Frankie’s become, spending enough years with his friend to know there’s one thing, and one thing only that’s got him this worked up.

“Is this about Kenz?”

Frankie’s eyes dart rapidly between his friends, the sky and his feet, too afraid to settle in one place as he’s consumed by his own silence, crossing his arms over his chest as he braces himself to defend against the onslaught he’s about to be faced with.

He could lie, say no, keep arguing with Santi and Benny until he’s blue in the face, but he knows it’s no use. Deep down, he has a feeling they already know what he’s going to say. He also has a feeling he’ll never go a day for the rest of his life where they won’t give him ten pounds of shit for it, but Frankie’s desperate. If he doesn’t figure out what to do, there’s a good chance he just may explode.

“You have to swear you won’t say anything about this to anyone.” Frankie sternly sighs, eyeing down his friends with a deathly glare, “Swear you won’t.”

“We swear, man.”

“Yeah, we swear.”

Benny and Santi nod in agreement, too shocked at his agreement to tell them anything rather than asking them to fuck off and leave him alone. They wait in patient silence as Frankie takes a long, shaky deep breath in.

“I um- fuck. Fuck.” He stammers, terrified to hear himself admit what he’s had locked away in his brain for years out loud for the first time, “I’m uh- I think I’m in love with MacKezie. I think I’m in love with her and I don’t know what to do.”

Frankie’s mortified by the silence from his friends in the seconds that follow. He’s even more mortified by their howling laughter that comes after that.

“That’s it? Oh, thank God!” Santi cackles, him and Benny clutching their chests to try and keep themselves standing, “Dude, I thought you were gonna say something fucking crazy. You looked like you were gonna fucking throw up.”

“W-what? Santi, did you not just hear what I fucking said? I literally just told you-”

“That you’re in love with MacKenzie? News flash, Morales, we’ve known you’ve been in love with her since like, the eighth grade. Holy shit, I can’t believe you finally fucking admitted it!”

Frankie’s face grows hotter by the second, his cheeks ablaze with bright reds and pinks, not sure if he’s more embarrassed by what he’s admitted, or the fact that he’s worked himself up for weeks to finally tell his friends something they’ve already known for years and Frankie was too blind to realize it.

“Well, okay- I just- what am I- what am I gonna do?” Frankie stutters, throwing his hands up to the sky, very aware that the admittance of his love for you is only a small part to his greater problem.

“Whatta you mean, what are you gonna do?” Benny questions, he and Santi still giggling over how frantic and flustered Frankie still was.

“It’s not fuckin’ rocket science, Frank.” Santi smirks, giving him a playful nudge, “Just tell her that you love her.”

“Are you out of your fucking mind, Santi?! I can’t just tell her I love her, that’s- fuck, that’s crazy!” Frankie’s all but shouting at his friend for what feels like the most outrageous idea he’s ever heard, crazily pacing up and down the driveway, as if he’s asking his friends for advice on where to hide the body he’s just killed.

“And that would be crazy because….?” Santi teases, anxiously awaiting whatever ridiculous answer Frankie has to finish off the rest of his sentence.

“Because?!” Frankie asks, storming so fast up and down the driveway, he’s about to make fresh cracks in the concrete, “Because, b-because- fuck, Santi, what if I tell her that I love her and she doesn’t feel the same way? What if I ruin our friendship forever and then I get my fuckin’ heart broken and lose my best friend? Jesus Christ, that’s why.”

“You wanna tell him or should I?” Benny proposes, shrugging at Santi.

In a silent agreement, Santi gives Benny a nod, taking a step towards Frankie to grab him by the shoulders, forcing him to stand still enough to capture his full attention.

“Frankie, lemme ask you this.” Santi pauses, bringing Frankie’s gaze from his feet up to his friend, thinking for once in his life, he may actually be willing to give him some serious advice.

“Yeah?”

“Are you blind, or are you stupid? ‘Cause I think you may be both.”

“What the fuck, dude?!” Frankie scoffs over Santi and Benny’s snickering, outstretching his arms to push Santi off of him.

“Damn, maybe he is.” Benny grimaces overdramatically, playing into Santi’s theatrics.

“Fuck off, Benny!” Frankie frowns, starting to regret asking his friends for help.

“Jesus Christ, I can’t believe I really have to spell this out for you.” Santi sighs, squeezing his temples between his thumb and index finger.

“What!?” Frankie presses, nearly fed up with his antics.

“Shit, you’re right Benny, he may be dumber than we thought.” Santi snorts before quickly turning his attention back to Frankie, “Frankie… You do realize MacKenzie’s in love with you too, right?”

Frankie feels his heart stop. He’s partly convinced it’s flatlined indefinitely. The only thing that’s keeping him alive is even the tiniest chance that what Santi has to say is actually true.

That maybe, just maybe, you love him, too.

“Santi, c’mon. Be- be fucking serious. There’s no way.”

Frankie won’t let himself believe anything yet, no matter how badly he wants to. Knowing Santi, he wouldn’t be shocked if he’s trying to pull him in to some sick sort of joke, but the looks on his, and Benny’s faces is all the earth shattering reassurance Frankie needs to know that Santi’s telling the truth.

“He’s being serious, I swear.” Benny chimes in, trying to aid in convincing Frankie.

“Think about it, Frank. The two of you spend every fucking second together. You’re basically already dating without actually dating. And not even just because of the fact you like, pretty much go on dates to the movies or ice cream, or whatever. Didn’t you say she cried for like, an hour when you told her you were leaving?”

“I- I mean, y- yeah, I guess.”

“Or the fact that she’s never dated anyone else and has had you locked in as her prom date since last year.” Benny adds.

“Don't even get me started on the fact you two cuddle every time we watch a movie together, because God forbid you’re not touching each other for an hour and a half.”

“I- I- I- don’t know. I mean, sure, yeah, but just because she does that doesn’t mean she’s in love with me!”

Frankie can feel his insides churn, like someone’s put them in a blender and cranked it on high. He’s not sure what’s more terrifying- that you do all those things but you’re not in love with him, or that you do all of them because you are.

He quickly comes to determine the second is much scarier than the first. Mostly because there’s a part of him that believes maybe you’re just as in love with him as he is with you.

“Fuck, I think I’m gonna throw up.”

Frankie’s knees wobble as he sinks to the ground, bottom hitting the pavement with a thud.

“Well shit, don’t do it on the driveway, my mom’s gonna kill me. If you gotta yak, at least do it on the grass.”

Santi and Benny settle in on either side of Frankie, the trio of boys squatting at the edge of the driveway. Frankie buries his head in his hands, scrunching his face so hard into his sweaty palms that maybe, some sort of reasonable idea will pop into his brain if he squeezes hard enough.

“You guys really think she likes me? Like, actually?” Frankie asks, peeking his head up to look back and forth between Santi and Benny.

“Uh, yeah.” The pair agree in unison, each giving their friend a pat on the back, trying to keep their all-knowing laughter at bay to soothe Frankie through his distress.

“Fuck. Holy shit. So- So what do I do? Just- Do I just tell her?”

“I mean, I’m no love guru, but you like, may wanna be a little more subtle than that.” Benny snickers, giving Frankie a little nudge, “I mean, do you wanna tell her?”

“Yeah. Fuck. Fuck, I wanna tell her so bad.” It spills out of Frankie’s mouth without any hesitation. The more he thinks about it, the more sure he is.

“Like, you’re already going with her to prom and stuff. You could do it then?” Santi suggests with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

“Damn, alright, Mr. Romance over here with the advice.”

“Shut up, Benny. You got any better advice? At least I’ve fuckin’ had a girlfriend before, you dingus, have you? Didn’t think so.”

Frankie’s completely blocked out their bickering, lost in his own train of thought, where all he can picture is you- Your smile, the little strand of hair that you tuck behind your ear when it falls in your face, the way your nose crinkles when you laugh, the little curl in your lips you get when you smirk at him when he tells a stupid joke.

How badly he wishes his lips could meet yours to feel that smirk pressed against his face.

“Do… Do you- Do you think I should kiss her?”

“Jesus Christ, Frankie, what are we, twelve?” Yeah, man, fuckin’ kiss her.” Santi snorts, Benny joining in with muffled laughter in his throat at the innocence of his question, “God, with how nervous you sounded, I thought you were gonna ask if you should like, have sex with her, or somethin’.”

It’s then his brain truly short circuits, his heart about to fall out of his ass and lump in his throat the size of a softball.

He has enough balls to admit he’s thought plenty of times about kissing you.

But right now, he certainly doesn’t have enough balls to confess to his friends, (or even to himself, for that matter) he’s spent just as much time thinking about doing a lot more than just kissing you.

He’s spent even more time thinking about just how badly he wants to.

One step at a time, Morales.

You, Present

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me…”

Turning over your ignition to the sound of empty rattles once wasn’t anything to worry about.

Turning it over twice to the sound of silence you could chalk up to bad luck.

But after six different attempts to start your car to no avail, you were fairly certain your issue wasn’t based solely on user error.

“Fuck…” You huff to yourself, yanking out your keys and slamming the driver’s side door behind you as you storm back into the house, now in a race against the clock to get your car not only started, but driveable enough to get you to work on time.

It’s the stupid things like this you haven’t mentally prepared yourself for when it comes to your father’s impending death- Not having a built in mechanic at your disposal to help solve your car issues when something goes awry. It seems selfish to take from the few precious moments you have left with him to pester your dad about your car troubles, but you know for a fact, your dying father has a better chance of diagnosing your issue from his bed than you do hands deep in the engine.

“Hey, Dad.” You grimace, gently rousing him from his half-awake state in front of the TV, “Dad, can I ask you something, or are you too busy dying?”

Your joke is enough to crack a sleepy smile in the corner of his lips, grunting as he turns his head over to see you hunched over the edge of his bed.

“Depends. Is it worth my time, or should I go back to decaying?” He fights with everything in him to let out the softest laugh, a sputtering cough following as his chest rises and falls, trying his best to not let his final days prevent him from being the helpful dad you’d always known.

“My car won’t start. Do you have any idea of what it could be?”

“You gonna wheel me out to the driveway to have me figure it out?”

You both know it’s ridiculous, what you’re asking him to do. You’re not sure what compelled you to think that he’d be able to help solve your problem, but your yearning for the normalcy that’s been absent in your life for so long seems to outweigh any logic.

“I think we could probably crank the bed high enough for you to look under the hood.” You shrug with a sad type of sarcasm, anxiously fiddling with your fingers to try and brainstorm a solution to your time-sensitive issue.

“You know there’s someone four houses down who is very capable of solving your problem who isn’t dying.”

For as hard as your dad fought for his half huffed laugher, he fights even harder for the smug smirk pinching the corner of his cheeks.

“Dad…” You let out a deep breath, trying to not let your eyes roll to the back of your skull from even pondering the idea of admitting to Frankie Morales that you need his help.

“Mackenzie Grace?” He questions back, pretending to be blissfully unaware of your reason for dramatic pause.

“Dad, you can’t be serious.”

“I am, actually. Dead serious. And right now, I’m at a point in my life where that statement can’t be any closer to the truth.”

Unfortunately, that’s an argument you can’t fight.

You sigh again, chewing at your lip to see if your brain can muster any other plausible solution before you admit defeat, but you know it’s no use. Your dad is kind enough to accept your silence as a white flag, sparing you the embarrassment of admitting he’s right. What he’s not kind enough to do, is to let you off without making sure he gets the last word.

“You can’t stay mad at him forever, honey.”

“I can, actually.”

Right now, your dad better thank his lucky stars he’s dying, because any other circumstance, and you would have already been halfway out the door before you put yourself through this conversation again.

“MacKenzie,” He pauses, the frail and wrinkled ends of his fingertips reaching out just enough to rest on the hand you have wrapped around the bar of his bed guard rails, “if I give you some dying words of wisdom, do you promise to listen, actually listen to what I have to say?”

You know he’s about to tell you something you have no intention of wanting to hear. You want so badly to lie, to say “yes”, just to appease him without really meaning it. But the guilty conscious eating you alive in the pit of your stomach won’t let you get off that easily.

“Yeah, I promise.”

It’s soft enough for only you and him, just quiet enough to keep the world out of your shared secret.

“Holding a grudge won’t make you any happier. It won’t change what happened, either. I’d be willing to bet he’s still holding one against you, too. There’s two sides to every story, MacKenzie Grace, and you can’t keep blaming him like you didn’t have a part in what happened, too. He’s already accepted he’s in the wrong for what he did. God bless the fact you ended up just as stubborn as your old man, but at some point, you have to get off your high horse and do the same.”

It’s unsettling, the feeling that washes over you- it makes every inch of your body twinge and wince in a strange sort of self-inflicted pain you can’t shake, the indescribable discomfort that makes you want to crawl out of your skin and evaporate into thin air. The tormented sensation stirring in your gut makes you want to scream and cry and run away, all at the same time.

Because it’s not the truth of your dad’s words alone that make you feel this way- you’ve come face to face with this truth more times than you’d like to count.

It’s the fact that for the first time, you’ve come face to face with the truth, and there’s a part of you that can accept it.

You stand there for another moment at the edge of his bed, eyes peeled to the ground, trying to find the words you’re too scared to admit. Maybe your silence is a loud enough confession.

“I’ll see you when I get back from work, okay?” You lean down and kiss his head, giving your dad’s hand a final, gentle squeeze before you’re halfway out the door, car keys in hand.

“I thought your car wasn’t working?”

Your dad has never been one for “I told you so’s” . The stifled smile and playful glisten in his tired eyes will do just fine.

“Bye, Dad.”

Your dad’s words echo in your brain as you begin your journey down the driveway, terrified by the tiniest amount of weight it’s lifted off your shoulders.

“Holding a grudge won’t make you any happier. It won’t change what happened, either.”

Maybe he’s got a point. But that’s easy to say when you’re only dealing with the idea of Frankie you’ve built up in your head, not when you’re about to come face to face with him in real time.

There’s a part of you that debates just walking to work. Hell, the hour walk it would take you to get to work would probably be easier than the thirty second walk you’re about to take four houses down.

You’ll be lucky if you don’t gnaw off your entire thumbnail by the time you make it to the Morales’s doorstep, trying to clench your fists as tight as possible with every step you take towards their house to attempt to keep your nerves (and nails) intact.

You’re not sure you’ve ever walked this slow to his house. There was once a time that you couldn’t sprint there fast enough, legs leaping over cracks in the sidewalk to meet Frankie at his front door. Now, it feels like you might as well be crawling with the time you’re trying to waste before you ring his doorbell.

You practically tip toe up the steps to the porch, like it’s some sort of crime to be at his house and you’re terrified of being caught. Your finger hovers over the doorbell, outstretched and ready to press, too frozen in fear to move the extra inch it will take to press the rounded button.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” You curse under your breath, furrowing your brow at your inability to face his front door. You ball your free hand up to a fist, slamming your knuckles against your forehead with a sigh so heavy, you’d probably give that wolf from The Three Little Pigs a run for his money, “‘C’mon, MacKenzie, just ring the damn doorbell.”

Your heart stops as the tip of your index finger finally pushes hard enough to force the high pitched chime, forcing yourself to keep your feet planted on the doormat below you instead of booking it half way across town.

“One sec!”

The bellow of his voice from behind the door is enough to jumpstart the stand still of your heartbeat, so much so that in an instant, it’s gone from flatlining to nearly beating out of your chest.

At this point, even if you wanted to run, you’re not sure your body would let you.

As the knob turns and draws back towards the house, Frankie’s broad body fills the doorframe. He looks almost as frozen as you, so stunned by your presence, his tongue darts between his lips as a placeholder for the words he lacks.

“H-hey?” He asks it so cautiously, eyebrows scrunching in confusion while he looks you up and down, too scared to say anything else until he figures out why you’ve shown up at his front door.

“My um- My car won’t- I have to go to work and I can’t get my car to start.”

You don’t dare phrase it as anything other than a statement of fact. You’ll die before the words “Frankie, will you help me?” escape from your lips.

“O-oh. Shit.” He cocks his head, the pinch of his face immediately easing along with the rest of his body, standing up a little straighter as he leans against the doorframe.

“Sorry, i-if you’re busy or whatever, don’t feel like you-”

“No- No, I mean, yeah, no, I don’t- shit-” He stutters, pausing as he shakes his head with a little laugh at the ground, trying to compose himself before he trips over his words again, “Yes, I um- Yeah, I can help.”

“O-okay. Thank- Thanks.” You try to fight the tug you feel in your lips creeping towards the corner of your cheeks that mirrors the grin Frankie’s trying so desperately to hide on his face.

The two of you stand there for a moment, feet wriggling in the tips of your shoes and fingers twiddling in your pockets, using every ounce of strength you have to ignore the heat flushing through your cheeks that makes you want to hate him just a little bit less.

It’s hard to suppress when Frankie’s trying to keep up his facade with the world’s worst poker face as he’s beaming ear to ear.

“Let me just uh- Lemme grab some stuff and I’ll meet you over there?” He asks, tiptoeing around what seems too good to be true.

“Y-yeah. Yeah, sounds good.”

You give each other a little nod before he disappears behind his door. You tilt your head to the sky, eyes closed as the deepest sigh of relief you can take escapes your body. It feels like the first gasp you take when you peak above the surface after holding your breath underwater, remembering what it feels like to finally breathe again.

It takes everything in you to pretend you don’t feel the strange pang in your chest as you watch Frankie walk to your house after you’ve made it back to your driveway, his gray shirt clinging to his biceps as he carries over his bucket of tools and brown curls spilling out from under the worn, Standard Oil hat he’s obviously still refused to throw away.

You lean against the hood of your car, arms crossed over your chest, trying your best to seem ambivalent about the whole ordeal.

If you were nominated for an Oscar in the “Pretending to be aloof in front of Frankie Morales while he fixes your car” category, you most surely wouldn’t be winning.

“Hey, again.” He grins as he sets his tools down, mirroring your stance to cross his arms over his chest.

“Hey, again.” You parrot.

“So, uh… Your car?” Frankie asks, nodding over to the vehicle you’re leaning on.

“Yeah, uh- yeah, I don’t know what’s going on. I tried starting it like, five different times and it doesn’t do anything. I’ve never had this happen to me before and of course it’s when I’m trying to leave for work.” You shrug, trying to play into the fact you at least tried to do something before coming to find him.

“Huh. Alright, well, lemme see what I can do, okay?” He nods again, leaving your fingers to play with your sleeves to keep yourself occupied, instead of staring at him, mesmerized by the way you can still hear the gears turning in his brain as he processes. “Can I uh- is it okay if I have the keys?”

You fumble through your pockets, digging out your keys to place them in the palm of Frankie’s outstretched hand, the linger of your touch on his skin just long enough to make you subtly jerk your arm back in embarrassment.

You step back to let Frankie slide past you, watching him try to squeeze himself into the driver’s seat to start your car, half his body still hanging out the open door.

“Are you- are you not teaching anymore?”

“Wh- huh?” His question catches you off guard, the scowl of confusion painted across your face making him quickly elaborate before drawing his attention back to your car.

“You just uh- sorry, you said you were going to work. It’s 5 P.M. on a Thursday in June, so, ya know, figured you probably weren’t going to school.”

He gives the key one more turn before sliding out of the car, carefully passing your keys back off to you before making his way to open the hood. You cautiously follow behind him, arms still crossed against your chest as he props the front of the car up to reveal the engine.

“Oh. Uh- no, yeah. No, I’m uh- I’m still teaching. Normally I do summer school to make some extra money, but because of my dad and everything and not being home, it just, ya know, I just couldn’t. I still wanted something to do to make money and keep me busy, so um, Katie’s Dad still owns The Parrot’s Nest on 14th, so I asked him if I could just do some part time waitressing and bartending and stuff. It’s nice ‘cause he’s been really flexible with everything going on.”

Your eyes dart to the ground as Frankie shifts his view from the inside of the car back to you. The air fills with a heavy pause, like neither of you are really sure how to react to the fact you’re managing a semi-civil conversation that’s more than just one word responses.

Frankie lets out a quiet huff, trying to hide the soft smile curling in the corner of his scruff covered cheeks before turning back to the car, silently tinkering for a few moments before mustering up the courage to speak again.

“That’s nice of him. Didn’t even know that place was still around.” There’s a little grunt as he leans deeper into the car, reaching around to search for some sort of part he wants to check, “I’m uh- I’m glad you’re still teaching, though. That’s um, that’s good.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Your hands have shifted from folded across your chest to in your pockets, a subconscious move you’ve made as a brick from the wall you’ve built between yourself and Frankie Morales seems to crumble without you realizing.

You let him work for a few more moments before he’s diagnosed your issue, carefully closing the hood and wiping the engine grime on the towel from the tool bucket he’s brought with him.

“So uh- good news is, you just need a new battery. Easy fix. Bad news is, your battery’s dead, and your car’s not gonna start without a new one.” Frankie shrugs, hoping he’s not pushing his luck with the little laugh he gives himself at his joke.

“Fuck. Okay, uh- shit, okay.” You mutter, not necessarily upset with Frankie for delivering the news of his discovery, but angry at the fact you need to buy a new car battery and have no way to get to work. “Um, sorry, give me a second, I’m gonna call Jim and let him know that I can’t make it in today.”

“I- I can drive you.”

You’re sure Frankie’s just as surprised as you when the offer comes out of his mouth, freezing your thumb over your boss’s contact you’re about to dial. Frankie clearly interprets the look on your face as one of skepticism about his idea, quickly trying to backpedal before he preemptively digs his own grave.

“No, I mean, um- if you want. I can- I can drop you off. So you, uh- that way you don’t have to miss work.”

“No, Frankie, it’s fine, you- you already helped figure out what’s wrong with my car, it’s not a big deal, don’t wo-”

“I want to.”

You don’t mean for your sigh to be as audible as it is. It only seems fair, considering there was no world in which you ever considered having to contemplate not only asking Frankie for help, but also spending a fifteen minute car ride together so he can drop you off at work. You chew at your bottom lip as you contemplate the lesser of two evils- be stuck in Frankie’s metal death trap of a car, forced within a 3 foot proximity of him for the entire ride, or miss out on the most hours you’ve been scheduled in the past two weeks for money you really do need.

Swallowing your pride is the toughest pill you’ve had to swallow in quite a long time.

“Fine.”

It’s not even your answer you think shocks him the most. It’s how little he had to argue with you to agree.

You want to roll your eyes at the little smirk of satisfaction he gives himself, knowing you’ve gone 0-2 on your hardened stance of despising Frankie’s guts since talking with your dad. It only stings more that you’re sure Frankie is getting endless amounts of satisfaction that you’ve given into him so quickly.

But fuck, if you didn’t miss that stupid, goofy grin of his when he knows he’s beaten you at your own game.

“Only if your car isn’t gonna kill us first before we get there.” You groan, eyeing down Frankie’s beater truck he’s been driving since he got his license. It was in questionable shape over a decade ago, you’re not sure what kind of deal Frankie made with the devil to keep the hunk of junk up and running.

“She’s fine. Haven’t managed to kill you in her yet, have I?” Frankie rebuttals, grabbing his tools as you follow behind him towards his car.

“Well, there’s a first time for everything.” You sigh, shaking your head in annoyance that Frankie’s still driving this damn thing on principle alone, “How the fuck is this thing even still running?”

“‘Cause you don’t give her enough credit. Got me here from North Carolina just fine.” Frankie scoffs, the two of you settling into your perspective seats inside his truck.

His comment makes you frown at your lap as you buckle your seatbelt, not because of the sass he’s inflicted, but because it reminds you that he’s moved himself states away just to further the distance between you two.

“S-sorry, it was meant to be a joke.” Frankie mutters, looking over at you as he drives and noticing the way you’ve gone quiet, eyes peeled to the ground.

“No, I know.” You reply back, anxiously digging under your nails with your stare still locked on your feet. “How’s um- how’s North Carolina?”

“Oh. Um, It’s uh- It’s fine, I guess.”

It’s then you notice Frankie’s realized the reason for your silence, uncomfortably fidgeting in his seat and grip tightening around the steering wheel as he processes your disappointment.

It’s hard to decipher what he means by “fine.” Fine, like he’s more than fine and doesn't want to rub it in your face how well he’s doing? Fine, like actually a normal amount of fine and he just has nothing of interest to report? Fine, like he’s not fine at all, but doesn’t have the balls to admit it to you?

With the way he can’t bring himself to look at you, it has to be the first or third option. You’re not sure which one is worse.

You’re also not sure why you feel so compelled to find out.

“You still uh- doing um, mechanic stuff for the Army?” You ask, glancing over just enough to watch Frankie’s fingers drum against the steering wheel.

“Yeah. Helicopter maintenance, mostly.”

It’s still not enough to give you the definitive answer you’re looking for. You’re too stubborn for your own good to just quit while you’re ahead. Because of all the questions you could have asked him, the one you ask him next is like voluntarily putting a gun to your head and asking him to shoot.

“Are you, uh- you um, seeing anyone? Samantha, or whatever her name was?”

It’s the first time he locks eyes with you since you’ve gotten in the car. Frankie looks you up and down, tongue running across the top of his teeth under his lips and raising his brows just enough to let you know you’ve got his attention.

Every second of silence that lingers before his answer only leads you to believe he’s trying to let you down slowly before he has to pull the trigger. You brace yourself for the bullet.

“No. I uh, shit- I- Sarah and I broke up a while ago. After um, after Santi’s wedding, actually. No, I um, I’m not seeing anyone. Haven’t really been since then, I guess.”

Your body stays tense, still bracing yourself for the inevitable blow, but it never comes. Not only has Frankie taken his finger off the trigger, he’s put away the gun all together. You’re so stunned you’ve made it out of the question alive, you aren’t quite sure how to react.

“O-oh. I uh- I didn’t know.”

“Are- are you? S-seeing anyone?” He stutters, the words heavy in his throat as he gulps.

“No. After how things ended with Liam, I just- I haven’t either.”

It’s uncomfortable, the silence that fills the car and seeps between you. Not quite awkward, not quite upset, not quite relieved, either. It’s heavy, like a backpack full of bricks you’ve had strapped to your shoulders that you refuse to put down- you’d rather keep burdening yourself with the weight than just take it off, too used to the ache it spreads to every inch of your body.

Maybe, the silence is so uncomfortable because you’re starting to realize how stupid it is to let these types of things keep weighing you down.

Holding a grudge won’t make you any happier. It won’t change what happened, either.

You’ve been so lost in your own head, you’d barely even realized the car had come to a stop, the soft orange and pink glow of The Parrot’s Nest sign illuminating the inside of Frankie’s truck with muted neon snapping you back to reality.

Your hand wraps around the door handle, ready to break free into the parking lot before Frankie’s voice stops you.

“What time are you done?”

You look back over your shoulder, taken aback.

“Why?”

“So I can pick you up.”

It’s so matter of fact, like he had never contemplated any other option from the moment he’d offer to drive you, his soft, brown eyes sinking as you shake your head at him.

“Frankie, it’s fine. I can have someone else drive me ho-”

“Please?”

Your head wants to say no. It wants to push open the door with a half hearted “thanks for the ride” and pretend like the past 15 minutes had simply never existed, wiping the strange pang in your chest and swirling in your stomach from its memory.

Apparently, your heart’s decided it has other plans.

“I’m done at ten.”

“Then I promise to be back here at ten.”

Frankie Morales is a man who’s broken many things.

Your heart, your trust, your friendship.

But out of all the things Frankie has broken, he’s never broken a promise.

And that’s how you know at ten o’clock sharp, you’ll find his beat up Chevy in the parking lot of The Parrot’s Nest, waiting for you.

@chaotic-iguana @bbiophiliaa @pertinentpostmortem @angelofsmalldeath-codeine

@pedrobaby @fatima-marisa @beboldbebravethings @poodlebae @kittenlittle24

@3sriracha @jungchloee @perennialdoll247 @prettyinpunk85 @raspberrybesitos

@partyofone3413 @harriedandharassed @pedrohoe04 @theorganasolo

@endlessthxxghts @beware-my-thorns @missladym1981 @milly-louise

@jay-zzle @the-one-with-the-grey-color @persephone-girl @bitchesuntitled

@pedropascallvr @millennial-teenybopper @vee-bees-blog @itsokbbygrl

@hopplessilse @mxtokko @its-nebuleuse @mandoisapunk @msmorningstaarr

@amyispxnk @honeyedmiller @mountainsandmayhem @picketniffler @burningnerdchild

@copperhalfcent @theoraekenslover @bloodyinspirationaldemon @vee-bees-blog

@samgirl4life @pigeonmama @survivingandenduring @jolapeno @ovaryacted

@amanitacowboy @mystickittytaco @anoverwhelmingdin @greenwitchfromthewoods

@witchofthedeepwoods @ericamarie093 @readingiskeepingmegoing @whimsiwitchy @whoaitspascal87

@vickie5446 @katw474 @ravenpoe67 @inthedarkestnight @brittmb115

@harryscherrysugar @wonderpillar @sunnytuliptime @pasc4lfuzz @yesjazzywazzylove-blog

@kungfucapslock @vannabanana1995 @beezusvreeland

@javierpena-inatacvestnotifs

[dadbodfanatic-x]

Oh we’re getting somewhere baby! 🤤

[dadbodfanatic-x]

my dream surprise song of each era

💚 cold as you

💛 the way I loved you

💜 long live/haunted

❤️ begin again

🩵 clean

🖤 gorgeous

🩷 false god/afterglow

🩶 peace

🤎 ivy/cowboy like me

💙 you’re on your own kid

🤍 the prophecy / fresh out the slammer

EVERYONE POST YOURS IM SO INTRIGUED BY THIS

[auteurdelabre]

STICK BUDDIES PART 2

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f! Reader

Series rating: 18+

A/n: hey y'all my laptop officially died and your girl doesn't know when she'll get the money to fix it so this chapter is unedited and the formatting is fucked. I hope y'all can still enjoy it! I'm having a lot of fun writing these two.

SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter 2: F.I.S.H.

Fuck. It. Shit. Happens

Three weeks later the palm around your suitcase handle is damp with sweat. But for once the muggy Florida weather isn't to blame. You're inside the airport, listening to Pope's girlfriend Yovanna natter on about something but all you can think of is seeing Francisco.

Is he here already? Is he wearing that stupid fucking ballcap?

Of course he is. He's never anywhere without that ugly standard oil hat covering his shaggy hair.

Is he going to be horrible to you?

Was this a terrible fucking idea?

Yes. It was.

You're lost in your own thoughts and memories, looking up only when you hear Pope call ahead of you.

"Fish!"

You inhale sharply, tugging your rickety old, purple carry-on suitcase you've had since you were eighteen.

Your eyes flick from the shiny ceramic tile to the man standing by the windows, looking outside to watch the planes. His back is to you but you'd recognize the width of his frame, the arms of his t-shirt straining at the shoulders and around his biceps. And of course, the hat resting atop mahogany curls. He's rarely anywhere without it.

It's been over three years since you teased him about washing it, three years since you grabbed it off his head and tossed it in the washing machine as Marcella laughed from the kitchen. Three years since that easy friendship where you all laughed together.

The first year after the BBQ incident you were both radio silent. Frankie was going through his divorce from Marcella, you were ending your engagement to Jack and neither of you felt particularly inclined towards seeing the group socially.

By year two you both ended up at the odd event after being hounded by Pope. The two of you were always avoiding each other, always on opposite sides of the room, always cancelling on an event if you both knew in advance that the other would be there.

It became almost an unspoken thing, the events you would attend. Frankie got poker nights, camping trips and Benny's fights. You got pool nights, karaoke and hiking.

Neither of you went to the BBQs.

The only thing you both refused to give up was darts, especially the tournaments where your team always placed first. Those were the evenings when you talked, both looking everywhere but the others face as the group of you played.

"Bull up."

"Watch the left."

"Kay."

"He's gonna double out."

Conversations between you two were never outside the scope of the game. You stood far apart from one another. Those nights were strained, but they did serve a purpose. You got used to being around each other, even if it wasn't comfortable.

By last year you'd both moved to attending the same house parties, but it rarely ended well. The scorch from years below was still simmering in both your veins just waiting to burn bright. A powderkeg of past resentments and one wrong word was the spark.

It came out in Frankie being sober and withdrawn while you drank and watched the couple's around you falling deeper in love. You both started to feel like outsiders and you blamed the other for it.

It came out in snippy comments and rolled eyes. In jokes at the others expense and your friends trying to intervene.

And now it's led to this.

Your greatest performance.

///

Frankie keeps taking his hat off, carding his long fingers through his curls and then replacing the hat, snug over his skull. He's done this at least five times since he got to the airport an hour ago with his duffel bag and black coffee.

He's habitually early, not surprising given his time in the army. It's also because he likes a bit of extra time to watch the planes take off. He enjoys the way the sun glints off the wings, the smell of the tarmac. He remembers the freedom he felt when he first started flying, that weightlessness combined with the heavy anticipation that coiled low in his belly.

It's that same nervousness that now compels him to card his fingers through his hair for a sixth time before he hears his name being called and his hand lowers to his side.

He sees Pope and Yovanna first. Pope has one arm around his girl, his bag in the other. He grins and waves at Frankie, obviously excited about the adventure that awaits them.

And then there just after the couple lugging that familiar purple suitcase is you. You're wearing a ridiculous green t-shirt with a sparkly pineapple on it. It makes him remember how you borrowed his favorite band t-shirt and never returned it.

"Good to see you made it," Pope says punching his friend's shoulder softly as Frankie meets them. Frankie smiles, giving Yovanna a side hug.

"Couldn't miss it. Where's Ben?"

"He and the bride-to-be left yesterday to get stuff ready for the wedding." Pope glances at his phone. "Will says he and Jean are here, just grabbing a coffee."

Frankie lets his eyes drift from Pope to a smiling Yovanna and then finally they land on you. You're scowling, trying your best to hide behind Pope with your eyes glued to the ground.

"Hi," Frankie offers stiffly in your direction.

You turn your face at his greeting, your eyes lifting from the ground to zigzag up his middle and then almost unwillingly drag to his face.

It occurs to you that you haven't actually looked Frankie in the face in almost three years, not straight-on like this. You'd forgotten that little furrow between his brows, but note now that it is deeper.

"Hi."

How the fuck are you supposed to sell this whole romantic angle? You can barely handle greeting one another like normal humans.

You feel a bubble of nerves overtaking you. You have two thousand dollars on the line.

You can feel Santi and Yovanna watching you both like sharks and the two of you break eye contact, looking around the bustling airport.

"Can't wait to relax on the beach," Santi says breaking the tension. "I looked online and the resort is amazing."

"It's so gorgeous," Yovanna agrees readily. "And it's an all inclusive too, right? Free food and drinks?"

"Yep, first order of business is us all getting hammered in the pool," you say with a forced laugh, trying to get into the spirit of things.

Frankie may be making you nervous but the rest of the group are your good friends. You're excited to spend the week together with them in Mexico.

You're confused when the couple exchange grimaces in response. Frankie tenses up across from you, his arms going to cross over his chest. You furrow your brow before you suddenly realize your mistake.

Frankie is two years sober this August.

Joking about the group getting drunk isn't exactly the sort of thing you should say. It's insensitive. Your face flames and you turn to see him shooting you a cold stare.

You open your mouth to explain and to apologize when a familiar voice sounds out from behind you.

"Spring break, the old fucker edition!"

Will and Jean are back with their coffees and you notice Will walking over to the group wearing a backpack. He's always been a light packer but this takes the cake.

"How are you supposed to last five days in Cancun and be dressed nicely for your brother's wedding bringing only that?" You ask laughing when he and Jean approach.

"Right?" Jean agrees, giving you a hug as she sees you. She smells like pine and amber, her deep red hair brushing your cheek. "That's what I said to him."

"I only pack essentials," Will shrugs.

"Careful Jean," you say grinning to your friend, "he'll be coming for your clothes when he runs out. Hope you packed some extra t-shirts."

The group laughs at this, imagining Will squeezed into the willowy Jean's clothing and you relax a fraction. You'll apologize to Frankie later, you'll explain it was a misstep and not a dig. Right now you'll just enjoy the easy camaraderie of this moment.

But then there's a scoff behind you. It's subtle, but obviously aimed at you. You glance over your shoulder to see Frankie smirking at the ground. That familiar simmer starts low in your belly.

"Something funny, Morales?"

Frankie's smile fades slowly as his eyes reach back to yours.

"I just think it's ironic that you're warning someone about stolen clothing."

You squint.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Will and Pope exchange a warning look while the girls pretend to find something interesting on their phones.

"You know what I'm talking about," Frankie says lowly, his dark eyes fixed on yours.

He watches as you rapidly blink up at him, a clear signal that he's gotten under your skin. Good. He should do worse for the booze comment you made earlier. It was clearly directed at him.

"No, I don't," you shoot back, releasing the handle of your suitcase. It flops over onto the ground but you don't care, you're stepping closer to Frankie.

"How convenient," Frankie sneers. "Guess it's a coincidence that my favorite Nirvana shirt-"

"Are you seriously gonna bring that up again?" You groan, interjecting before he can go on a long and familiar tirade. "I said I was sorry and it was four years ago! Four!"

Frankie's cheeks are a blotchy pink, his neck breaking out in the same hue. You've pissed him off.

Good.

"That Nirvana t-shirt is a collector's item now."

"I highly doubt that bleach-stained, full of holes rag was a collector's item, Franny."

"Well I guess we'll never know, will we?" Frankie hisses back. "You fucking lost it."

Will steps between the two of you like some Jerry Springer bouncer. He holds his large hands up to each of you.

"Christ, you guys, we haven't even boarded the plane yet."

Pope sucks at his teeth in irritation, grabbing Frankie by the upper arm and dragging him around the corner towards the restrooms, leaving you to stand awkwardly as Will shoots you a dark look.

Yovanna and Jean mumble something about looking at the planes by the window, leaving you and the tall blonde alone.

"Franny?" Will rumbles. "Really? What are you, five?"

"He started it."

Will's posture changes. It's subtle, but you can see it. Gone is the sweet, patient friend and in his place stands Ironhead, muscular and cold. His eyes are flinty as he stares you down.

"This is my little brother's wedding we're going to," Will says tightly. "He doesn't deserve to have his friends fighting the whole time, especially when you and Frankie both agreed to this."

Ashamed, your eyes fall to the ground, Your posture that of a chastised school child.

"Benny has always been a good friend to you, do not fuck this up for him."

Before you can apologize, Will turns and walks away to join Jean by the window, shaking his head, leaving you to continue looking at your shoes in shame.

Around the corner Pope gently shoves Frankie into the wall. His hat tumbles into his eyes and he pushes it back in irritation.

"Hey-"

"Frankie, you really wanna show up to this thing fighting with your fake girlfriend?" Pope seethes.

"You really want Marcella there with her fiance secretly pitying you the whole time?"

Frankie's cheeks go a scarlet red at the thought. Marcella and her new fucking fiancee Richard. Dick. Whatever. Frankie just knew him as the guy his wife had been secretly fucking for the last six months of their rapidly crumbling marriage.

"We all knew how hard this wedding was gonna be for you, Fish," Pope tells him. "We all knew it was gonna be tough having to see her again. So we all went to a lot of work to make sure you didn't have a horrible fucking time."

"I never asked you guys to," Frankie bites back. He has a horrible vision of all of his friends sitting around the table shooting each other solemn looks as they speak about Frankie like he's a pathetic worm. Red, hot anger spears him.

"You think I don't know why you were so desperate for me to come, Pope?"he challenges. "You think I'm stupid?"

Pope takes a step back, brows pulled.

"Fish-"

"You're afraid I'll start using again."

Pope exhales through his nose slowly. It's the sound of defeat, of acknowledging the truth in Frankie's words.

"Do you blame us?" He finally offers. "When she posted the engagement pictures on Facebook you nearly went out and bought coke."

"But I didn't, did I?"

"No, but only because we were around," Pope says in an urgent whisper, glancing over his shoulder to ensure that he can't be heard.

"So yeah, sorry we were worried over the thought that our best would be back home alone without us during a really shitty time."

Frankie can only look down at the floor in shame, squeaking his shoes against the ceramic tile.

"But this is Benny's wedding, Frank. It's a big deal to him and the two of you are out there acting like children. You both agreed to this. So either you both grow the fuck up or don't bother boarding the plane."

He shoves the ticket against Frankie's chest, pushing away from him with poorly concealed anger before stalking off towards the gate.

Frankie turns to watch him go, seeing you standing looking admonished as Will walks away from you. Feeling Frankie's gaze you raise your head, giving him a look.

We fucked up, the look says.

Frankie can only nod in agreement.

///

When you board the plane a short while later you're thankful to find that while you and Frankie may be in the same row of three, there's an empty seat between you two.

Maybe this won't be the worst flight.

You go to crawl into your window seat when Santiago appears like a bronzed ghost in front of you.

"Hey I gotta ask you two a favor," Santi says with a frustrated sigh. "We're seated near the far back and Yovanna says she can't sit there, it's something to do with motion sickness. Can you switch with us?"

You glance back over your shoulder to see the row that Yovanna is exiting. It's clearly got a third person in the row on the aisle side which means you'll likely be stuck in the middle.

You're about to complain about how uncomfortable that will be when you catch Will from the corner of your eyes giving you a pointed look as he lifts his bag into the overhead compartment across the aisle.

The meaning is clear.

"No problem," you mumble, nodding. Frankie just shrugs, as if he couldn't care less.

You're first out of the aisle, dragging your bag behind you. You're not getting stuck with the middle seat. Frankie follows you quickly out, avoiding the aisle and clamoring over the middle row, cutting you off. It's clear he's not interested in the middle seat either.

You both catch each other's eyes as you make your way to the seats, both realizing what the other intends at the same time.

Game on.

"Excuse me!" You say, squeezing past an elderly woman settling into her seat. Your sneakers slap up the aisle towards your destination as your bag comes tottering after you.

"Shit, sorry," Frankie offers in a rasp when he steps on a young man's foot in his hurry to make it to the end of the aisle.

The two of you race, but it's you who gets there first, a step ahead of him.

"I win," you say with a bright smile. You glance down at the woman sitting at the end of your seat section and hold in a groan as you realize she's holding a child no older than two years of age.

Suddenly Santi and Yovanna wanting to switch seats makes a lot more sense to you.

"They just didn't want to sit next to a baby the whole flight," Frankie mutters behind you. You hold in a laugh, amused that you both came to the same conclusion.

"Well, at least I won't be stuck in the middle," you whisper to him in a goading, singsong tune.

Frankie frowns as he watches you kneel down grabbing your purple suitcase, attempting to raise it over your head. He does not want to be seated between you and a fucking infant because right now he can't decide which would be worse.

He watches with detached amusement as you make a second attempt at lifting the heavy bag, bringing it as high as your waist before it drops back onto the ground.

"Hurry the hell up!" Someone shouts down the group of impatient people behind Frankie.

You glance over your shoulder to see the growing line that's collected since you took up the aisle attempting to put your suitcase in the overhead bin. You try again, raising it shakily to your collar before it thumps down.

It's so heavy.

"I'll just do mine so I can get out of the way," Frankie says to you syrupy sweet.

You go to deny this suggestion when he shifts beside you, easily hauling his heavy duffel into the overhead bin. And then just as you suspected, he moves to the window seat before shooting you a smug look.

Fucker.

The mother rocking her baby gives you a sympathetic smile, watching as you struggle lifting your purple bag.

"Do you need some help up there?" The steward asks you from down the line of people you're holding up. He's too far away to help you. You force a bright smile.

"Nope! Almost got it! Just one sec!"

You attempt it again, your eyes darting around wildly for a free flight crew staff. Sweat starts at your temple, your face flushed as people grumble behind you.

"Just give it here."

You feel Frankie's hip nudge you out of the way, causing you to step back as he grips your suitcase. He lifts it with embarrassing ease, the muscles in his arm curling. He frowns as he hoists it into the air above his head.

"The fuck do you have packed in here?"

"Clothes, shoes, books."

Frankie grunts in reply. He pushes the heavy carry-on into the bin, a slice of his tanned midsection on display between his t-shirt and jeans. A perverse part of you wants to poke the soft flesh there but you refrain. You're not friends like that anymore.

He closes the bin with a snap before heading into his seat. The window seat. Which means you get the dubious honor of having both arm rests but being squashed in the middle.

You frown, shifting past the woman and child before lowering yourself into the middle seat. You're already feeling cramped, wedged between the mother and Frankie's wide shoulders.

You reach for your headphones, curious to browse the entertainment screen.

"How many books?"

You place the headphones onto your lap and look at him quizzically.

"Huh?"

"How many books did you bring?" Frankie repeats. "Felt like a whole fucking shelf."

He tilts back in his seat and the both of you buckle your belts as the overhead sign goes on.

"Six," you answer when the flight crew goes to stand near the exits and give the safety announcement.

"Trips only five days."

"So?"

"It takes you at least a month to be finished with a book," Frankie says as if you don't know.

"Excuse me? I'm a speed reader," you defend.

"I didn't say it takes you a month to read it, but to be finished with it," Frankie clarifies, cutting off your agitation. "You keep re-reading and making little notes in the margins."

You shrug, irritated at how he thinks he still knows you. Things change, people change. The shitty thing is he's totally right. You do take forever to read books, especially the ones you like because you love to put tabs and make notes.

"You borrowed "In Cold Blood" from me one year and it took two months to return. And when you did it had so many fucking notes and tabs," Frankie hides his amusement by pressing his lips together.

"I forgot it wasn't mine," you say in shy embarrassment.

"You know how pissed Marcella was about that? That was hers from college."

"She was always pissed off about something," you mutter before catching yourself.

Sometimes your mouth really does run away with you. you don't know where Frankie stands with his ex Marcella, even after her engagement.

You glance over to see that thankfully Frankie isn't upset, instead he's trying to bite back a smirk. Maybe he agrees with you.

All of a sudden a flash of pain hits your left cheek. You jump, knocking into Frankie's shoulder in the process. You glance over, realizing you've been hit with the child's rattle.

"Ow!"

Frankie feels you jerk beside him, your hand cupping your cheek. His reaction is immediate, throwing off his belt before he sees that the mother next to you is upset.

"Oh golly! I'm so so sorry!" The mother says

The mother says, grabbing her toddler's hand and fixing him with a look. "Roper! How dare you! We do not hit people! Are you okay honey? Do you need ice?"

"It's fine, I'm okay, just an accident," you insist.

The woman continues to berate her apathetic toddler as your head slowly swings around to face Frankie.

He watches your brows lift in confusion, your face a caricature of distress as you mime the name: Roper?

Frankie pretends to cough into his elbow, but really it's to suppress his laughter. The pilot comes over the speaker and you glance up.

"Flight 422 to Cancun will be arriving in approximately two hours and thirty three minutes. Thank you for choosing to fly with us and..."

His voice fades to put because now you start to feel the first fingers of anxiety squeezing your ribs. Ones that have you remembering how planes crash and back up engines fail. The thing that kept you up until three this morning having an anxiety attack until you found the old prescription bottle of Ativan in the back of your bathroom cabinet. You should have brought the pills with you.

The plane jerks to a rolling start and without thinking you grip the two armrests. They feel plush under your grip, and you're holding so hard you're sure you'll leave indents.

Frankie observes this, raising a brow before going back to playing on his phone. He feels cramped in these seats, his long legs folded, his arms held tightly at his sides so he doesn't encroach on your space.

You feel the plane jerking up and down and it bumps along the runway. You let out a small whimper, clenching your teeth as it picks up speed, the sound loud in your ears.

"Are you okay?"

You crack one eye open to see Frankie staring at you. His big, dark eyes hold concern. Desperation compels you to answer him without guile.

"Tell me that this plane isn't going to crash, Morales," you insist between whimpers. "I need to hear that it's impossible for us to crash."

Frankie blinks.

"Well, I mean, technically nothing is impossible."

"What the hell? You're a fucking pilot," you whine, your eyes slamming shut again. "Can't you just say something comforting?"

Frankie looks at your face, curious to see you like this. Normally you're so confident, so composed.

"If the plane crashed we would die instantly," Frankie offers after a beat. "We wouldn't feel any pain."

Just then the plane kicks off, sending you all bursting into the sky. Without warning your hand goes to his, gripping him so tightly your nails dig into his flesh.

"Fuck," he grunts as your fingers pierce his skin. He goes to pull back and say something cutting when he stops.

You look scared.

He's never seen you look scared before, not really. Anxious, concerned, amused, happy, guilty... These he's witnessed from you. But scared? This is new and Frankie doesn't like it.

Everyone else relaxes, plays on their phone or chats. You meanwhile feel like your stomach is about to come out your mouth.

"Shit, sorry," you mutter when you realize what you're doing.

Frankie looks down at his hand under yours, witnesses the crescents you leave in his knuckles as you slowly release your grip.

Instead of jerking away Frankie twists his palm in the other direction, capturing your hand within his larger palm, the fingers holding loosely. You notice that his hand is dry and calloused.

"Listen, we're going to be fine," he tells you quietly.

You raise your eyes to his face, relieved to see a steady confidence reflected there.

"Really?"

"Yeah," Frankie nods. "They aren't lying when they say that it's one of the safest ways to travel. The overall fatality risk is 0.23 percent."

"That still sounds high."

"You'd need to fly like, every day for ten thousand years to be guaranteed to be in a fatal plane crash," Frankie spells out for you.

He watches as increment by increment your shoulders lower. You lean back into the seat, visibly relaxing.

"Really?"

"Really. If you don't believe me you can Google it at the resort."

"If we survive."

Frankie smirks, the dimple in his cheek poking out. You take a few minutes to regulate your breathing before you slowly tug your hand back into your lap feeling self-conscious.

"Thanks."

You both sit quietly the next hour. You listen to music while Frankie stares out the window or plays games on his phone.

The baby, Roper, is cooing next to you, but otherwise blessedly quiet. He plays with a toy in his mother's lap and you give him a patient smile. The child gurgles up at you, extending a pudgy in your direction.

Frankie watches the interaction, smirking to himself when you cringe back from the saliva coated hand.

"Aw, he likes you," Roper's mother says with adoration clear in her eyes. She bounces him on her knee.

"Thanks Roper," you say stiffly.

What else do you say to that? You think the baby would like anyone sitting next it. You're just thankful that his attention is back on his mom and that his slimy hand is back on his toy.

Frankie's attention moves back to the wispy clouds outside the window. The day is so bright and the skies so clear. He misses the freedom of it.

After the suspension was lifted on his flying license, Frankie decided on a change of scenery. So he got a job teaching at the flight schools. It meant days indoors, issuing tests and running through scenarios. It reminded him of his college days studying physics.

He was surprised to find he liked teaching these young people. He liked their energy and excitement for getting up into the sky. He liked teaching them the core knowledge before sending them off to the flight captains to do hands-on flights.

And after Colombia, flying just didn't feel the same for Frankie. He hasn't really been flying recreationally since his suspension. And until today he never really missed it.

Mexico is approaching, he can see it's telltale ----- from his window. You're both going to be at the resort soon, surrounded by friends and Marcella. The thought makes him nauseated.

Your eyes are closed when you feel a gentle tap on your hand. You crack your eyes open to see Frankie's dark eyes scanning your face, his fingers draped over the armrest.

"What's up?'

"We need to come up with a bit of a backstory in case someone asks," he says lowly.

"A backstory?"

Frankie nods. You remove your headphones, placing them on your lap before clearing your throat.

"My name is Natalia," you say putting on a fake Russian accent. "I'm a part time gymnast and former spy. I am good with a gun and the pummel horse."

"Marcella already knows you," Frankie says, trying not to laugh at your horrendous Russian accent. "Plus weren't you kicked out of gymnastics as a kid?"

"I quit," you reply, dropping the accent. "After I fell off the rings and sprained my foot, as you well know."

"Yeah, I do know," Frankie says softly to himself before looking out the window.

It's hard to believe that at one time this man knew so much of your life. Funny childhood stories, embarrassing moments, painful memories. And now the two of you sit stiffly beside one another as if strangers.

"So when you say back story you mean like when did we start dating, how long have we been dating for, etc."

"Yeah."

"Okay, well, obviously they know that we used to be friends," you say awkwardly avoiding his eyes. "She probably knows that uh, things... She probably knows we weren't friends for a bit too."

Frankie shifts in his seat, clearing his throat. "Uh, yeah."

"So I guess, what? We tell everyone sparks flew over darts one night with the group? Go vague?"

"Sure." Frankie makes a mental note, drumming his fingers along his thigh. "And how long have we been dating?"

"Uh, let's go with eight months," you say after a beat. "Suggests seriousness without us having to be living together or engaged."

"We don't live together after eight months?" Frankie asks. "Really?"

"Well, with Jack it was..." You don't finish the rest of your sentence, it just dies on your tongue.

And suddenly a pall hangs over the conversation. A small reminder of why you haven't talked to Frankie in so long. You scowl, pulling your headphones over your ears.

"You know what? This is your thing, you figure out the details and let me know what I need to memorize."

You turn on the music, eyes closed and arms folded. You remain that way for the rest of the flight, ignoring the feel of Frankie's eyes on you.

///

"This place is like it's own fucking city," Will offer in awe as your group stares up at the entrance to the resort.

The six of you are at the reception desk waiting for the pretty woman behind it to confirm your rooms.

"I can't wait to explore this place," Yovanna says, lowering her sunglasses and spinning in place, her arms outstretched.

"They really splashed out for this," Jean agrees giving a low whistle. "I think a Kardashian was here last month."

The woman from behind the desk comes over to the group with a large smile on her face. She has a handful of white bracelets and key cards.

"Mister Miller, you're party is in room 801, Mister Garcia your party is room 804 and Mister Morales your party is in room 808," she says handing each of them an envelope with the wifi code written in it.

"And mine?" You ask politely giving your name.

The woman - Gina her tag reads - Is looking confused between you and Frankie who stands behind you.

"Uh, it says on the computer that you're part of the Morales party," Gina offers.

A stone settles in your stomach. How did you not think of this? Of course you're going to have to share a room with Frankie. You're supposed to be dating!

Fuck. You were just so focused on getting here and flying that the rooms didn't even occur to you.

Frankie watches you seize up and knows he has to act fast or this whole thing is ruined before it starts. He steps forward, sliding his arm around your waist.

You inductively flinch, feeling his fingers tighten around your waist, holding you in place under his arm.

"She's kidding," he says with a forced laugh in Gina's direction. "My girlfriend has a weird sense of humor."

You feel the prompt of his squeeze around your middle, causing you to nod rapidly.

"Right," you say forcing a laugh as you stand awkwardly in Frankie's grip. "Sorry, it's true, I do. He loves it."

Gina, obviously used to strange things in this hotel simply flashes you another customer service grin and hands you all the white bracelets from earlier.

"Here are your bracelets that indicate you're with the resort. These will get you your food and drinks and will allow you to sign out beach towels, equipment, and more ."

You slip out of Frankie's grip before taking the bracelet and sliding it on. The rest of the party does the same.

"As you are with the Miller - Torres wedding here is your itinerary," the woman says brightly. "It looks like the welcome dinner is being held at 7:00pm in the El Castillo restaurant by the beach."

She brings out a map of the resort, circling on it where the group is, where the rooms are, where the pools are located, and where the many eateries are.

"I can't wait to go to the pool," you say grinning at Jean as she grabs the map from Gina.

"Me too! Let's go change into our suits. You wanna come, Yovanna?"

Jean calls over her shoulder to the slender brunette who is practically glued to Santiago's side.

"Uh, we're going to nap in the room for a bit," she says, casting a not very subtle look at her boyfriend who nods in response, murmuring something in Spanish to her as he nuzzles her neck.

"Oh yeah," Jean days shooting you a covert wink. "Nap."

She's about to add something else when Will comes up behind her, lowering his head to her shoulder.

"I thought you and I could nap a bit before dinner too," Will purrs, wrapping his arms around her middle. Jean giggles, placing her hands atop of his.

You look away, embarrassed at the intimacy.

"I'm suddenly very tired," Jean giggles, slanting a smirk your way. "Pool might have to wait."

"Got it," you say with a light chuckle. Oh well, you can always get a few laps in before dinner by yourself. Maybe a drink as well.

The two couples head for the elevator, hands all over each other as you and Frankie follow awkwardly behind.

"Gotta drop the bag off," you mumble at him.

"Yep."

Frankie watches you out of the corner of his eye seeing the apprehension over your features. He feels the same way. He knew that sharing a room was a possibility, but judging by your response you didn't. He wonders if you're going to bail on all of this - even now you seem uncertain.

Frankie sighs, glancing around the Grand foyer the group walks through. It's immense, with marble floors, sleek interior spaces with immaculately dressed staff and vacationers milling about.

This place is gorgeous and definitely not something he could have afforded otherwise. He knows Lydia makes good money and Benny has been doing well with the fights. He can't lie, he's a bit jealous.

Minutes later the other couples have waved you off citing that they'll see you at dinner and now you stand in the hallway, watching Frankie fumble with the sleek keycard.

He swears under his breath when it blinks red for the third time. In exasperation you pluck it from between his fingers and hold it to a count of three against the console under the doorknob.

"You have to take your time."

It blinks green and you push it open with ease. Frankie frowns at your back, watching you slip the card into your back pocket as you tug your suitcase in after you.

"Woah."

Everything is crisp and white. The bedding, the towels, the pillows, the cushions. There are little bits of coral accent color, but for the most part it's like a pristine art gallery. Your smile drops when you glance over to see the bed, a large plush looking thing with puffy white pillows.

One bed.

Of course there is only one bed.

Frankie hangs back, tossing his duffel onto the floor beside the bathroom door. In old habit he surveys the space from the door, his eyes sliding over the sleek television hanging on until walls. This place is really nice. It's not lost on him that if the Colombia mission had been successful he'd be living like this all the time.

But it's best he doesn't think about that. There's no point in living like that, with regret and sadness. This is Benny's wedding and they're here to celebrate, not reminisce.

A giant framed ink print of a vaquita hangs above the headboard. He watches you glance at it before tracing the white sheets over the bed with your fingertips. You seem to be deep in thought before snapping out of it and moving out onto the balcony.

"Holy shit! There's a hammock and a Jacuzzi out here!"

Frankie comes out after you, noticing that the hammock is built for two and the Jacuzzi is tucked away to the side, perfect for lovers.

Jesus.

He holds in a grimace as he notices a large bottle of champagne sitting on the edge. There's a small white envelope next to it.

"We can toss that out," you offer quickly, seeing his eyes land on it.

"S'fine," Frankie replies honestly. "I'm around booze all the time. Doesn't really bug me."

With army friends and being in a dart league Frankie had to get really comfortable with others drinking while he nursed sodas.

The railing on the balcony is a clear acrylic sheet, meaning the sights of the ocean can easily be seen from the bed. You lean forward, forearms braced on the railing as you gaze out.

Below is the resort, a huge sprawling space with green palm trees and perfectly maintained grass dotted between several pools, tons of loungers, Cabanas and pop up bars.

Frankie comes to stand next to you, his wide shoulder scant inches from you. After your reaction to him grabbing you around the waist he wants to take care not to touch you if unnecessary.

"I've never stayed anywhere this fancy in my whole life," you breathe.

"Same here."

"I think I'm just gonna read out here until dinner," you tell him. "It's so pretty up here."

"You're not gonna unpack?" Frankie asks, his military training basically insisting that he do it before he can even think of relaxing.

"Nah, I'll do it later."

Frankie holds in a head shake. You're chaos in the best way. It's the thing that compels you to try new things fearlessly but it also means you move through life in a similar, distracted fashion. From your old rattling suitcase down to the way you never find socks that match.

Frankie bets himself five bucks that you don't have one matching pair in that entire purple suitcase. He also bets that the suitcase is haphazardly packed, clothing and books askew whereas Frankie's duffel is perfectly organized.

"Okay. I'm gonna unpack and, uh, chill on the bed."

Oh right, the bed. The single, solitary bed. It's a king size, not like you'll be squished, but still it feels intimate. You've never shared a room let alone a bed before. Even when camping you both had your own tents.

You tense slightly before nodding. You move into the room, digging into your suitcase and pulling out one of your books. Frankie moves past you to grab his duffel, placing it on the end of the bed.

"There's no couch."

"Huh?"

He motions awkwardly around the room. "You'd think In a place this fancy they'd have a couch."

"Right," you nod.

You know that he's saying there's not a secondary place to sleep. And asking for a cot from the front desk seems bizarre since you're both supposed to be a couple.

What if they mention it in front of everyone at dinner? A passing comment in front of Marcella? You have two thousand dollars riding on this. You have to be smart.

"We can take turns sleeping in the hammock," you offer pointing at it through the sliding door. "It looks comfy."

"Good idea," Frankie nods, looking relieved. Its clear he was as stressed out about this as you were.

You clamor into the hammock, effectively shutting out all thoughts that don't involve your book and the light breeze caressing your bare legs as you sway gently in the sun.

You can hear the television inside the room playing golf. You can picture Frankie laying there on top of the sheets, arms behind his head, his hat on the bed next to him, his tanned legs bare as he watches the most boring sport known to man.

That's the thing about Frankie. He's like an old man in a young man's body. So logical, so precise. He's so opposite to you, so rule abiding and sincere. He's also weirdly sensitive.

When Russell died the group had shown up that same afternoon to give you hugs and offer to take you out to dinner. They knew how much he meant to you. Frankie had shown up to your place sans Marcella with a bag full of tennis balls.

"Let's go give em to the shelter in Russell's honor."

You'd never been overly demonstrative with Frankie, but that day you threw your arms around his neck and sobbed. He patted you awkwardly while the girls rubbed your back.

You miss that version of Frankie.

"Gonna take first shower," Frankie calls out to you on the balcony from inside the room, startling you.

"Okay."

You lean back in the hammock, looking at the ocean and letting your mind drift back to old Frankie.

Old Frankie was fine by you when he drank, but when he was on cocaine he was insufferable. Loud and obnoxious, and a terrible temper. He definitely has a bad temper normally but only when pushed. But when he was on coke he started bar fights and ignored the group when he was being just plain rude.

You glance at your phone a while later. Dinner is soon. You should go inside and get ready. You stretch on the hammock, yawning, listening to hear as Frankie exits the washroom.

You shift, turning your head to view into your neighbors balcony as you clamor of the hammock. You notice a drying red bikini and two champagne glasses. It reminds you of the note next to the champagne on the lip of the Jacuzzi. You bend down to grab it, noticing that it's not champagne at all, it's sparkling juice. You grab both as you pad into the room, sliding off your sandals.

"What does it say?"

You jump, for some reason you didn't expect Frankie to be so close to the door. You raise your eyes to him, about to answer when you stop, taking him in.

He has that stupid hat off, so those chocolatey brown curls are damp and on full display. His neck and chest are still a bit damp under his short sleeved blue button down in some bizarre tropical pattern.

He's wearing long khaki colored pants, a necessity in the restaurants in the evening. But they're not the usual cargo pants full of holes and pockets. You take a moment to assess him, realizing perhaps for the first time since you've met him that Francisco Morales is attractive.

When did that happen? And is he wearing cologne? A dark, spicy scent that wraps around you as he steps closer.

"Uh, I didn't read it." You glance down at the note, forcing yourself to look away from him. "And it's sparkling cider, not champagne so that's cool."

You place the bottle onto the dresser with a clink before you open the note, frowning as you read it. You hand it wordlessly to Frankie before you dig around in your jumbled suitcase and move into the washroom.

Frankie notes the haphazard way you've packed and smiles inwardly. Five bucks to himself. He's about to look away when something catches his eyes. He bends down, pulling it out to give it a once over.

"I fucking knew it."

He could make a big deal out of this. He could cause a huge fight and he'd be justified in his anger... But you're doing him a favor. You're both trying to sell this relationship thing. He sighs, placing the item back in the suitcase before standing again.

He looks down at the note he holds in his other hand and suppresses a groan when he reads it.

To Mr. And Mrs. Morales, we hope this vacation is all you've imagined. Please let us know if we can do anything to make your visit more pleasant. Thank you for staying with us here at the Twin Petals Resort.

Mrs Morales? Frankie just knows that Benny is behind this stunt. He can already see his little shit-eating grin. As if things aren't embarrassing enough.

He sighs, going to the long mirror on the wall opposite the bathroom door. He gives himself a once over frowning. He wishes he looked better. Going shirtless next to Benny and Will is going to be a nightmare this week.

It's not like he's wildly out of shape. He's disciplined, he's stopped drinking. He goes to the gym when he has time and he knows he looks decent, especially his arms. He turns to the side, curling them up and down to see how they strain in his shirt. He won't lie, he loves how that looks.

It makes him remember this one girl he took home after Marcella. She was in her mid-twenties and wanted nothing more than for Frankie to choke her in bed. He'd been terrified at the suggestion, but when she began to ogle his arms and hands, saying how sexy they were, he'd been seduced.

When she continued on cooing that he was so strong and muscular and that she could show him just how to use those muscles to squeeze and make her come he'd done as she asked, shocked at how good it felt. After that experience he found himself looking at his arms more often with pride.

He goes back to watch television, noting the time ticking away.

6:33

6:46

6:52

Every second that ticks closer makes him antsy. He likes being places early if not on time. At 6:55pm he can't help it, he raps on the door.

"Ready?"

"Five more minutes."

"You've got one. It's almost seven."

"Shit. Okay."

He hears you huff a sigh before grabbing the door and yanking it open.

"Sorry, lost track of time."

Frankie feels his left fist tighten as you exit the bathroom, your hands at your ears as you fumble with putting in an earring.

You look different.

You're wearing a dress.

With Frankie and the rest of the group you're always casual, jeans and a t-shirt, a sweater, boots or sneakers. Sometimes it's oversized t-shirts over black yoga pants. He can't think of any time he's seen you in a dress.

It hits you in all the right spots, putting your best assets on display. Ironically it's a coral color, but it makes your skin glow. And gone are your sneakers and in their stead is a pair of high heel sandals. They make your legs look long, disappearing under the fluttery hem of the dress.

You look like a brand new woman.

He's overcome with confusion at how you can feel so familiar and yet still like a stranger. He forces his eyes to the ground, gaze catching on your toes poking through.

Your toenails are bright red. Frankie swallows at the sight of them. It's his weakness, red nail polish. He doesn't know why but it drives him wild. He thinks it's ever since he stole that first dirty magazine from his dad's office and saw Miss July writhing on a bed, toes curled in the sheets painted a cherry red as she pouted at the camera.

"Hello?"

Frankie realizes you've been speaking, and stand there awaiting his response. He blinks, clearing his throat.

"Huh?"

"I said I'm ready to go when you are."

He nods rapidly, reaching for his ballcap. He always wears it to smooth his hair as it dries.

"No," you say reaching out to him without thinking. "Leave the hat off."

Frankie doesn't know why, but he immediately acquiesces, dropping it onto the bed. Your eyes lock and before he can say anything else there's the sound of moaning coming from the balcony.

"Someone's hurt," you say without thinking.

Frankie follows you out to the sliding balcony door. He peers over your head in the direction of the sound as you fumble with opening it.

He stops you by placing a large hand over yours on the door handle.

"Stop."

You're about to ask him what's wrong when you peer around the same corner because a flash of movement has caught your eye.

You see a beautiful blonde woman on the balcony next to yours bouncing up and down totally naked. Her partner underneath is unseen but judging by the grunts and moans he's a very willing participant.

"Happy birthday baby," she croons breathlessly.

Seems you've found the owner of the red bikini.

You and Frankie both jerk back from the door, faces heating and hearts hammering at what you've just witnessed.

"Dinner?"

"Let's go."

[dadbodfanatic-x]

Roy Kent and partition by Beyoncé. I crave it, someone please indulge me.

[noacfslut]

missing matty with a mustache like a motherfucker

[dadbodfanatic-x]

if this Matty right here, this specific one, wrote “mine” on my upper thigh I would simply burn the world to the ground when he left me soo…

[dadbodfanatic-x]

I know Taylor Swift is playing her album for Travis Kelce while scrolling through pictures of Matty saying “hang on hang on just let me find the right picture of him you’ll get it”

I know that because that’s me showing my friends pictures of Matty when I first forged my infatuation with the 1975

because baby, if ANY man wrote “mine” on my upper thigh I would also write 31 songs about his ass.

[dariaslookalike-deactivated]

Building Houses and Burning Bridges Pt 10: Should you suck him or rub him?

Summary:

It seems, oddly enough, that Gregory House lives to annoy you. He takes 'arseholish boss' to the next level. Wake up in the morning, ready to have breakfast, and drive to the hospital where you both work? Nope, you're getting a text that says you're late to his impromptu 4:30 AM meeting where he's had the 'breakthrough of the century' on the team's latest case. Get your hair cut and walk into work, for once feeling confident? Nope, he's saying that he would have done a better job blinded, hands tied and going through Vicodin withdrawals. Finally, 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺, prove him wrong and attempt to wipe the cockiness off his face? Nope, you're simply slow because you didn't get to your diagnosis quicker and weak-willed because you didn't fight him for it in the beginning. Everything House does infuriates you, and it seems everything you do infuriates him. No wonder you end up pinned to the wall of your apartment and groping him like your life depends on. And knowing House, it very may well.

Warnings: Adult language, mature themes, eventual smut, female protagonist, no reference of y/n

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Current Status: Ongoing

Masterlist: Building Houses and Burning Bridges

Next Chapter:

-----------------------

You jolt awake in the night; a chilly breeze through the window or an odd nightmare that was already fading from your memory. Whatever it was, you thrash against the blanket and suck in sharp breaths of air. You blearily gaze around the room when a shiver creeps up your spine and you find him sitting in the corner armchair.

“You’re a creep.” You croak out.

House raises his glass of bourbon in admission. You can only see the vague silhouette of him lit up by the light drifting in from the street; the glint of his glass, the dark shadows of his brow and cheekbones. You stay like that for a few minutes, gazing at each other. Your eyes gradually adjust to the darkness, and while he sips, you drink in the sight of him. The new stubble lining his face, the whites of his eyes, the curl of his lip. 

You break the silence with a quiet question. “How was work?”

You realise it’s dumb as soon as you say it. So much had happened from work to here, where you lay, naked in his bed. You roll yourself over to your side, fully facing him.

House stares at you, and nothing is revealed on the stony plane of his face. “Cameron asked about you.”

You blink. Not like House to avoid the question, but you play into him. “What’d you say?”

His jaw clenches. “I didn’t know what to say.”

You hear his glass clink against the bedside table, and he groans. He shifts in his chair, and you can make out his hands being dragged down his face. His voice is muffled behind his palms, and you squint. “Huh?”

House just groans again, and you’re blinded when he reaches over swiftly and flicks on the lamp. You stop yourself from hissing, and just fling the blankets over your head. Only when you stop seeing white on the dark of your eyelids do you gradually lower it again. 

House is staring at you, and while your eyes still sting from the brightness, you appreciate being able to see him. He grinds his teeth. “I said, do you know how annoying that is?”

You blink, stopping yourself from trying to memorise the detail of his neck, and draw your eyes back to his. “What, Cameron asking you a question? Scandalous, I know.”

House scoffs in disbelief, but it doesn’t hold the same bite it used to. It’s softer somehow, here in the pillowy, blanketed expanse of his bedroom. “Even now- Even now, when you’re running on a few hours of sleep and you’re not even fully awake yet, you’re a smart arse.” You clench your jaw as he throws his hands up softly, defeated. “No, no, not Cameron asking. It was not knowing what to say.”

You don’t say anything, and his eyes flick to yours.  “I know a lot of things; more than every patient in the clinic combined, more than the snot nosed kids and helicopter parents. But I didn’t know what to say to Cameron.” He leans back in the chair, and scoffs at the ceiling. “I could’ve said your pimp raised your hours or that you were being treated next door by Wilson, and she could go shave her head with you, if she likes. And instead I stood there, and couldn’t think of anything.”

You don’t know how to reply, and he clenches his jaw, blinking away something in his eye, before he takes another sip of his drink. 

“House.” Your voice is soft but it still sounds too loud in the sudden silence that envelops you both. 

You don’t know how to say it, how to ask. You can feel the words lodging in your throat, trying to bubble out and instead being barricaded inside. So, you shift yourself back towards the edge of the mattress, and raise the blanket up with one arm as an invitation. You see his adam's apple bob and his eyes flick to yours. It’s one thing to fall asleep in the same bed after exhausting sex. It’s another to consciously make the decision to lay with each other- somehow, it felt more vulnerable, more raw, more intimate than what you two had done earlier.

It’s just sex. House’s words from earlier ring out and you can almost see them fluttering through his head right now. 

Fine. It’s just sex. You start to lower your arm, rescinding your invitation. But House moves, staring into your eyes all the while, raising himself to his feet and you smile at him. Not a toothy, cocky smile, but a soft one that has your dimple showing.

House groans, his hand whipping to his leg. “Argh!” He’s unsteady on his feet and falls back with a ‘hrumph’ into his chair. 

You don’t realise how hard you’re gripping the sheet until you sit yourself up and drag half the bedding with you. “Are you okay?”

House scoffs. “If you call missing muscle and cripple inducing pain okay, then yes, I’m okay.”

You roll your eyes, relaxing slightly. House sees your reaction, and sighs. “It’s just- it’s just a bad pain day. Trying to fuck the shit out of gorgeous women puts a bit of a strain on me.”

You gulp, slightly. “I’ll have to tell that woman off when I meet her.”

House’s breath is sharp and hissing through his nose, but he still manages to scoff. “Don’t do that.”

You can feel your pulse jumping in your neck. “Do what?”

“Don’t sit there and act like some insecure teenage girl who didn’t get asked to prom- you’re gorgeous, and if you pretend you’re not, it makes you look like a gorgeous idiot.”

You laugh, but still feel your cheeks flushing. “House, one time I walked into work, you asked me if a dog chewed me up and spit me back out.” You raise your hands in defence. “I’m not trying to fish for your compliments- I know I’m not the girl in magazines and I’m not like Cameron or Cuddy. I learnt that a long time ago and I’ve learnt to live with it.”

House looks repulsed. “You actually are an idiot then.” You roll your eyes, and he shakes his head in disbelief, still hissing in pain. “Yes, you’re not anorexic or bulimic or some giraffe looking model. And I can’t get enough of you. If you think that I’m not going to compliment you, and tell you truthfully that you’re beautiful, because you weigh more than some pubescent teenage girl beauty standard bullshit, you’re an idiot.” 

He’s staring at you from beneath his brow, “Get me a bottle of vicodin from the cupboard, and I’ll show you what I really think about you.” You can practically see the dirty images across his mind. You, pinned beneath him, getting praised and worshipped and adored by House’s depraved self. 

Your cheeks are definitely aflame now but you manage to force out a soft laugh. “I don’t know how you managed to say all that when you’re in that much pain.”

As if remembering his pain, House groans loudly, deep from the back of his throat, as his hand rubs over his leg. You try not to focus on the way that sounds make you throb, and you swing your feet over the side of the bed. You see House’s eyes cling to you, to the skin hidden by the bed sheets covering you. You smirk, and simply grab a discarded shirt from the floor, slipping your arms into it. The bedsheets drop, and you hear House inhale sharply at the sight of your bare chest, but then you poke your head through successfully and cover yourself again with the t-shirt.

House’s t-shirt. It’s got some sort of graphic across the front and you vaguely recall it from House’s so called ‘fashion week’ that occurred after Cuddy demanded he wear a doctor’s coat. You slide to your knees in the space between House and the bed, and he shifts his hips slightly towards you. 

“Round two?” He asks, smirking down at you.

You laugh, and reach towards the bedside table. “How can you be that horny in that much pain?”

House’s blue eyes track your movements. “It’s one of my many talents.”

You grab the small tube and close the drawer, turning back to House. His eyes flick down to the Deep Heat tube, and trail down you, snagging on your bare thighs. His breath is uneven as he speaks. “How’d you know that I kept that there?”

You look up to him from beneath your lashes. “I’ll be honest- I’ve gone through your entire apartment by this point. I know where you keep your birth certificate, let alone some cream.”

He huffs. “‘Should have expected you to be a detective too.”

“As if you didn’t do the same thing at my place.”

House stares down at you for a moment before he speaks. “You’ve got me there. You found my birth certificate and I found your collection of raunchy pornography, so I guess we’re even.”

You unscrew the lid and squeeze some cream onto your hands. It warms near instantly. “Ha ha. I don’t keep porn, only a box of sex toys.”

Your eyes flick back up at his silence to see House’s hooded gaze as he stares at the apex of your thighs, seemingly entranced, and you shake your head. “Take your pants off, House.”

He blinks, shuddering in a breath. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”

He shimmies himself out of his pyjamas- some flannel pants that you might have called him an old man for another night. But tonight, when he shakes and his leg spasms as he finally strips his pants, you resist. 

You don’t comment on his laboured breathing when he leans back against the chair, and you simply scooch closer until you’re enclosed by his knees. His hand reaches forward, threading into your tousled hair and pulling it, gently enough to drag your eyes up to his.

House stares down his nose at you, and you remain like that for a moment, staring at each other. You could stare at him forever, you think. Study the lines of his face and the blues of his eyes for your whole life, the same way a cartographer memorises the planes and the dips of a landscape or a crazed artist obsesses over the cool blue of the ocean. Memorise the notch in his brow or the lines under his eyes or the sharp slope of his cheekbone.

A smile tugs at his lips. “You are gorgeous.”

Your brow crinkles. “Now you’re only saying that because I’m on my knees.”

His hand tightens at the roots of your hair, and his grip is more sharp. “You’ll believe me. Eventually. It’ll take me fucking that insecurity out of you and maybe getting Wilson to join, but it’ll work.”

You laugh, cheeks aflame. “‘You sure you could handle that? Last I checked you hated the idea of me taking on Chase by myself, let alone your buddy.”

His jaw ticks, and you can’t tell if his sharp inhale is his pain or the mention of Chase. “That’s because Chase is a snot-nosed ‘yes-man’.”

You roll your eyes half-heartedly. “Stop with the squabbling and let me work.”

His hand loosens at your head, and you lean forward, gingerly smoothing the cream down his bare leg. House flinches at the touch, and you hear him grunt when your fingers trail over the silvery mass gouged out of his thigh. You work gently, and even softer when the grip on your hair tightens, stinging your scalp, and his breath racks through his chest, leaving him heaving. You massage the heated cream into his skin, working in circles and with both hands, pushing into the surrounding muscle and working it into the silvery scar. When it’s absorbed, and his thigh is warm to the touch, you continue working him with your hands, pushing down on the muscle and easing back in a soft massage. 

House swallows above you. “I think this is better than the blowjob.”

You smile up at him, mockingly. “Really?”

His head falls back against the chair, and he groans. You clench your legs at the way the sound makes your core tighten, and focus on ensuring your hands continue to work. “Actually, we should do both to test it.”

You laugh at his hopeless attempt, and his head tilts back down as he looks at you. “How’d you learn this? I’ve had masseuses do much worse.”

You narrow your eyes in a faux-glare, applying more pressure to his thigh. “I thought you knew everything about me.”

His hands abandon your hair, and he runs them through his own hair, his adams apple bobbing as he does so. “There’s always things to learn. I didn’t know what you were like in bed, and now I know you’re a slutty little thing that loves to-”

“I got a certificate in massage therapy,” You cut him off. “While I was studying. It was easy enough and I thought it would come in useful if I ended up flunking out of being a doctor.”

“You? Flunking out? In your dreams- or nightmares, I suppose.”

You shrug softly. “It’s always good to have a back-up plan.”

He chuckles. “By that logic, what was your backup plan for your backup plan?”

“Get a sugar daddy.”

House’s eyes drop to yours immediately, searching for facetiousness. You simply smirk up towards him and lean forward, pressing a kiss to his thigh. Your staple, you suppose. You couldn’t argue against it. Kissing House’s thigh and getting that pupil-blown reaction was worth it. “Did that help at all?”

He blinks. “You can kiss it again and I’ll tell you. Or I have something else you can kiss.”

You ease your massage, now only working softly and lightly. “I meant the massage.”

His blue eyes are soft when he gazes down at you, staring at you appreciatively.. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Do you want me to get you some vicodin too?”

He sighs fully. “I could kiss you, you addict-enabling goddess.”

You roll your eyes, easing yourself to your feet. House leans forward as if shocked by the separation of your hands from his thigh, and you stand between his legs, letting your hands rest on his cheeks. They must reek of the cream, but he makes no move to resist you as you rub your thumbs against his stubble and trace the edges of his face. His shirt falls past the apex of your thighs, but his hands reach forward, slinking under the material and grasping your arse. You gasp, and move closer to him, his face coming closer to your breasts.

He squeezes your cheeks, fingers digging into the supple flesh. He gazes up at you, drinking in your reaction and hiss when his hand slaps against your arse, leaving a stinging sensation and a light, blotchy mark. He does it again, and you nudge into him, gasping lightly. You squeeze your legs together. “That wasn’t a kiss.”

He smirks. “My mistake. I’ll remedy it.”

His hands shift to your hips, gripping them and tugging you down slightly. When you’re lower, one hand reaches up, wrapping around your neck and pulling you towards him. It’s a bit awkward at that angle, but you bring yourself closer, lower, until you’re level with him. He leans forward, placing his lips against yours, and your hands move from his face to run through his hair as he deepens the kiss. He licks against your teeth and you give into him, letting him explore your mouth as his hand threads into your hair, pinning you in place. He’s warm and he’s demanding and he’s House, and you feel your core tighten.

When you pull apart, you rest your forehead against his, sucking in air. “I’ll go get your pills.”

“Forget about ‘em.” He says, trying to drag you back to his lips. You laugh, and pull back, and he lets you step back, away from him.

When you return, and pass him two pills, to which he glares at you mockingly for not bringing him the whole container, you retreat back to bed. You feel his eyes on your bare legs, and especially on the rosy print on your arse. You tug the blankets up and gaze at House as he throws back the pills and groans. He thumbs his glass, finishing the dregs of his drink, and then he lifts his head and stares at you with his cool eyes. 

You’re back to where you started. This time, you find the words.

“Come here, House.”

He furrows his brow. “And if I don’t? You’ll… what? Tie me up and make me?”

You roll your eyes in mirth. “Turn the lamp off and come to bed. Please.”

His cool gaze remains on you, and it’s almost calculating- weighing the pros and cons, the possibilities and the certainties of what your request entails. But maybe it’s the light yawn you let out, or the bleary blink of your eyes, or the not so subtle inhale of his shirt. Whatever it is, House’s gaze softens, and he reaches over, flicking off the lamp.

You can’t see anything as your eyes adjust to the sudden darkness, but you can hear him. He still winces when he raises himself to his feet, but the sound is soft and nowhere near his prior pained yelp. He hobbles the slight distance to the bed and there’s the sound of shuffling and twisting sheets and blankets as he gets into the bed.

And then he’s beside you. Here. 

You listen to each others breathing, neither one of you saying a word. Your eyes adjust, and you see the shape of him, darkened and identified by the sharp cut of his cheeks and the whites of his eyes. He’s staring at you too, and you wonder how much he can make out in the dark. Does he see the faded scars on your face or the tilt of your lips? Or does he see further, into you, and see all the thoughts and desires and twisted wants filling your head as you stare at him?

House is the first to break the silence, and does so by scooching closer. “Get over here.”

You chuckle quietly at his demand, but obey, shuffling closer until your arm brushes his. “I never took you as a cuddler.”

Somehow, even in the dark you can tell he’s rolling his eyes. But he doesn’t resist your observation, and rather he slips his hand under you, clinging to your back and drawing you even closer. You swing your arm out, to make sure you don’t suffocate in his shoulder, but more importantly to wrap around him too. There’s more shuffling and twisting from the both of you, but eventually, you find a comfortable position. You’re tucked into his side and his other hand rests on your thigh, drawing you leg across his hip. You ask him if that’s alright, if it hurts his leg, if he’s fine, and he scoffs lightly. “My leg won’t ever stop me from having you this close.” As if to emphasise your position, he rolls his hips forward, dragging himself against your bare core. But even House, it seems, is tired, because he relaxes and takes it no further.

 Both of your hands are wrapped around his waist, and you nuzzle your face into him, inhaling him and the smell of whiskey, detergent, and House. He laughs down at you, softly. “And you said I was the cuddler.”

“‘Shuddup.” You say, but the word is muffled in the fabric of his shirt. You twist your head, and kiss his bicep where his sleeve has risen up. He swallows, and you get the sense the rise and fall of his rib cage stutters.

You drift off like that, clinging to House. His breathing deepens, and as you fall asleep, you feel him shift slightly, before he kisses your head.

[the-hopeless-haze]

Let’s Spend the Night Together

Chapter 3 of If You Want It, You Can Bleed on Me

Greg House x Reader

Word count: 6.5k ??? what did I do

NSFW - smut

“Where does she live?” Greg asks James.

“If I tell you, am I assisting you in a crime?” James asks in response, barely looking up from his desk.

“I’m sure she told you about our date later.”

James huffs in frustration, finally looking up at him. “You’re insufferable.”

“Did you like her? Is that it?” Greg questions, trying to get to the bottom of his friend’s snarky behavior. Not that this wasn’t the usual from him. It was one of the things Greg loved about him, that he was always a little fed up with him, always preemptively aggravated, always in a state of annoyance. It was harder to piss someone off that was always a little pissed with him at baseline.

Keep reading

[dadbodfanatic-x]

Don’t know if this person still writes for house but this is the single best thing I’ve found for him ever! I’m in love love love.

[donatellawritings]

Rich to me is always the friends to lovers (everybody sees it but you two) it’s him yelling “behind” at everyone but sliding behind you with a hand on your hip “behind sweetheart” it’s you walking into the group of boys smoking outside & u bypass everyone to grab a smoke straight from his lips “thanks babe” it’s family having no empty chairs at the table so you sit on his lap while Syd & carm just stare. I think you’d bring my wish to life beautifully written. I need all the build up to the smut

can i just say that richie is definitely the type to be a jagoff to everyone, but never to you - everyone else knew how to work his last nerve, but you and your cutesy smile and bright eyes would make him all warm and fuzzy for sure

explicit sexual content ahead

it was no secret to anyone who worked at the restaurant (or had eyes) that you and richie had a ‘special’ kind of relationship. for starters, it wasn’t common for a hotheaded man, like richie jerimovich, to be so touchy and lovey-dovey with anyone. i mean, not even his ex-wife got to see that side of him often, and they shared a child. however there was something about you that just made richie feel as though he needed to be around you, protect you, handle you tenderly.

maybe it was because you were younger than him - fuck if he knew, all richie knew in his heart of hearts was that he had it bad for you.

things between you two started off gradually, “gotta get past you, sweetheart,” the older man rasped, the warm and calloused palm of his hand gently cradling the small of your lower back as he made his way past you, his tall frame easily reaching over you to grab ahold of a pot from the top cabinet.

you’d simply nod wordlessly, keeping your eyes trained forward in an effort to conceal the blush that rose to your cheeks.

after weeks of comfortability that increased between the two of you, you decided you’d test the waters. you’d watched carefully as he made his way out of the back door that led behind the building of the beef. quickly scanning over the not-so-busy environment of the restaurant, you walked away from the cash register, towards the back exit of the beef.

“i’ll be back in ten!” you called out, earning a mumble of approval from carmy and sydney who were entirely too engrossed in a conversation about expanding the menu.

the moment you’d exited the restaurant, the unforgiving cold winter chicago air bit at you, causing you to hiss as you quickly folded your arms tightly over your chest, your fitted ‘the beef’ t-shirt lifting a bit as you turned to find richie leaned against the brick wall.

he was so rugged and laid back, it drove you insane. his hoodie remained open, revealing the matching t-shirt that clung to his slim abdomen, one of his hands shoved in the pocket of his adidas track pants, while the other held a cigarette to his lips. richie didn’t notice your presence yet, too involved in a conversation with sweeps and marcus.

you’d decided it would be the perfect time to push the envelope, walking directly past marcus and sweeps as you approached richie, a flutter now swirling in your stomach as he raised his eyebrows at you, cigarette loosely held between his sharp teeth.

you two held eye contact for a beat, before you gently grabbed the cigarette from his mouth, before raising it to sit sit between the swell of your lips, taking a quick pull from the cigarette, “thanks babe,” you exhaled with a sweet close-mouthed smile.

all richie could do was swallow thickly, nodding to himself before he returned his attention back to the conversation at hand, softly swatting the side of your thigh when he decided that it was time for you to return the cigarette.

it was then, that things started to reach a whole new level of touchiness and couple-like actions between you and richie.

today was family. your second-most favorite day of the week, aside from payday. you were a bit late to the function, courtesy of your hair appointment, walking into the main room of the restaurant, instantly being greeted with a chorus of differing ‘hello’s’.

“hi, m’sorry for being late, my hair girl was late!” you rushed to explain, shrugging off richie’s your zip-up hoodie as you glanced around the room, seeing that all seats were occupied, “oh.”

sydney’s eyes widened as she shared the same realization, “fuck, uh, maybe we can get you an extra seat from the office, i-” she began, taking a bit too long, leaving richie no choice, but to come up with a solution of his own.

“s’nothing syd, she can sit with me,” richie spoke with a careless shrug, his mouth full of pasta as he looked up at you, swallowing his food before continuing, “c’mon, sweetheart.”

you obliged, your lips suddenly running dry as you walked towards richie’s seat, softly grabbing his outstretched hand as he gently guided your hips to sit comfortably against his.

you slightly shifted your hips, sending a shock to your clit as his bulge deliciously sat flush against your ass, “thanks, richie,” you muttered, focusing your gaze on the pasta dish that sat before you.

richie leaned back into his seat, the suddenly awkward silence of the dining room now becoming a bit too apparent to him. shaking his head, richie kept one of his arms loosely hung around you, before clearing his throat.

“yo, i don’t know why the fuck everyone is being fuckin’ quiet,” he huffed, his eyes now landing on carmy and sydney, before he sighed, “cousin, just say what the fuck you’re grateful for already!”

it wasn’t long before everyone returned to their normal conversations, about twenty minutes passing, before richie decided to lean in close to you, bringing his lips to your ear.

“m’ready to get the fuck outta here.”

and that’s how you ended up in the driver’s seat of richie’s car, his seat fully reclined back, one hand gripping the back of your neck, while the other guided your hips to bounce hard against his.

“ah, fuck - y’gonna make me cum in you if you keep fuckin’ me like that, sweetheart,” richie groaned, moving the hand that guided your hips to your back, pushing you further into his chest as he fucked up into you.

your face was in his neck, throaty moans and gasps leaving your lips as you sloppily kissed and sucked at the skin of his neck, the sound of your hips slapping into each other mixed with the squelch and slurp of your wet pussy taking his length leaving you a needy mess.

you were so close to reaching your peak, your pulsing hole clenching around richie’s dick as his thrust remained forceful and rough, “i can fuckin’ feel you around me, baby, y’want me to make you cum, yeah,” he chuckled, leaning his head against the headrest as he brought his hand to your hip, grinding your hips flush against his in circular motions.

“fuck, richie,” was all you could mewl through your gritted teeth, your stomach tight as your clit rubbed against the wet skin of his pelvis.

“keep ridin’ me, sweetheart,” he whispered, pecking your flexed temple as he forced your hips deeps against his, “just keep fuckin’ ridin’ me.”

yeah, your relationship with your coworker was far from orthodox, but neither of you seemed to get enough of it. nor, did you want to.

[dadbodfanatic-x]

ahh yes! Perfect! Thank you so much, I love it! 😍

[donatellawritings]

cherry - around your neck - r. jerimovich

pairing(s): richie jerimovich x f!reader

warning(s): language, age-gap, explicit sexual content

song: the party & the after party by the weeknd

24 hours. Twenty-four hours remained until you’d stand face-to-face with the older blue-eyed man who’d come to plague your every thought, in recent times. Twenty-four hours, so close, yet so dauntingly far. Seated directly before the mirror your worn chipped-paint coated vanity, you drank yourself in. Dressed in the thin, black mesh fabric of your nightgown, you carefully examined yourself for any outstanding flaws. The concealer that once sat comfortably under your eyes now faded and live-in, courtesy of the mentally and physically taxing classes you’d endured hours prior.

Your eyes were a bit smudged from your generous application of mascara, you’d decided your staple eyeliner wasn’t needed today. Your faded and worn brown and mauve lips adding a much needed flush to your lips as you forced a closed-mouthed smile at your reflection. Your deep-red painted acrylic nails combed through your hair, adding a smidge of volume as you tilted your head, posing in the mirror, once more. Were you desirable enough? You’d just hoped that Richie would think so.

I mean, fuck, clearly you were desirable enough if he’d asked to expect a video-call from him, so close to your first official meeting date. The palm of your right hand carefully pressed against the knuckles of your left, popping the knuckles and granting you the slightest bit of relief from your anxiety-ridden nerves. Why did he want to see you? Did he want to put an end to your tryst, before it even got a chance to begin? What did Richie Jerimovich want from you that he needed to see you at this very moment?

Opening your sticker-covered laptop, you waited. Watching the reflection of yourself, through your webcam, you adjusted the hem of your nightgown to sit comfortably against your breasts, pushing them up just a bit.

Now biting into the your acrylic-reinforced thumb nail, your foot tapped against the cold carpet of your bedroom floor. Scraping your teeth against your nail, you stared at the screen of your laptop, hopelessly.

The chime of Richie’ video call request shocked you, your posture straightening as you rushed to accept the call, exhaling a breath with a smile as the call connected, revealing sight of Richie, his eyes blown and bloodshot.

“You look beautiful, sweetheart.”

-

Truth be told, Richie couldn’t find it himself to wait any longer. The past three days had been eating him alive, the impatience and anticipation that came with seeing you, touching you, becoming all too powerful against his already shaky sense of willpower. You were intoxicating, a way more addicting and raw being that was stronger than any of the substances he’d previously conducted dealings with. He could only come up with so many scenarios of you, in his mind to get himself off in the dark and tense hours of the night. So, he gave into temptation, gave into himself.

Richie could tell that you were nervous, shit, he shared the same sentiment, if not more. Asking to see you a day earlier than planned, out of the blue, he could only imagine the worst things that you could say to him. yet, the sight of your skin clashing against the confines of the thin mesh fabric, your breasts perked up just right, made it that much harder for Richie’s patience to take hold. He didn’t care where you two would go, or what time it was, he needed you, and sooner rather than later.

“Thank you, Richie,” you smiled softly, licking over the leftover mauve that stained your lips.

The two of you sat in silence for a beat. The sight of your chest rising and falling with a shaky breath becoming too much for Richie - he was too far gone.

“Richie is everything oka-”

“I need to you see now, I just, I can’t fuckin’ wait until tomorrow,” Richie blurted out, running his hand over his grown out bear, shaking his head with a smile.

You remained silent, biting down into the swell of your bottom lip with a short and breathy laugh.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re just makin’ it real fuckin’ hard for me, looking like that,” he continued, slightly adjusting the tie that laid around his neck, the glint of his gold chain peeking through from underneath his white button-up shirt.

Richie’s nerves began to run rampant as he aimlessly rambled, “I get it if you want to wait, you deserve to have the fanciest dinner of your fuckin’ life, but I need to see you, baby, so fuckin’ bad-”

“I don’t want to wait, either.” You spoke faintly, leaning your face to sit in the palm of your head.

Fuck. Richie was so fucked.

-

A subtle ache that hummed between your legs made its way through you. Knowing that Richie held the same virtue of desire eased your initial anxiousness, the two of you were teetering on a dangerously thin line and you both knew it.

Richie swallowed thickly, “Give me twenty minutes,” he spoke, his raspy voice now holding a heavier tone, “twenty minutes and I’m all yours.”

You shifted in your seat, tightly crossing your left leg over the other with an obedient nod, “all yours,” you repeated.

Richie abruptly ended the call, leaving you a nervous wreck as you sat in silence, the sound of the mild rain that hit your window, failing to calm your buzzing veins that struck you with adrenaline.

You took one last look at yourself in the mirror, debating on whether or not you should touch up your makeup, the farthest part of your subconscious telling you that you may not need to. Something about Richie’s demeanor excited you, he was domineering, yet this time he seemed feverish, almost needy?

You could barely speak yourself, lord knows how much you craved Richie, to the point where the thought of finally having him was nearly enough to bring you to your knees.

Throwing your head back, you let out a sigh, a smile laced with excitement and shock pulling at your lips as you struggled to come to terms with the fact that you were only minutes away from finally indulging in the baby blue-eyed older man. A laugh escaped your throat as you ran your fingers through your hair, before pulling your head up straight.

Standing up from the vanity, you quickly scanned your bedroom or any sign of mess. Why are you so nervous, it’s not like this is your first time being a with a guy, let alone having one at your apartment, but a 45 year old man who you met online - that was a first for you.

You made your way to the living room, turning your television on to a random channel, before heading to your kitchen cabinet, where you sifted through, until you’d found two wine glasses - did Richie even like wine? Setting the two glasses on your kitchen counter, you snatched your refrigerator door open, reaching for the cheap bottle of Moscato that you’d gotten for yourself for special occasions, like this very night.

Slamming the refrigerator door shut, you hastily reached inside of your freezing, grabbing the ice tray and cracking it, allowing a few cubes to all into each wine glass, before sliding the half-used ice tray back into the freezer. Placing the wine bottle next to beside the two ice-filled wine glasses, you took a breath.

The abrupt shrill of your ringtone broke you from your brief moment of stillness. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

“Coming!” You shouted, to no one in particular, your heart racing as you rushed to your bedroom.

Snatching your phone from your bed, you accepted the call, bringing your phone to your ear, “sorry, I was just fixing up some stuff,” you answered, swallowing the lump of nerves that had formed in your throat.

The sound of a car door closing could be heard on the other end of the phone, “S’okay, I’m downstairs - shit, uh, what apartment are you stayin’ at?” Richie questioned.

It took everything in you not to take a peek at him from your bedroom window, “Oh, yeah, I’m in 4E.”

“Alright, give me two minutes, sweetheart,” Richie cooed.

“Bye, Richie,” you ended the call, scanning over your appearance in the mirror of your vanity, “fuck,” you muttered under your breath.

-

Richie stood in the dimmed elevator, his leg bouncing as the elevator beeped with each passing floor. He was so close to you, he could taste it at the tip of his tongue. He kept his hands inside of the pockets of his leather jacket, exhaling sharply as the elevator door opened, allowing him to enter the Fourth Floor hallway.

“Fuckin’ aye,” he laughed to himself, shaking his head in disbelief as he approached the door with ‘4E’ imprinted in gold.

Sliding his right hand out of his jacket pocket, Richie brought his knuckles to the heavy door, knocking rhythmically against it. Richie silently cursed himself out as he waited at the door, his head hung low. The sound of you unlocking the door caused Richie to straighten and broaden his shoulders.

Richie’s eyes fell on yours the moment you opened the door. That fucking dress - god, Richie couldn’t even think straight as the two of you stood in silence. His eyes drank you in, he couldn't help but want to study everything about you - you were much shorter than him, so much so, that he wanted nothing more than to have you against the wall with your legs wrapped around him. He could tell that you’d just spruced up your hair with those sleek red nails, he wondered what they’d feel like digging into his back and shoulder blades. He wanted nothing more than your lips on his, seeing the way you’d lick over them, leaving him a needy and greedy mess.

Man, you were such a fuckin’ tease. Of course, you’d decided to keep that nightgown on, Richie tried to remain a man of manners and respect, keeping his eyes trained on yours, instead of on your hand that smoothed itself against the curve of your hip.

”Y’gonna let me in, sweetheart?”

-

You were completely entranced by the man who stood before you. He was tall, oh so tall, and you loved the way his oversized leather jacket clashed against his unbuttoned dress shirt and slacks. You allowed his bright baby blues to selfishly drink you in for a beat, before stepping aside, “come in,” you spoke softly.

Your eyes fluttered closed for a quick second as you shut your front door, taking a small breath before turning to face Richie, whose eyes scanned your apartment.

“You got a nice place here, yeah?”

“Uh, yeah, thank you,” you forced out a laugh as Richie’s eyes landed on yours, before motioning towards the kitchen, “would you like some wine?”

Richie shrugged off his jacket, neatly placing it on the arm of the couch as he licked at the corner of his mouth, with a nod, “Thank you, beautiful - y’need me to open it or?”

“If you don’t mind,” you accepted, your stomach turning in excitement as Richie approached you, sliding his warm hand across the side of your waist as he made his way into the kitchen.

-

Richie grabbed ahold on the wine bottle, gripping it by its neck as you leaned your back against the kitchen counter, “Y’like white wine?” He questioned, pretending to be engrossed in the cheap bottle.

“Red gives me headaches,” you spoke.

“Depends on the type you get.” Richie quipped, not missing how your hand gripped the edge of the counter.

Richie was slowly drifting off into the deep end - the tension-thick air becoming too much as he stood before you, huffing out a breath as he reached over you to open the refrigerator, sliding the bottle inside, before pushing the door closed.

Now face-to-face with you, Richie keeps his eyes directly on yours, “Tell me, where’s your head at, sweetheart,” he questioned, the tips of your noses ghosting against each other as you shrugged.

“Can-can I touch you?” You asked, your voice coming out as a whisper as you lifted your head, inching your lips closer to his.

“I’m yours, I already told you that, baby.”

And Richie meant every single word.

You nodded, “then can you touch me?”

Richie nodded, bringing his hands to your waist, smoothing his hands against your skin, before lifting you onto the counter, allowing his hands to cup your face, “tell me if it’s too much and I’ll stop, I fuckin’ swear I’ll stop, baby,” he spoke, his raspy voice needy and hoarse as his eyes search yours for any signs of displeasure.

-

With that, Richie’s warm lips were on yours, the kiss warm, wet, and hungry as you both moaned into it. Richie’s scent of musky cologne and faint cigarette smoke sent you into a daze, a whimper sneaking past your lips as Richie’s tongue slid against yours. The rough hair of Richie’s beard deliciously scratched at your lips as he adjusted himself, deepening the kiss even further, pushing you farther back onto the counter, any further and Richie would be climbing onto the counter himself.

A gasp left the two of you’s lips as you both caught your breath before you hooked your leg around Richie’s slim waist, pulling him in closer with a throaty moan. Richie’s calloused hand slightly tightened around your throat as he groaned into your mouth, the sensation of your nails accidentally scratching at the side of his neck becoming all too good to him.

Without breaking the kiss, Richie hiked your other leg around his waist, swiftly wrapping his free arm around you as he pulled you into his chest, carrying you over to your dining table.

Richie pulls away from you, feeling a faint pang in his chest as you pouted, “I know, baby, just lay back for me, I need to fuckin’ taste you,” he pleaded, pulling you in for one more quick kiss, before you laid back against the cold glass surface of the table.

A short gasp left your lips as your back arched, the frigid glass singing your skin through the thin mesh of your nightgown, “fuck,” you muttered.

Richie’s hands were quick to lift the hem of your nightgown, allowing the mesh to bunch up at your waist as he tapped your legs, silently beckoning you to spread them as you complied.

“Fuck, so fuckin’ pretty,” He smiled, pulling you closer to the edge of the table, before lowering his head between your thighs and pressing a wet kiss to your panty-covered pussy.

Richie presses another kiss to you, before sliding your underwear down your legs and allowing them to fall to the floor, a groan leaving his lips as he raised one of your legs to rest over his shoulder, kissing your inner thigh with open-mouthed kisses before making his way back down to your aching pussy.

Pressing his tongue flat against your wetness, Richie took a long and greedy lick up your folds, repeating this a couple more times, before sticking his warm and taut tongue inside of you.

“Fuck, Richie,” you breathed out, trying to grab at the completely smooth glass surface of the table as he stuck his tongue inside of you once, more, pushing himself deeper with a moan.

Richie had you right where he wanted you. And fuck, eating you out his new favorite hobby.

Richie was disgustingly greedy with you, the mixture of your slick wetness and his saliva coating his beard as he slurped away at your pulsing clit, your hoarse moans like music to his ears as he continued to lap away at you, the hand that held your leg over his shoulder now moving towards your core.

“Keep going, please, don’t st-”

Your whines fade into a gasp as Richie slides his index finger into you, the squelch of his finger enclosed in your walls sending you into a frenzy as Richie pulls his glistening face away from between your legs. Your mouth is hung open as Richie begins to thrust his finger at an agonizingly slow pace.

Taking in the wet sound of your pussy taking in his finger, Richie leans over you, his free hand now gripping your throat as he leans his forehead against yours, “M’gonna put another one in baby, just keep - fuck, just keep those pretty fuckin’ eyes on me, okay?” Richie speaks, his voice deliciously low as you nod feverishly, your nails scratching at the table.

“I-It feels so good, Richie, fuck,” you cried, your hoarse voice struggling against Richie’s grip on your throat.

Nevertheless, you did what you were told. You kept your eyes on Richie’s as he pulled his finger out of you, quickly re-entering you with both his index fingers as he pushed them all the way inside of you.

“Oh, fuck, you’re doing so fuckin’ good, baby,” Richie moaned, watching closely as you fought to keep your eyes on his.

Richie’s fingers quickened their pace inside of you, the lewd sounds of how wet you were, coupled with the ferocity of his skilled fingers leaving Richie wanting nothing more than to make you cum.

“Richie, I-I’m gon-”

“I know, baby, I know, I got you,” Richie cooed, maintaining the quick and hard pace of his fingers as he sloppily kissed you, keeping his forehead against yours as your eyelids became dangerously heavy.

“I’m so fucking close - so fucking close,” you moaned, your vision growing hazy as Richie hummed.

“You’re so fuckin’ close, I can feel it, baby.”

Richie’s hand moved from around your throat, to cradle the back of your head, forcing your to keep your focus on him as he curved his fingers inside of you, hitting that deliciously sweet spot, over and over again, until you let out a throaty cry. Richie quickly kissed you, his finger working you through your orgasm as you cried into his mouth.

Richie slowed his fingers to a gradual stop, allowing you to ride out your orgasm against his hand as you came down from your high. Your breaths were choppy and uneven as you tried to regain your composure.

Your pupils were blown, eyes wild as Richie took in your post-orgasmic appearance, so he decided he'd test the waters, bringing his/lips to your ear, “open,” he commanded, a burst of pride sweeping inside of his chest as he watched you close your swollen lips around his fingers.

You sucked softly, your strained eyes never leaving Richie’s as you gently pulled his now dry fingers out of your compliant mouth.

Richie couldn't wait to fully have his way with you, hell, in this moment even he knew that you had him wrapped around your finger. You did so good for him.

The two of you sat in silence, after Richie carried you to your bedroom, Richie standing between your legs, leaning over you as you pecked his lips, “You can stay the night, if you want,” you offered sweetly.

-

Richie was all yours and he understood that, one-hundred percent. How could he say no to those eyes, those same eyes that soaked his in as you came to a climax, how could he say no to you?

“Y’want me to stay?” He prodded.

You smiled, kissing the pendant of his gold chain that hung in front of you, “I want you to stay.”

Richie groaned, gently grabbing your chin between his thumb and index finger, “alright, then you got me, baby,” he agreed, pressing his lips to your forehead, softly cradling the back of your head.

You weren’t sure what this would mean for your relationship, moving forward. Hell, Richie wasn’t even sure what this meant, but he knew that he wanted you, every part of you, he’d just hoped that you wanted all of him too.

-

i hope you all enjoyed part three - now things are going to finally get fun <3

[dadbodfanatic-x]

Oh I’m a slut for this man.