boredom (ryland grace x gn!reader)
summary: (y/n) is bored and ryland is stressed. why not solve both problems at the same time?
wc: 3.6k
cw: oral sex (m receiving), slight dacryphillia, some praise kink, overstimulation, orgasm denial (where my freaks at, this one is dirty) !!! MINORS DNI !!!
a/n: ngl this one kicked my ass 🥀 there are some BOOK-SPECIFIC spoilers in this fic so tread with caution all who haven't read phm but plan to! also, thank you for over 1k likes on doctor's visit?? and all of your comments and reblogs i love you people with my entire being
You were bored.
Not the normal kind of bored, where you just had nothing to do.
You had things to pass the time. Laptops with truly anything you could ever want at your fingertips (you’d become a Minesweeper master), a couple of books you’d packed for yourself for the mission, spend time with your fellow crewmate and a literal alien. No, you had plenty of stuff to keep your brain occupied.
This was the kind of boredom that drove you crazy. You itched to do something, anything, to blow off the anxious steam that still simmered in your soul from Ryland and Rocky's near death experience after collecting the Astrophage sample from Adrian. Both had come out alive, thank God, a little worse for wear but breathing which was really all that mattered at the end of the day.
But the anxiety and stress and fear of them dying still lingered, flowing through you and giving you an anxious need to keep them close. So you couldn’t focus on the small, mundane things you usually did when you were travelling through the Tau Ceti system. You needed something bigger. More distracting.
Rocky had been sleeping a lot as of late while he healed, recovering from essentially being on fire. So, as Ryland did his scientist thing and focused on breeding nitrogen resistant Taumoeba, you spent much of your time sitting on the floor by Rocky who’d curl up and sleep opposite of you, pressed against the clear xenonite wall. Rocky seemed to be just as shaken from the accident and wanted to stay close just as much as you wanted to keep him close.
Several days ago, the Eridian had been so kind as to gift you one of the little gadgets he used to create xenonite objects. He’d been attempting to teach you how it worked to some varying degrees of success. You were busying yourself with the machine tonight, fingers hooked into the little doohickies that were connected to strings of xenonite- trying and failing to thread together a singular cube. You still didn’t quite understand how it worked. Rocky made it look so easy.
Ryland was sitting halfway across the room on a stool, typing notes one-handedly into a laptop to log today’s progress with the Taumoeba. The arm that had been barbecued during Rocky’s rescue rested delicately in his lap. He wasn’t on as much pain medication now, but the arm was still tender so he tried not to use it when he didn’t need to. The lighting was soft against his skin, the Hail Mary officially in its ‘night mode’ to help replicate Earth’s 24 hour cycle for yours and Ryland’s sanity.
You should be focused on the xenonite contraption sitting in front of you so you could teach others about it when you return to Earth.
But instead you were focused on him.
In the soft light, wearing his yellow jumpsuit which was partially unzipped to show the plain white t-shirt underneath, he looked almost ethereal. His blonde hair was especially unruly after a long day of running his fingers through it. Golden framed glasses sat abandoned on the table next to him, so he was hunched a little closer to the screen than normal so he could actually see what he was typing. The Taumoeba breeding was a long, grueling process. At least the little freaks worked quickly, or you would be in space for months trying to create a viable predator for Venus and Threeworld. But despite the short turnover time, it was still taking a lot out of Ryland, who was taking the brunt of the work.
He was tired and stressed knowing that the fate of humanity and Erid rested almost entirely on his shoulders alone.
You couldn’t help him with the Taumoeba, that was his department, and Rocky couldn’t really help from his side of the ship, but you’d been wondering if you could help in other ways. Something to relieve his stress and release your pent up energy.
Before Rocky joined you on the Hail Mary, when you’d been wandering aimlessly in space towards Tau Ceti to see what was unique about this star compared to every other star in the known universe, you’d become close to the scientist. Emotionally and physically. You were the only two on the ship after all, what were you supposed to do?
And after 4 years of being in a coma?
Both of you got handsy.
Mostly initiated by you, but Ryland responded with eagerness once he pushed past that initial nervousness. He’d explained that it had been much longer than 4 years since he was last intimate, as his last girlfriend had been years before that.
You’d learned that he was maybe just the teensy tiniest bit touch-starved. All the more fun for you.
However, once Rocky came aboard, any intimacy stopped cold-turkey. With an alien who could hear and ‘see’ everything in the ship, there was no plausible way to try anything without him knowing something was going on between the two of you. It would create a lot of questions neither of you were eager to answer. Even while he slept, it felt too risky.
Usually.
“I’m bored,” you state, absentmindedly toying with the machine in front of you but staring dead-on at the blonde’s back.
His jumpsuit shifted as he looked over his shoulder, squinting in your general direction.
“Alien super-tech not doing it for you?” He questioned, turning back around to keep typing. His voice was gravely, not due to exhaustion (not entirely, at least) but due to the ammonia fumes that did a number on his throat when he’d saved Rocky’s life. It still hadn’t quite returned to normal.
“No, not while Rocky’s not awake to answer my questions about it.”
“Haven’t you asked him like a billion questions about it already? You should probably understand it by now, don’t you think?” He joked. You could hear the stupid smile in his voice.
Smartass.
If there was one thing you learned about Ryland after spending months together on this tiny ship, it was that he was a brat when he was tired. He became loose-lipped, speaking his mind more than he normally would.
And you loved it.
“You come try working with these little strings and see how well you do,” you prod, unhooking your fingers and scooting the tool away from you.
“You’re the engineer, I think that’s your job. I’ll stick with little alien microbes.”
Ryland stayed vigilant on his keyboard, paying you no mind as you rose from the floor, picking up the blanket that you’d been sitting on and tucking it under your arm. “You’ve been working a little too hard on those alien microbes lately.”
“Kinda have no choice here- have to save the world and whatnot.”
You prowled closer. “Yeah, but you have to sleep sometime. Take some time to relax.”
He huffed when you sidled up next to him. “And how do you suggest I do…”
You twirled him around on his stool to face you, forcing his attention away from the laptop. The surprise in his eyes was evident- he hadn’t heard you approach or even knew that you’d moved from your spot on the floor. Now, you were inches away, standing between his spread legs and dropping your blanket to the floor.
Every drop of exhaustion-induced confidence he had evaporated. “....that,” he finished, eyes dancing between yours. The hand he had in his lap, the one still wrapped in bandages, balled into a tight fist and he swallowed after giving you a quick once-over.
When you brought a hand to his collarbone, feeling the beat of his heart and trailing your hand down the tight t-shirt his jumpsuit exposed, he glanced over your shoulder in fear and moved to stop your hand. “Rocky-”
“Is asleep. And should be for at least another couple hours.” He grabbed hold of your wrist with his good hand but didn’t put any pressure behind it.
“What if he wakes up?”
“Have you ever seen him sleep for less than an hour?”
He didn’t take his eyes off of your lips. “No…”
“Then we’ll be fine. I want to help you relax. You’ve been too wired recently and you need a break.”
He audibly swallowed, spreading his legs even wider to let you closer. Loosening his grip on your wrist, he let your fingers slip to the zipper of his jumpsuit. As you took hold of the metal and began tugging it down, he let out a breathy hum.
“What did you have in mind?”
His eyebrows shot into his hairline when you dropped to your knees, cushioning them on the blanket you’d set on the floor. Ryland sat up straighter than he had all night, looking at you in awe as you tugged the black zipper as far down as it would go. Once again, he stilled your hands with both of his this time, palms swallowing your hands whole.
“Wait- are you sure?” The strangled noise he made when you peered up at him through your lashes was one you wouldn’t forget.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Ryland refused to let you move another inch. “Because… you get nothing from this.”
Always looking out for you. “That’s not even the tiniest bit true, Ry.”
“But-”
“I promise, I’ll enjoy this just as much as you will.”
The silence that followed was heavy- heated. You would stop if he told you to, without question.
Unless his reasoning was that you would get no pleasure from it. Which again, couldn’t be farther from the truth.
When he finally pried his hands from yours, they were shaking- the wrap on his hand scratching against your skin. Then, he didn’t seem to know where to put his hands, opting to let them limply fall to his sides and brush against the seat of the stool. The loose boxers that you’d exposed after unzipping his jumpsuit were already tented.
“Nervous?”
“A little.” You were surprised he’d actually admitted it.
“Any particular reason why?”
He didn’t let his eyes wander from where they watched your fingers play with the elastic around his hips. “This is… uncharted territory.”
That brought you pause. “Your ex never gave you head?”
Even in the dim lighting, Ryland’s cheeks flamed at just the words. He’d been a little shy about regular sex before, but this seemed to take it to a whole new level. “No. She thought it was gross.”
Ryland never really talked bad about his ex, save for the fact that she’d dumped him, but every little fact he let slip just brought her lower and lower on your favorite people list. From your time with Ryland, you were quickly coming to realize that their sex life must’ve been very… vanilla.
No wonder the blonde was so skittish and so touch-starved. She’d never truly let him experience the pleasure he deserved.
The grin you gave him couldn’t have been more feline. “I get to be your first, then?”
He shook his head in disbelief. “Can you at least try to hide your excitement? It’s embarrassing.”
Breaking eye-contact with a laugh, you slid his boxers down painstakingly slow, revealing what hid underneath inch by inch. The sharp lines of his hips all leading down to his cock which sprang free once you’d tucked his underwear low enough. Just as pretty as the rest of him. You didn’t think you could ever tire from the sight.
It didn’t take much coaxing to have him fully erect, cock pulsing against your palm as you very gently settled your hand at the base of his shaft to keep him in place. Holding his thigh with your free hand, you delicately pressed a light kiss to the head. Barely a touch of your lips, but the reaction was immediate- his leg jumped against your hand and he moved to grip the stool. The man yelped.
You raised your brows up at him. He attempted a scowl.
Normally, you would’ve made a teasing comment but… you’d let it pass this one time. You wanted him to enjoy this, not feel ashamed.
Holding his eyes captive with your own, you watched with pleasure as his face contorted into one of pure agony when you slowly kissed down the side, along a prominent vein that ran there, pausing at the bottom to suck gently at the skin around the base. He had a healthy dusting of pubic hair, slightly darker than the hair on his head but just as soft. You’d felt it before with your hand but feeling it brush against your mouth was heavenly.
Ryland looked like he was already about to cum.
He was white knuckling the stool, head bowed to his chest and face scrunched in concentration. His cock throbbed against your face- an angry red color, eager for even a fraction of your attention. You drew your lips back. He whimpered.
“You can’t finish yet, Ry. We just started.”
“I know.” His response was rushed, uneven and rough. At this point, you couldn’t tell if the roughness was due to his still healing throat or if he really was that affected by your mouth.
“Can you hold off until I tell you you can come?”
Even in the cool air of the ship, his forehead was starting to shimmer with perspiration. He leant back against the table with a ragged huff. “I can try,” he whispered.
“Good. You can do it,” you purred, squeezing his thigh and gently fisting the yellow fabric there so you had something to hold onto when you brought your mouth back to his tip. Taking your time, you let your tongue lave over the skin, savoring the salty taste and boiling heat of him. His leg jumped again.
“G-God,” he whined.
If he was already reacting like this…
The groan he let slip when you twirled your tongue around his head was pornographic- the moan he finally didn’t bother to hold back when you sucked the first inch of him into your mouth had electricity shooting up your spine.
He felt almost painfully hard the further down you went, giving an inch, then pulling away, continuing the pattern until he was nearly brushing the back of your throat. When he did touch the back of your throat, his hands instantly found purchase in your hair.
You stopped to look up at him and you couldn’t tell if he wanted to pull you off of his cock or bury himself deeper. It seemed he was just as conflicted. And you could’ve sworn there was a glint of silver lining his eyes. You wanted to ask him if he was ok but… your mouth was a little full.
Squeezing his thigh once, you asked the silent question. The two of you stared at each other for a second, breathing together. Then he swallowed and you felt the tiniest bit of tension on your head as he shyly pushed further into your mouth.
That was answer enough for you.
When you really began working his cock, Ryland almost lost his control again. His hips stuttered in the stool and his hands tightened in your hair. But you pulled off of him before he could reach that high.
There were certainly tears in his eyes now.
“Please-“ he choked, trying to steer you back. His face was red.
You held firm. “Careful. Remember what I said?”
The hair that fell over his forehead bobbed as he nodded. “Yes, I’m sorry.” It sounded painful for him to talk, like his throat was tight and packed with cotton.
“You’re doing so good, Ry.”
Verbal validation was something you knew Ryland craved, whether he consciously knew it or not. Any breakthrough he had with the Taumoeba, when he pulled off a half-decent maneuver with the ship, when he’d please you before Rocky had moved in- Ryland’s eyes would light up when you praised him.
He didn’t light up this time, given the circumstances, but he did straighten up a little. When his chest rose and fell in a deep, steadying breath, you knew your words worked their magic.
“I want you to guide me. Then you can come. Can you do that?” You asked, feeling as his grip on your hair slackened and turned gentle. Fingers soothed over the strands he’d gripped. A single nod was all you got in return, Ryland not able to do much else.
Cradling your head in his palms, the scientist you’d come to love guided your lips and you welcomed him back into your mouth with eagerness. A sob-sounding gasp graced the room.
Fully surrendering control to Ryland, you let him set the pace. He started off attempting to be conservative, a gentle guiding of your head back and forth over his velvety cock. But it didn’t last, not when you ran your tongue along the underside of the shaft.
Throwing his head back, he whimpered again and his resolve finally snapped. Relaxing your throat to accept him, you took the rough battering in stride. Heat, moans and saliva- the strong muscle of his thighs under your hands, the fingers cradling your skull- everything you could feel and hear and sense, all orbiting around him.
When he came, he came fast and hard.
Every part of him tightened underneath you, hands keeping you locked firmly against his pelvis to swallow everything he had. And you gladly did so with minimal choking.
When he started to soften against your tongue but made no move to pull you off of him, you gave a couple taps to his thigh. Coming out of some sort of blissful trance, Ryland quickly helped guide you off of him. A string of drool followed your retreat. Your jaw ached and your throat felt raw but you couldn’t have been happier.
The pair of you sat in a slow, comfortable silence as both of you tried to regulate your breathing, staring at each other to see what the other would do next.
Ryland let go of your head in favor of wiping at his eyes, sniffing quietly and looking all sorts of embarrassed. An uncomfortable laugh burst from him and he shrugged.
“Don’t really know why I’m crying,” he sighed, reaching back to grab his glasses and slide them over the bridge of his nose so he could blink properly down at you.
“Overwhelmed?”
“Something like that,” he cringed, busying his hands with fixing his modesty and partially zipping his jumpsuit back up. “Never felt anything like that before, so… thank you. For showing me. No one’s ever even tried so it means a lot.”
Your heart broke. Someone so genuine deserved a partner who cared just as much for his pleasure than their own. If you ever had the opportunity to cross paths with his ex’s when you returned to Earth, they were due for a verbal lashing.
You sat back on your heels to give yourself room to stand, to give him room to breathe, but Ryland leant forward to chase your mouth before you could. Lips locked, kneeling between his legs, you cupped his stubbled jaw and let him show you his gratitude with his tongue. His shy smile when you broke for air had your heart stuttering. His eyes were gleaming.
Taking his hands, careful not to squeeze his injured one too hard, you stood and brought him with you.
“Now, you need to sleep,” you chided, tugging him towards the dormitory where he could rest in the peace and quiet while you watched Rocky and fiddled with the xenonite machine.
The blonde halted in his steps, bringing you to a stop. “I should-“
“No! No arguing. You’ve been up for almost 48 hours, you’re of no use to us exhausted. You’ll kill all of the Taumoeba at this rate!”
Ryland rolled his eyes which enunciated the dark rings under his eyes and shrugged in defeat.
“Fine. But I'm sleeping in here.”
“But-“
“A compromise! I'm compromising here. Take it or leave it. Please?”
The soft glow of Tau Ceti glinted off his golden rims. You couldn’t have asked for a more handsome man to be stuck in space with.
“Alright…”
-
“Grace ok, question?”
You startled at Rocky’s sudden voice, nearly dropping the book that you’d read about 50 times now onto the head of the sleeping scientist that rested in your lap.
Ryland had been asleep for almost 3 hours with no end in sight, your right leg was long past dead and now Rocky was awake to disturb the peace.
Your hand stilled where it was buried in Ryland’s hair to look back at Rocky who was indeed awake and standing close.
“Yeah, he’s ok Rock, just sleeping.”
“Why on you, question?”
“Uh…” you stalled, not really sure how to answer in a way that didn’t sound weird or lead to more questions. “It’s just something humans do sometimes when we’re really tired.”
“Oh, understand.” He usually didn’t fight you or Ryland if something you did was a ‘human thing’ and you and Ryland didn’t question Rocky when he said something was an ‘Eridian thing’. It was an unspoken rule.
Crisis averted.
The ship resumed its quiet hum as you read the worn and torn copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy to an alien while running your knuckles absentmindedly over Ryland’s cheekbone, who slept peacefully for the first time in weeks.
a/n: ryland grace whimpering audio when? all sorts of firsts for ryland recently (and more to come). thank you for reading! preparing to write this fic had me zooming in on every picture of ryland in that stupid hot yellow jumpsuit to see how far down the zipper went and if it would indeed zip low enough LOL research says yes?
Summary: It's Doctor Grace's last night; what's a little stress relief?
A/N: It's finally here! Project Hail Mary has finally landed! Yes, I saw it immediately, yes I cried, yes it was amazing and yes, I've been sitting on this for over a year when it was announced they'd make a movie.
They did a phenomenal job, read the book if you haven't, see the movie if you haven't; neither will disappoint.
You guys know the drill; NSFW 18+ because here, we like it spicy ;)
As always, my darling soul sister, @ken-dom, thank you for the beta read and endless support and reassurance! Although…I still think you’re biased. 🩷
Enjoy my loves!
You’d been doing this gig long enough to recognize when someone who sat down at your bar was having a rough day.
You walked to stand in front of where he sat on the other side of the bar.
“What can I get you?” you asked, draping a towel over your shoulder.
He looked up with a frown and then sighed “Valium?”
You waited to see if he’d crack a smile, and when he didn’t you set an empty glass on the bar top in front of him “How about whiskey?”
He scrunched his nose with a shake of his head
You purse your lips studying him more closely. He was young, late thirties, early forties you’d guess; he was smartly dressed, jeans and a sport coat with a plain t-shirt underneath. A pair of black framed glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. God he was good looking…
You didn’t make a second suggestion, just pulled the bottle of tequila out of the well and poured into the empty glass in front of him. He glanced up, his blue eyes meeting yours for a brief second before he took the glass and drained it.
You nodded slowly, not really knowing, but understanding. Without a word you poured again and he just muttered “Thanks”
“Sure,” you smiled, moving to turn on your heel before dropping the bottle back in the well.
“Leave the bottle.”
It was a statement, not a question and you sighed shaking your head “Sorry love, can’t, it’s bar policy”
“Stupid policy” he muttered but didn’t bother looking up from the glass between his hands.
“Tell you what,” you leaned across the bar resting your chin in your hands to put yourself at his stool level; he glanced up meeting your eye when you didn’t immediately continue. “So you don’t get fall off your stool drunk in five minutes, I’m going to circle the bar and I’ll be back in fifteen minutes, can you wait that long?”
“Do I have a choice?” he asked, raising an eyebrow
“No” you shook your head as you stood back up and went to make your rounds.
***
As you predicted, the bar had pretty well emptied out within ten minutes, everyone but your mystery man had settled up and was starting to file out.
You made your way back over to where he sat; this time pulling up the empty stool next to him instead of standing behind the bar.
“So,” you said, leaning on your elbow against the bar, “You wanna talk about it?”
He scoffed shaking his head
“It’s the astrophage thing isn’t it?” you guessed “That’s got everyone whipped into a frenzy lately”
“You’re joking” he turned to look at you
You shook your head, slightly surprised by his shock. “No, everybody has been wigged since they made the announcement the other night on tv.”
He let out another heavy sigh “Try being told you have to go”
You blinked, genuinely not sure whether you had heard him correctly. “What?”
He simply shrugged “I guess that’s what a love of science will get you, a one way trip to space that might prove to be useless”
You didn’t say anything, just reached over the bar into the well that held the bottles and pulled out the same tequila bottle you’d had earlier; filling the empty glass just over half.
You pulled yourself up off the stool enough to reach over the bar and grab a glass of your own, pouring your own drink.
“Aren’t you still on the clock?” he looked at you sideways.
“You’re Doctor Grace,” you said ignoring his question “Right? Doctor Ryland Grace?”
He just nodded “Yes…”
“I’m sorry…” you muttered
“Who are you?” His brow furrowed “How do you know that?”
“There were a couple of guys in here the other night talking about the middle school science teacher who….” You trailed off with a heavy sigh of your own before you swallowed hard
“Who’s a coward?” He asked
He looked surprised when you shook your head almost immediately “No, who would change the world” you finished
His face softened slightly and you spoke again
“I think what you’re doing is really brave,” you spoke softly.
He scoffed with a laugh draining his glass again before he reached for the bottle himself; his fingers brushed over yours, sending tendrils of electricity through your fingers and up the length of your arm for half a beat before it disappeared making your heart flutter in your chest.
“Brave?” he snorted “Please”
“Yes,” you nodded “Leaving behind your entire life to save a planet you won’t come back to?”
“Did you miss the part where I said it was involuntary?” He asked looking sideways at you
“Maybe you should make the most of it then” you spoke looking at him over the rim of your own glass, hoping the not so subtle hint you were dropping at his feet wasn’t missing its mark.
When he turned his attention back to you, you raised an eyebrow, biting your lip gently as you brought your glass back down to the bar.
He sat in silence almost long enough to make you feel like maybe this had been a bad idea, but then he spoke, his blue eyes fixed firmly on you.
“I leave tomorrow”
“All the more reason…” you said quietly
“I…here?...” he stammered
You shrugged sliding off your stool “The door has a lock” you smirked “But I live upstairs…”
He nodded slowly considering your words as you went to lock the door for the night and turn off the Open sign.
“So what did you-”
You gasped as you turned on your heel, only to be pushed back against the heavy oak door, a pair of toned arms wrapping around your waist, pinning you there. Soft lips sealing over yours with a soft groan.
Once you were able to get your bearings your arms found their way around his neck and you kissed him back with a matched enthusiasm that made your stomach flip.
You pushed off the door, sending him walking backwards blindly through the bar, his arms still firmly locked around your waist; you broke your kiss panting heavily, moaning as his mouth found your neck; you dropped your head against his opposite shoulder as he moaned against your collarbone.
You still had enough sense to glance up long enough to steer him toward the stairs, narrowly avoiding at least three tables on the way.
You pushed him up against the small section of wall next to the staircase, kissing him hard, your tongue tangling with his before you pulled back just enough to look at him.
His face was flushed, his lips kiss swollen and he was panting as hard as you were; your heart slammed against your ribcage as you swallowed hard
“I don’t usually….I don’t want you to think-” you breathed hard struggling to get the words from your brain to your lips “I don’t do this” you finally managed and he shook his head, causing a blond chunk of hair to fall over his forehead, his arousal evident against your hip.
“It’s fine” his voice was thick, not soft like it had been a few minutes ago sitting at the bar “I don’t give a shit” he practically said the words into your mouth as his tongue found its way between your lips as he pushed himself off the wall.
He lifted you off the floor and you followed his lead, wrapping your legs around his waist as he climbed the stairs with a surprising amount of ease.
He reached the landing and you reached behind you for the doorknob before your back thudded against the door, making you moan loudly against his unrelenting lips.
He reached around you, shoving the door open, sending you both careening backwards into your dark apartment, the door banging hard against the wall before he kicked it shut with his foot and it slammed closed.
You pried your lips from his, as you arched your back, his hands sliding up the back of your shirt, warm against your skin as you pushed your chest against him “First door on the left” you breathed against his neck as he pulled your t-shirt over your head and dropping it in his path.
You fell back on your mattress, pushing his jacket off his shoulders, he shrugged it off the rest of the way, dropping it on the floor before pulling his own t-shirt over his head and tossing it aside.
He braced himself over top of you as you both took half a second to catch your breath and really look at the other since sitting downstairs. His bare arms and chest even more toned than his jacket eluded to.
“I thought science teachers were skinny nerds” you laughed a little, eyes dragging shamelessly over his naked torso.
He shrugged dismissively “Tough prep regime”
You scoffed, reaching up gently to slide his glasses off his face and set them on the nightstand before taking his face in your hands and pulling him to you, kissing him hard before there were a flurry of hands, tugging at nuisance garments between you until your bedroom floor was littered with clothes and you were writhing in your sheets, arching off the mattress as he tongued your folds, you cried out as he sucked your clit into his warm wet mouth.
Fingers on both of your hands, pushing through his once neatly combed hair as you dug your heels firmly into your mattress.
He moaned between your thighs as you thrust against his face, fucking yourself with his tongue. Your whole body shook with your impending orgasm.You whimpered as his mouth disappeared, but had no time to protest as his mouth crashed against yours, his face wet with your slick as he reached between you, lining himself up with your entrance.
With a quick snap of his hips he buried himself inside you with a deep groan in the back of his throat. You gasped, nails digging into his muscled back as you stretched to accommodate his thick shaft.
Your head lulled on your pillow as his teeth scraped over your throat “Oh my-” you moaned toward the ceiling thrusting your hips to meet his “-God”
He found a rhythm that turned you to jello underneath him; his weight deliciously heavy on top of you.
“Doctor Grace,” you whispered and he moaned against your neck, his hips never stopped moving, your legs locked around his back.
“Ryland” he breathed against your ear, sending a shiver right through your fingertips “Call me Ryland”
The desperate and needy moan that tore itself from the back of your throat was unintentional as his teeth sank into the overheated skin of your collarbone.
“Ryland,” you cried out, loud enough for it to echo off of your bedroom walls. “God-” you gasped “Don’t stop-” you moaned “Ryland p-please”
You could hear the desperation dripping from your voice, but you didn’t care, just clung to him as your body started to shudder.
He thrust harder, your bed shifting under the momentum, causing your headboard to bang in time with his thrusts against the wall.
Your orgasm shot from your core like a coiled spring finally letting go. You opened your eyes just in time to see Ryland’s face contorted in pleasure with one last thrust, one hand reaching to brace himself on the headboard to keep from collapsing on top of you as he came hard enough to make his voice crack with the effort.
You winced slightly as he slid from inside you, before collapsing next to you on the bed, his chest heaving.
“That’s a hell of a bar” he turned to look at you
You laughed reaching to fix a strand of hair that had fallen across his forehead “Glad to be of service, Doctor. Grace”
You and Ryland Grace were never supposed to meet. Just messages sent across the void, a voice in the dark, something to keep the loneliness away. But somewhere along the way, he becomes more than that. And you’re left wondering if something this fragile can survive the dying sun.
Ryland Grace x hacker reader smut
Word count: 20k
Warnings: graphic smut, making out, age gap, talk of loneliness, jealousy, lying, angst
A/n: “this is all based on the movie! An au, kinda, sorry for any inaccuracies. He still meets rocky but rocky has enough astrophage to go to Erid and Ryland goes back to earth.”
The vast expanse of space stretched endlessly beyond the reinforced porthole of the Hail Mary, a silent ocean of inky black void punctuated only by the distant, unblinking eyes of stars cold, ancient, and utterly indifferent to the fragile life contained within the ship's humming shell.
Some already dead, some just born. It had been seven days since awakening, seven interminable cycles of artificial day and night dictated by the ship's chronometer, a digital heartbeat that mocked the natural rhythms Ryland Grace had once taken for granted on Earth.
The cabin, no larger than a modest studio apartment back home, felt like a coffin adrift in eternity. Walls of matte gray alloy etched with faint scuff marks from his restless floating, and stumbling. Control panels alive with the subdued glow of leds in shades of teal and amber, and the ever present scent of recycled air laced with the faint ozone tang of electronics and the sharper, synthetic bite of his unwashed flight suit tied around his lean waist.
He floated there, suspended in the zero gravity embrace that had long since lost its novelty and become just another layer of confinement. His body, slender from months of casual exercise but now softened by inactivity, drifted lazily as he maneuvered toward the galley nook.
The past week had been a descent into quiet desperation, a mental unraveling disguised as routine. Mission protocols had outlined every contingency except the soul crushing solitude, the kind that seeped into your bones like cosmic radiation, eroding resolve one silent hour at a time. He'd run diagnostics until the readouts blurred in his vision, plotted trajectories that looped back to the same grim calculus. Save the sun or die trying, alone.
The vodka, smuggled in a hidden compartment as a nod to one of his fallen comrades. He'd savored it earlier that evening (or what passed for evening in this timeless drift), the fiery liquid burning a path down his throat, warming his core against the perpetual chill that no amount of thermal regulation could fully banish. It had loosened the knot in his chest, if only for a moment, allowing him to confront the inevitable without the sharp edge of panic.
With the buzz fading into a dull throb behind his eyes, survival demanded pragmatism. He retrieved an unopened packet of ramen from the storage locker, its foil wrapper crinkling softly in the hush. The hot water dispenser hummed to life, dispensing a measured stream that he poured into the pouch, watching as steam bloomed in ethereal curls, twisting and dissipating in the weightless air like ghosts fleeing the light.
He sat himself at the fold down table with a his suit shifting around his waist and tore open the packet. The noodles, reconstituted into a steaming tangle, carried the artificial allure of beef and spice flavors engineered in a lab to evoke comfort, but tasting now like a pale echo of terrestrial meals.
He slurped them with deliberate care, broth dribbling onto his chin before he caught it with a swipe of his hand. Each bite was a ritual, a tether to humanity the salty warmth coating his tongue, the faint crunch of dehydrated vegetables yielding under his teeth, the way the steam fogged his glasses momentarily before he pushed them up the bridge of his nose.
The main console, dominating the forward bulkhead like a watchful oracle, bathed the space in its cool luminescence. Holographic projections flickered with real time data oxygen levels steady at 21%, hull integrity nominal, solar sails deploying in incremental whispers of efficiency.
The Eriduri system loomed in his mind's eye, a distant promise of purpose amid the stellar nursery of Rho Eridani, where alien worlds might hold the key to Earth's salvation. But here, in the interstitial black between stars, it was just him. The former middle school science teacher turned reluctant savior, his reflection in the screen a haggard ghost with unkept hair, stubble shadowing his jaw, and eyes shadowed by the weight of unspoken fears. His glasses reflecting hollowed light back to him.
He was midway through his meal, chopsticks poised for another awkward scoop, when the anomaly intruded. A subtle shift in the console's interface, a new window materializing in the lower right quadrant, unbidden and unauthorized.
A bioluminescent green cursor appeared, not the standard mission glyph but a simple, archaic underscore, blinking with rhythmic insistence.
On, off, on, off.
It was an anachronism in this high tech sanctum, evoking old Earth computers from his childhood stories, and it snagged his attention like a hook in still water.
He set the ramen aside, the pouch falling over with some uneaten weight, and propelled himself closer. His heart quickened, a staccato drum against his ribs, as the first message resolved letter by letter, each pixel igniting with deliberate slowness.
“Moonwalk”
The word materialized in crisp white sans serif font, hovering against the starry backdrop feed that served as the screen's default saver. Moonwalk. What cryptic nonsense was this? His mind cataloged possibilities in a flash. Solar flare interference scrambling the display? A subroutine glitch from the AI core? Or something more sinister: a breach in the firewall, an external ping from who knows where?
The Hail Mary was designed as a fortress of solitude, its comms array tuned to burst transmissions back to Earth, not casual chit chat. Yet here it was, in English no garbled code, no binary spew just a single, playful term that conjured images of Michael Jackson's iconic glide or Neil Armstrong's first lunar steps. Absurd, given his circumstances.
Wiping his hands on the frayed thighs of his pants the fabric worn soft from repeated use, carrying the faint imprint of his palms he leaned into the keyboard harness. His fingers, still greasy from the meal, hesitated over the keys, the plastic cool and unyielding. Protocols screamed caution. Isolate the terminal, run a scan. But curiosity, that old scientific vice, overrode them. He typed, the clack of keys echoing faintly in the cabin like Morse code tapped on metal.
“Never learned how”
He pressed enter, the message vanishing into the buffer with a soft chime that seemed louder than intended. Leaning back, the unused harness straps digging into his shoulders, he watched the cursor pulse. The cabin's atmosphere thickened, the air recyclers' whisper now a held breath, the distant creak of the hull expanding and contracting in the thermal flux outside amplifying his anticipation.
Seconds stretched into minutes; he could hear his own respiration, steady but laced with an undercurrent of adrenaline. The stars wheeled imperceptibly beyond the viewport, a cosmic ballet indifferent to his vigil. Then, a response.
“lol”
Three letters, lowercase and lighthearted, blooming on the screen like a shared secret. Laughter of the lines lowercase lol a digital chuckle that pierced the sterile void. Ryland's lips twitched, then parted in a genuine, dorky grin, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
Amusement bubbled up, unbidden and warm, chasing away the vodka's lingering fog. It was human, this flawed, informal, alive. In a ship built for precision and isolation, it felt like a breach of sunlight through armored plating. Intrigued, he felt a spark ignite in his chest, not fear but a tentative thrill, the first crack in the monotony's facade.
Emboldened, his fingers danced toward the keys again. Who are you? The thought appeared, glowing with curiosity, but doubt slithered in like coolant vapor from a vent. Who indeed? Mission control wouldn't toy like this. He backspaced furiously, the deletions a rapid fire retreat, leaving the cursor naked once more. Arms crossed over his chest, studying the interface as if it might betray its secrets through sheer willpower. The ramen cooled untouched, its aroma fading into the ambient staleness. The cursor stirred anew, as if sensing his impatience.
“Ryland Grace?”
His full name, precise and personal, etched in text that felt like a whisper directly into his ear. A jolt ran through him, electric and intimate, raising the fine hairs on his arms. How? The manifest was classified, the signal encrypted. His pulse thrummed in his temples, the cabin's confines pressing closer the overhead lights casting long shadows across the lockers stocked with freeze dried provisions, the emergency suit hanging like a sentinel in its alcove, the faint hum of the xenonite processors in the lab module aft, churning data on Erid's alien biology. Trust was a scarce resource out here, rationed like water. He didn't reply immediately, letting minutes accrue like interest on a debt. His mind raced through scenarios: a deep space probe with a rogue program? Intercepted comms from a rival nation? Or, improbably, a genuine connection to another soul, reaching across the light years?
The pit in his stomach twisted, a cold coil of uncertainty, but he couldn't ignore it. Finally, with a deep breath that fogged the console's edge, he typed.
“Depends on who's asking.”
Enter. The words launched into the unknown, and he unstrapped, pushing off toward the viewport to stare into the abyss. The wait gnawed at him, each second amplifying the ship's subtle symphony: the soft whoosh of air ducts, the occasional ping of micrometeorite deflection on the shields, the distant throb of the fusion drive idling in standby. His reflection overlaid the stars wide eyed, wary, yet undeniably drawn in.
“Interesting.”
The reply arrived like a gentle prod, enigmatic and laced with intrigue. No elaboration, just that single word, dangling like bait. He exhaled, a chuckle escaping despite himself callous, self deprecating, the kind that acknowledged the absurdity without surrendering to it. He returned to the console, but sleep called, or at least the pretense of it. Unstrapping fully, he navigated the narrow corridor to his bunk pod, a cocoon of padded netting and memory foam that molded to his form in the null g. The lights dimmed to a nocturnal red, simulating twilight over some imagined horizon, but rest proved elusive.
He turned in the restraints, the fabric sighing against his skin, his thoughts a tempest. What entity wielded such access? A hacker probing NASA's vaults? An alien intelligence mimicking human idiom? Or something benign, a forgotten subroutine awakened by his vodka fueled tinkering? The lol replayed in his mind, evoking a phantom smile, a bridge of humor spanning the unbridgeable. It humanized the unknown, stirring a longing he hadn't named: connection, however fleeting, in this engineered loneliness. The ship's log would note his vitals spiking, heart rate elevated, cortisol traces but he dismissed it, chasing fragments of dreams where voices echoed without screens.
Far below, on the blue marble of Earth, in a cramped dorm room at a university, the mysterious coder huddled over a laptop. The space was a chaotic haven of academia posters of nebulae and circuit diagrams peeling from cinderblock walls, a desk buried under textbooks on astrophysics and quantum computing, the glow of your screen the sole light against the midnight hush of the hallway outside.
You’d been debugging a simulation for your senior project, a virtual model of deep space comms when a stray line of code, born of late night impulse, had latched onto a public NASA feed.
What started as a glitch evolved into a handshake, your terminal bridging the gulf to the Hail Mary through some overlooked vulnerability in the pre launch software. Fingers hovering over her keyboard, you bit your lip, heart racing with a mix of terror and exhilaration. Ryland Grace the name from headlines, the man who'd gotten voluntold for the impossible.
Your accidental intrusion had unearthed greatness, a living legend adrift, and in that moment, two isolates astronaut and student touched across the void, the first thread of an unforeseen tapestry weaving through the stars.
The fluorescent hum of the lecture hall lights buzzed like a persistent insect against the edges of your frayed consciousness, a relentless drone that mirrored the chaos swirling in your skull.
It was mid morning on campus, the kind of crisp day where leaves skittered across the quad like errant thoughts, carried on a breeze that whispered promises of change you couldn't quite grasp. But inside this cavernous room rows of tiered seating scarred by years of restless students, the air thick with the mingled scents of stale coffee, fresh printer ink from syllabus handouts, and the faint, earthy undertone of rain dampened wool coats you were adrift, untethered.
The professor's voice washed over you in waves, a monotonous tide of jargon about astrophage propagation models and orbital decay rates, but the words dissolved before they could anchor. Your notebook lay open on the pull down desk, its lined pages a barren landscape marred only by a half hearted doodle of a spiraling galaxy, born from the night's insomnia.
You shifted in your seat, the vinyl cushion creaking softly under your weight, the chill seeping through your jeans a stark reminder of the draft snaking in from the half open window at the back.
Around you, classmates scribbled notes with the fervor of the damned, their pens scratching like tiny claws on paper, illuminated by the projector’s blue glow casting ethereal shadows across their faces.
One girl two rows ahead twisted her hair into a knot, her foot tapping a rhythmic Morse code of impatience; a guy to your left yawned wide enough to crack his jaw, the sound swallowed by the professor's droning explanation of simulation parameters. You envied their obliviousness, their ability to inhabit this mundane bubble while your world had cracked open like a fault line in the Earth's crust, spilling secrets from the stars.
Ryland Grace. The name alone conjured a constellation of memories you'd pieced together in the witching hours, fragments gleaned from flickering screens and breathless news clips. Everyone knew of him or at least, the myth of him. The unassuming science teacher from some sleepy town, plucked from obscurity to join the ranks of the great volunteers, those improbable heroes who'd stumbled into the astrophage crisis like characters in a cosmic thriller.
You'd seen the archival footage, the press conference where he'd cracked a smile lined with a lopsided grin, rubbing the back of his neck as if embarrassed by the weight of salvation on his shoulders. "Just doing my part." Voice steady but laced with that arid, self effacing humor that made the anchors chuckle.
Saving Earth hadn't been a grand quest for him; it was puzzle solving on a planetary scale, his mind a quiet engine turning the tide against the solar devouring plague. Interviews painted him as the everyman savior awkward pauses, thoughtful stares into the camera, a man who'd traded chalkboards for starships. But last night, those pixels had come alive, not as history but as a living echo, his words from old talks looping in your headphones until dawn crept in, painting your bedroom window with light.
Sleep had been a cruel tease, slipping through your fingers like comet dust. You'd collapsed onto your bed around four a.m., the mattress sagging under the pile of textbooks and hoodies that doubled as your pillow fort, but your eyes refused to close.
You'd propped yourself against the headboard, the wooden frame groaning in sympathy, and let the glow of your laptop pull you under. The room around you was a testament to controlled chaos string lights draped haphazardly over the bed's headboard, casting warm amber pools across the cluttered desk where your project files sprawled like a digital battlefield.
Empty energy drink cans formed a metallic skyline along the windowsill, their aluminum cool to the touch when you'd reached for one absentmindedly, the fizz long gone. Posters of pulsar arrays and exoplanet renderings peeled at the corners from the cinderblock walls, curling like invitations to elsewhere, while the faint scent of microwave popcorn lingered from a study session that had devolved into solitude.
A few miles down the road, campus stirred faintly the distant rumble of a maintenance truck, the muffled laughter of early risers heading to the dining hall but in here, isolation wrapped around you like a second skin, thick and unyielding.
The project had seemed innocuous at the start, just another hoop in the gauntlet of your senior year. Professor Hale, with his wire rimmed glasses perpetually fogged from his perpetual thermos of black tea, had leaned against the chalkboard that first day, sleeves rolled up to reveal faded tattoos of orbital paths inked in his wilder youth. "Optimize Earth based satellite observations of astrophage activity." he'd intoned, his voice gravelly from too many late nights grading.
"Simulate the feeds, patch the blind spots, think of it as giving our eyes in the sky a tune up." You'd nodded along, fingers flying over your keyboard to jot the specs of low Earth orbit trajectories, infrared spectral analysis, error correcting algorithms to filter the noise from the astrophage blooms that still haunted the solar system's fringes.
It was meant to be entirely theoretical, a sandbox of code and data drawn from public archives, honing your skills for the post grad job hunt in a field where wonder paid in spreadsheets.
But curiosity, that sly saboteur, had nudged you further. Late one evening, fueled by a cocktail of caffeine and quiet desperation, you'd tinkered with a backdoor subroutine, a harmless tweak to mimic real time pings, pulling from declassified NASA relays. What you'd expected was a simulated touch, a loop of dummy data echoing back your inputs.
However, the terminal had hiccuped, lines of code unraveling like frayed wiring, latching onto something distant, anomalous. Faulty engineering, you'd realize later, a pre launch oversight in the Hail Mary's comms firewall, a vulnerability born of rushed deadlines and the frantic scramble to launch the volunteer vessel light years toward Tau Ceti.
Your screen had bloomed with an unfamiliar interface, the cursor blinking like a beacon in the void, and then connection. Not to a satellite cluster orbiting Earth, but to him. The man orbiting, adrift in the interstellar black, his ship's systems whispering back through the ether.
The ethical storm had brewed from that first spark. You'd stared at the exchange of his cautious quips, your hapless lol that had made your chest ache with unexpected warmth feeling the weight of it settle like lead in your veins. Detrimental didn't begin to cover it.
This wasn't a prank or a glitch; it was a breach, a digital trespass into classified solitude. Reporting it meant scrutiny, investigations, questions about your code, the potential unraveling of your academic life in a university already rife with cutthroat competition.
Whispers in the halls about "that girl who hacked the stars" could turn admiration to suspicion, scholarships revoked, futures derailed.
A greedy part of you, the one curled in the shadows of your loneliness, wanted to hoard it. This secret bridge, this improbable thread linking your cramped dorm to the endless night it was yours, a private rebellion against the isolation that gnawed at you daily.
No roommates to share the burden (yours had transferred out last semester, leaving the space echoing with absence), no family calls that pierced the time zones without feeling performative. You were an island in a sea of faces, your nights spent chasing equations while the world outside paired off in laughter and light.
Yet the moral compass you'd inherited honed by ethics seminars and late night debates in the astrophysics lounge tugged insistently. Was this kindness or cruelty?
He was alone out there, somewhat alone. You wondered, if he had the rest of the crew to support him. In the quiet hours as your laptop fan whirred like a distant engine, if you were his only voice since departure. No mission control pings, no AI companions beyond cold protocols, just the hum of life support and the stars' indifferent gaze.
Communicating again risked everything his focus, the mission's integrity, your own fragile grip on normalcy. Sweep it under the rug, delete the logs, let the connection fade like a dream upon waking. But truth be told, the thought hollowed you out. You were just as marooned in your own way drifting through lectures and labs, the weight of unspoken dreams pressing like the dorm's thin walls against the wind.
Loneliness wasn't measured in light years; it was the echo in an empty room, the ache of reaching for something real across an unbridgeable gap.
As the professor wrapped up, dismissing the class with a wave toward the whiteboard's scrawled equations, you lingered, your fingers tracing the edge of your notebook.
The hall emptied in a rustle of backpacks and murmured plans for lunch, the air growing cooler in their wake. The voices beckoned with its deceptive normalcy students huddled over phones, leaves swirling in eddies but your mind was light years away, tangled in the what ifs.
Type another message? Or let the cursor's blink become a memory, fading into the cosmic static? The dilemma coiled in your chest, tender and raw, a slow burning fire fed by the shared solitude of two souls one in a metal ship slicing through the void, the other in a concrete tower under earthly skies.
For now, you rose, slinging your bag over your shoulder, the strap biting into your skin like a promise you weren't ready to keep. But the pull was there, insistent as gravity, drawing you back toward the screen that waited in your room.
The glow of your laptop screen bathed your bedroom in a soft, ethereal black and green, turning the cluttered space into a makeshift command center suspended between worlds.
It was well past midnight now, the campus outside your window hushed under a blanket of stars that felt mocking in their proximity close enough to touch if you stretched, yet infinitely distant compared to the man on the other end of this improbable line.
Your desk lamp flickered faintly, casting elongated shadows across the scattered notes from Professor Hale's class, their edges curling like whispers of forgotten equations. The air in the room hung heavy with the remnants of your all nighter the tangy bite of cooling ramen broth from a bowl pushed aside hours ago, the faint putrid whiff from your overheating processor, and the subtle, comforting musk of your oversized hoodie, pulled tight around you like armor against the chill seeping through the single pane window.
Your fingers, chilled from the draft, hovered over the keys, the plastic cool and unyielding beneath them, as if the keyboard itself sensed the gravity of what you were about to reveal.
You took a breath, the kind that rattled in your chest like loose change in a pocket, and began typing. The cursor blinked patiently, a steady heartbeat in the digital void separating you from the Hail Mary.
“Hey, it's me again. I'm a software engineering major, working on predictive models for harnessing the Sun's energy to speed up algae growth, think solar powered superfood for the apocalypse and real time tracking of astrophage blooms. Totally nerdy stuff. Anyway, while I was running some code to test signal relays and satellite algorithms, I guess my experimental tweaks intercepted your live comms? Your ship's out there observing and experimenting in real time, and boom accidental hack. Sorry not sorry?”
Hitting enter felt like launching a probe into uncharted space, your heart thudding in sync with the fan's low whirl. The seconds stretched, elastic and taut, until his response flooded the screen in a cascade of text that made your eyes widen.
He was taken aback, that much was clear from the rapid fire paragraphs waves of information surging over him like a solar flare. Relief? Terror? Or some cocktail of both that left him reeling at the thought of a college kid breaching his interstellar fortress.
You could almost picture it, him in that cramped cockpit, brawn frame tensed against the acceleration couch, his face those sharp features from the interviews, etched with the lines of too many sleepless missions paling under the console's amber glow as he processed the intrusion. Then, the punchline landed.
“You’re getting an A, for sure.”
A laugh bubbled up from your throat, unbidden and bright, cutting through the room's stale quiet like a comet's tail. You clapped a hand over your mouth, but it was too late the sound echoed off the cinderblock walls, startling you into a grin. Imagining the crinkle at the corners of his eyes, that signature quirk from the old press clips where he'd deflect heavy questions with a wry twist of his lips, made your cheeks warm. He was out there, cracking jokes amid the void, and somehow, it bridged the gap just a fraction.
Emboldened, you typed back, fingers dancing now with a lightness you hadn't felt all day.
“How’s space?”
His reply came slower, measured, sidestepping the shadows you sensed lurking in his subtext, the impending doom coiled in his chest like a spring, the ghosts of comrades he'd watched drift into the black. No, he wasn't ready for that confessional dive.
“Totally super cool.”
You chuckled again, softer this time, the sound muffled as you leaned back in your creaky desk chair, its springs protesting like an old friend ribbing you. Boring? Understatement of the century. But there was a intellectual wit in the brevity, a relatable deflection that screamed adulting in the apocalypse.
Picturing him out there, surrounded by blinking readouts and the endless starfield, boiling down cosmic isolation to a tourist brochure line, it was almost endearing.
“Seen any aliens yet?”
You fired off, curiosity laced with a playful nudge, testing the waters of this bizarre rapport. Quicker this time, his words zipped back.
“Dont joke about that. It's actually an irrational fear I have.”
Your fingers paused mid air, the keyboard's faint clicks falling silent as a flutter stirred in your chest not just intrigue, but something warmer, like sunlight filtering through storm clouds. His vulnerability peeked through the screen, raw and unexpected, making the distance feel less like a barrier and more like a shared secret.
You told yourself it was just the thrill of the connection, the absurdity of chatting with a space legend via glitchy code, but the warmth lingered, pooling low and insistent.
Not sure if it was too soon, hell, you'd been at this for what, hours now? your mind wandered to the crew, those faceless figures from the mission briefings, sealed in their tin can hurtling through the dark.
“Has any of the crew made any interactions outside the ship?”
The pause that followed was interminable, the cursor's blink stretching into eternity, each flash a metronome counting the weight of unspoken truths. Your room seemed to hold its breath with you the string lights dimming slightly as your laptop battery dipped, the distant hum of a vending machine in the hall fading to white noise. When his response finally materialized, it was clipped, heavy.
“No it's been quiet.”
A beat, then.
“Too quiet.”
Your stomach tightened, a visceral twist that had nothing to do with the half eaten granola bar on your desk. Loneliness, typed out in stark pixels, sounded so achingly human, so tangible it clawed at your own isolation. Why you? Why this glitchy backdoor the only lifeline piercing his solitude? Fingers moving slowly, deliberate, you typed to bridge the chasm without prodding too deep.
“Sometimes quiet is good. Makes life feel slower.”
He stared at the words, the ship's hum a constant underscore to his thoughts. How was some college kid dispensing life advice like a pint sized therapist? He was double your age, probably scarred by lesson plans and lab explosions long before she'd aced her first midterm. But damn if it didn't land, a gentle nudge against the isolation gnawing at his edges. He liked the rhythm of it, the easy back and forth that felt less like interrogation and more like camaraderie. Entertaining it further couldn't hurt.
“It wasn’t much different on Earth.”
Your brows furrowed, creasing the space between them as you leaned closer to the screen, the glow reflecting in your eyes like distant nebulae.
“How so?”
“The loneliness."
The words hung there, simple and stark, pulling your thoughts back to the crew the team he'd launched with, packed into that pressurized pod like sardines in a survival suit. Confusion bubbled up, relatable in its everyday logic.
“But you're surrounded by the other astronauts in a tin can.”
A slight laugh escaped him, huffed through his nose in the confines of the cockpit, the sound swallowed by the recyclers' whir. He pushed his glasses up his nose. It would've been funny, pitch perfect cosmic irony, if the circumstances didn't carve it hollow. His fingers tapped out the truth, steady as a heartbeat monitor. His bottom lip tucked between his teeth, glancing at the keyboard and the screen.
“It’s just me.”
You froze, the cursor's blink the only movement on your screen as his words sank in, heavy as asteroid debris. No immediate reply from you, just the quiet digestion, the room's shadows deepening as empathy wrapped around you like a chill draft. Finally, soft and sincere.
“Im sorry.”
“Dont be.”
Your lips tightened, a thoughtful press as you racked your brain for a lifeline, something to haul the mood from the brink without dismissing the ache. The clock on your nightstand glowed 2:17 a.m., a reminder of how the hours had slipped away in this digital confessional. Funny, wasn't it? You, who stumbled over small talk at coffee lines and ghosted group chats, had poured out paragraphs to a stranger, an astronaut, no less via a hacked interface that probably violated a dozen treaties. Easier this way, pixels over people, no awkward eye contact or fumbling pauses.
“Im stuck on Earth, you’re stuck in space, friends?”
You hit send on the olive branch, hoping it landed light, not too forward though after spilling guts across the void, what was one more leap? His reply came swift, warm as a solar flare.
“Already are.”
A smile tugged at your lips, genuine and slow, chasing away the room's lingering chill. In that moment, the room's confines felt a little less like a cage, the stars outside a little less indifferent. Two loners, tethered by code and coincidence, trading quips in the quiet hours, it was the start of something improbably real, witty and warm against the cold expanse.
The Hail Mary drifted onward, a lone speck in the infinite black, its hull whispering secrets to the void with every faint creak of expanding metal under the sun's distant gaze. Two days had slipped by since that last flicker of words on the console. The silence had settled in like frost on a winter window, creeping into every corner of his world.
The ship's rhythm, once a monotonous hum of life support and engine purrs, now amplified the emptiness the soft whoosh of air recyclers, the occasional ping of telemetry data scrolling unread across screens, the weightless drift of a stray protein bar wrapper orbiting his bunk like a mocking satellite.
He sat there in the dim glow of the lab module, the lights casting long, ethereal shadows that danced across the grated floors and bulkheads, turning the cramped space into a cavern of solitude.
Isolation wasn't new; it was the mission's cruel companion but this felt sharper, like a blade honed by that brief spark of connection. He tugged at the elastic waistband of his boxers, the fabric worn thin from endless lounging, and let his body curl slightly in the work chair.
His mind wandered back to you, unbidden, piecing together fragments from the ether a software whiz, algae models and astrophage trackers, that easy laugh in text form.
What did you look like? He pictured hair tied back in a hasty ponytail, eyes bright with late night caffeine highs, maybe freckles dusting a nose buried in code. Or worse, the cynical voice in his head chimed some basement dwelling troll, all greasy bangs and conspiracy posters, typing from a lair of empty energy drink cans. He snorted softly, the sound echoing hollowly, a coarse chuckle that didn't quite reach his eyes. Rubbing a hand over his face, stubble rasping like sandpaper.
He wished you'd ping again, that green cursor blinking like a heartbeat in the dark. But reaching out? Nah, too clingy for a guy who'd just admitted his crew was ghosts. He drifted through questions in his mind, rehearsing them like a nervous kid prepping for a date. What's your favorite constellation? Ever wonder if algae dreams of the stars? Keep it light, don't scare you off with the void's weight.
The console hummed nearby, its green interface a siren call, tempting him to poke at the code, see if he could nudge the signal stronger. And then, like a comet streaking through fogged thoughts, the idea ignited video.
Why settle for pixels when he could bridge the gap with faces, voices? A simple upgrade to the relay tweaks the bandwidth, patching the vulnerability you'd exploited. See you for real, catch those eyes he'd imagined, maybe even share a real laugh that echoed beyond text. His pulse quickened at the notion, a warm flush creeping up his neck despite the ship's steady 20 degree chill.
As the fantasy sharpened, what if you had a smile that lit up like a supernova, soft curves under oversized hoodies, fingers nimble on keys and maybe elsewhere? his hand drifted lower, almost unconsciously. The thin cotton of his boxers tented slightly under the growing ache, and he palmed himself through the fabric, a slow, deliberate pressure that sent a shiver racing up his spine.
Space made everything feel amplified, his body responded with a lazy heat, blood rushing southward in the weightless drift. He bit back a groan, eyes fluttering shut as he imagined your voice, breathy and curious, asking about his day among the stars. God, he was pathetic forty something astronaut, science teacher turned savior, reduced to this by a hacker's hello.
Felt like a virgin fumbling in the dark, heart hammering over the first girl who'd tossed him a line. His strokes grew firmer, thumb circling the outline of his hardening length, the friction building a low burn that contrasted the cool air whispering over his skin.
Crazy over text from a stranger light years away might as well launch himself into a black hole, let the event horizon swallow the embarrassment. But the desire coiled tighter, tender and raw, mingling loneliness with a spark of something deeper, a yearning for connection that went beyond code. He slowed his hand, breathing ragged in the quiet, the ship's hum a distant lullaby as he floated there, suspended between isolation and impossible want.
The third day dawned or what passed for dawn in the eternal night of the Hail Mary's orbit with him hunched over the workbench in the engineering bay, the faint buzz of soldering iron filling the air like a persistent whisper.
His fingers, callused from years of jury rigging prototypes back on Earth, danced with delicate precision over the circuit board, tweaking the final relays for the video patch. The labs module's lights cast long shadows across the exposed wiring, glinting off the half assembled comms array that sprawled like a mechanical spider on the console.
Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the controlled chill, the recycled air carrying a sharp tang of flux and overheated silicon. He'd barely slept, mind replaying your last message. A lot like a loop of forbidden code, warm and insistent in the cold void.
Every solder joint felt like a step closer to bridging the impossible distance, to seeing the curve of your smile or the way your eyes might light up mid sentence. The ship hummed around him, a symphony of soft whirs and distant vents, but his world had narrowed to this the glow of the oscilloscope, the flicker of test signals bouncing back green. A weight pressing on his chest like unspent thrust, but you? You were the variable that disrupted the equations, turning isolation into something almost bearable.
The console chimed then, a sharp trill that cut through the haze, and his head snapped up so fast he nearly tangled in the tethers. His heart kicked like a thruster firing cold, a rush of adrenaline flooding his veins hot. The screen bloomed with your words.
“Sorry been busy with classes.”
A grin split his face, wide and unguarded, the kind that pulled at muscles he'd forgotten how to use. Happiness bloomed in his chest, fierce and unbidden, chasing away the shadows that had crept in during the wait.
Three days seventy two hours of staring at blank screens, replaying old logs, wondering if the connection had frayed like a worn tether. But here you were, slipping back into his digital orbit as if the gulf between worlds was just a skipped coffee break. He floated there for a beat, weightless in more ways than one, the soldering iron cooling forgotten in his grip. God, it felt good. Like the first breath after holding it too long, or the sun breaking through the milky ways hazy atmosphere in his wildest mission dreams.
He didn't type right away, letting the moment settle, his fingers drumming a silent rhythm on the console's edge. Jealousy flickered at the edges of that joy, a petty spark he shoved down quick classes? Professors droning on about algorithms while you hunched over notebooks, surrounded by chatter and the scent of chalk dust? It twisted something in him, imagining your attention pulled away, scattered among strangers who couldn't possibly understand the fire you'd accidentally ignited across the stars. Like I'm not the highlight reel here, he thought, the words bitter on his tongue even unspoken. What if those lectures swallowed you whole, left him adrift again in this tin can, just another blip on a forgotten feed?
But then the flip side hit, softening the edge those same classes, that relentless grind of sims and data dives, were the very glitch that had beamed you into his life. Your project, your midnight tweaks chasing astrophage hints through satellite streams, had cracked open his ship's firewalls like a serendipitous wormhole. Without it, he'd be alone with the ramen packets and the endless starfield, no witty barbs to pierce the quiet, no voice (text bound, sure, but alive) to remind him he wasn't erased from the universe. Gratitude tangled with the envy, turning it into something almost tender, a quiet acknowledgment that fate had a wry sense of humor.
Shaking off the tangle, he leaned forward, the prototype's final test light winking affirmatively beside him.
“No worries, classes sound like a solid alibi. Mine involved dodging cosmic rays and arguing with a finicky antenna. How'd yours go? Any breakthroughs that rival hacking a spaceship?”
He hit enter, the words laced with that dry lilt he hoped carried his relief, masking the way his pulse still thrummed from your return. The engineering bay felt less claustrophobic now, the air warmer against his skin, as if your message had nudged the life support up a notch.
Back in the bedroom, the afternoon sun slanted through half drawn blinds, dusting your desk in golden motes that danced over the scattered printouts and cooling mug of tea. The lecture hall's echo still lingered in your ears, the professor's voice droning on vector calculus, your mind half there, half wandering to the man soldering away in silence.
Guilt had nipped at you all morning, a persistent itch amid the rustle of notebooks and the faint hum of the overhead projector. You'd checked your phone a dozen times during breaks, thumb hovering over the app that bridged your worlds, but classes had chained you down group discussions on energy models, a pop quiz that demanded focus you could barely muster.
Now, free at last, the weight lifted as you watched his reply pop up, that familiar humor wrapping around the screen like a comforting arm. A soft laugh escaped you, easing the tension in your shoulders, the room's clutter textbooks piled like fallen stars, a forgotten hoodie draped over the chair fading into the background.
“Breakthroughs? Nah, just survived a debate on quantum entanglement without dozing off. Your antenna drama sounds way more exciting. Jealous of the stars yet?”
His chuckle rumbled low in the module, vibrating through the bulkhead as he read it, the prototype humming to life beside him with a series of affirming beeps. Jealous? Of the stars? He was jealous of the desk that got to feel your elbows propped on it, the air that carried your sighs. But he kept it light, fingers flying.
“Stars are overrated, cold and distant. I made something. A prototype. Video feed's primed. Hoping to bridge the faceless words, want to try?”
Your breath hitched, the sun warming your cheeks as you stared at the words, anticipation coiling slow and sweet in your belly. The room felt smaller, more alive, the distant murmur of campus life outside your window a faint underscore to the pull toward him.
“Show me the cosmos, Ryland.”
The feed flickered to life with a hesitant shimmer, the hue blooming across your laptop screen like the first tentative strokes of dawn on a frost kissed windowpane. Pixels danced and settled, resolving your image into crystalline clarity against the cluttered sanctuary of your room the walls a patchwork of faded posters constellations mapped in marker ink, band logos peeling at the corners from the relentless humidity of late nights and the soft, diffused glow of a desk lamp casting elongated shadows that played across the rumpled sheets of your unmade bed.
The air in your space hung heavy with the mingled scents of instant noodles cooling in a bowl nearby, the faint citrus tang of your shampoo lingering from an earlier shower, and the earthy scent of rain soaked soil drifting in through the cracked window, where the dying sun painted the horizon in strokes of molten orange and bruised violet. In this pocket of solitude, the world contracted to the intimate glow of the screen, your reflection staring back with wide eyes framed by tousled hair, catching the light like threads of spun copper.
He felt the ship's systems hum beneath him like a living entity, the steady vibration of the life support recyclers thrumming through the deck plating and into his bones, a constant reminder of the fragile bubble separating him from the indifferent vacuum beyond the reinforced viewports.
The console before him bathed his face in cool blue light, etching sharp contrasts along the rugged lines of his features. The faint stubble shadowing his jaw a little more darker, the creases at the corners of his eyes deepened by years of squinting into telescopes and troubleshooting engines under the relentless sun. He was older than you'd imagined, not the boyish hero of news reels, but a man weathered by time and trials, his frame solid and unyielding in the confines of the harness that kept him anchored amid the weightless drift. The white 'Horse Shoe Bend Auto Club' shirt, a relic from his pre mission days, stretched across his chest, the fabric softened by countless cycles through a washing machine, its faded lettering a testament to simpler times spent wrenching on carburetors and swapping stories over cold beers. It clung to him in the recycled air, hinting at the breadth of his shoulders, the subtle play of tendons in his neck as he swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing with the force of the moment.
You were taken aback, your breath hitching in your throat as his image sharpened the way his messy hair, threaded with silver at the temples, curled slightly at the ends from the humidity controls fighting a losing battle against his natural waves. He looked at you not with the polished detachment of a broadcast interview, but with raw, unguarded surprise, his blue eyes framed with gold from his glasses like distant stars widening as they traced the soft contours of your face, the gentle slope of your shoulders beneath the oversized hoodie that swallowed you whole.
You wondered, in that electric instant, if the age between you registered for him as a chasm or a curiosity if a man who'd stared down the apocalypse could find something stirring in the fresh bloom of your youth, the unscarred optimism that still clung to you like morning dew. The thought sent a flush creeping up your neck, warm and insistent, making you shift in your chair, the wooden legs scraping softly against the linoleum floor, a sound swallowed by the sudden roar of your pulse in your ears.
He, too, reeled from the impact, his hand tightening on the armrest until the synthetic leather creaked under his grip. The void outside the porthole seemed to press closer, the starfield a glittering abyss that paled against the warmth radiating from your pixelated form. He'd pictured you in fragments during the text exchanges, clever fingers flying over keys, a mind sharp as a laser probe but this? This was visceral, the way your lips parted slightly in surprise, the faint blush that ghosted your cheeks when you smiled tentatively, the subtle rise and fall of your chest mirroring his own quickened breaths. Desire flickered low in his gut, unbidden and fierce, tempered by the tenderness of seeing you real, human, alive in a way the sterile confines of his ship had begun to erode. The air recyclers whispered on, circulating the faint metallic tang of the cabin, but it couldn't dispel the heat building between you, a tension coiling like a spring in the ether.
“Oh. Wow.” He breathed, blinking rapidly, like each blink took a photo of you. The words escaping in a gravelly rush, roughened by disuse and the dry swallow of recycled oxygen, carrying across the universe with a vulnerability that made your skin prickle. “I didn’t expect you to be pretty.” His voice wrapped around the admission like smoke from a dying fire, warm and hazy, laced with that understated awe that made your heart clench.
The connection stuttered then, a cascade of digital interference fracturing the feed into a mosaic of static snow, your image dissolving into abstract bursts of color before reforming with a reluctant snap. The interruption amplified the intimacy, leaving his confession to reverberate in the suspended silence, the air in your room thickening as if the very atmosphere held its breath. Your fingers dug into the edge of the desk, nails biting into the scarred wood, as a laugh bubbled up nervously, disbelieving to bridge the gap.
“What?” you managed, the single word laced with a breathy edge, your eyes searching his through the renewed clarity, the flush deepening to a bloom across your cheeks and neck.
He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through the speakers like distant thunder rolling over parched earth, his free hand rising to scrub at the back of his neck in a gesture so endearingly human it tugged at something deep within you. The motion pulled the shirt taut across his torso, outlining the steady strength beneath, and when his gaze returned to yours, it carried a spark of that wry humor, a deflection wrapped in genuine warmth that eased the raw edge without extinguishing the spark.
“You know,” His tone dipping into a conspiratorial murmur, as if sharing a secret in the hush of a crowded room, “You never told me your name.” The question hung there, simple yet profound, a thread pulling you closer across the cosmic divide.
You offered it up then, your name spilling from your lips in a soft cadence, the vowels rounding with the subtle inflection of your voice, carrying the everyday rhythm of late night confessions and half remembered dreams. It felt intimate, exposing, like baring the curve of your collarbone in the dim light.
He repeated it slowly, almost reverently, the syllables tumbling over his tongue as if testing their weight, savoring the shape of them like a rare melody plucked from the silence of space. His head tilted in a languid nod, the console lights catching the faint sheen of sweat at his hairline, and his eyes softened, crinkling at the edges with a smile that reached deep. “I like that name.” The words a gentle caress, evoking the imagined brush of callused fingers along your jaw, steady and unhurried.
“Thanks?” The confusion lifting at the end in a playful lilt, but your gaze betrayed the undercurrent the way it lingered on the faint laugh lines framing his mouth, the silver strands that only amplified his appeal, transforming him from a distant icon into a man of tangible depth, worlds removed from the tentative explorations of your past entanglements.
The sun outside your window surrendered fully now, its final rays bleeding into the deepening twilight, the sky shifting from fiery amber to a velvet indigo laced with the first hesitant stars. The room cooled gradually, the air carrying the crisp bite of evening, mingling with the faint vanilla from a forgotten candle on your shelf, as campus lights winked on like fireflies awakening in the gathering dusk. Your world funneled to him. The subtle shift of his harness as he leaned forward, the way his breath fogged the camera lens ever so slightly before the filters cleared it, syncing with your own in a rhythm that pulsed with unspoken invitation.
From that precipice, the conversation unfurled like a solar sail catching the wind effortless, expansive, delving into the marrow of your existences with a hunger born of isolation. You wove tales of Earth's chaotic tapestry. The symphony of rain pattering on awning metal during unexpected downpours, the electric buzz of a lecture hall alive with the scratch of pens and the mumble of half formed ideas, the quiet triumph of debugging code until the screen bloomed with success, lines of green text like verdant fields after drought.
He reciprocated with the stark poetry of the cosmos the silken whisper of astrophage samples swirling in zero g containment, the bitter edge of ramen chased with the synthetic tang of rationed fruit, the profound stillness broken only by the occasional ping of incoming data, a lifeline to a world he'd left behind. Laughter threaded through the exchange, dry and effervescent. Your anecdote about a professor whose monotone rivaled the ship's autopilot drawing a bark of genuine mirth from him, his recounting of a toolkit revolt in microgravity tools orbiting like mischievous satellites prompting your unrestrained peal that echoed in the empty module, warming the chill metal walls.
Tension simmered beneath the surface, a slow building heat that manifested in stolen glances held too long. The arc of your neck as you tilted your head in thought, exposed and inviting; the flex of his forearm as he adjusted a dial absentmindedly, veins standing in stark relief against skin.
Pauses stretched, laden with potential the brush of your fingertips near the keyboard, echoing the hover of his over the console, as if proximity could transmute into touch, dissolving the barriers of light speed lag and impenetrable hulls.
Chemistry crackled in the ether, electric and undeniable, each shared vulnerability a spark igniting the fuse. His quiet admission of doubting his heroism, your confession of nights spent staring at ceilings, wondering if ambition was just another form of running.
Midnight encroached on silken feet, the sun's embers long extinguished, leaving the sky outside a profound black pricked with constellations that seemed to lean in, eavesdropping on your unraveling. Your room transformed into a cocoon of shadows, the laptop's glow the sole beacon, illuminating the faint freckles across your nose, the way your eyelids grew heavy yet reluctant to close.
The air grew thicker, laced with the subtle musk of your skin warmed by the screen's radiation, the tick of the wall clock a metronome to your deepening bond. You'd peeled back layers in those stolen hours his boyhood dreams of racing across open deserts, soured by the weight of global salvation; your tangled fears of mediocrity in a field of giants, the ache of empty weekends in a city that pulsed without you.
It was as if you'd mapped each other's constellations, the scars of old heartbreaks, the north stars of unspoken hopes, etched into the digital stream with a precision that felt fated.
“I wish I would’ve met you sooner,” Your words emerging raw and unarmored, threading through the speakers like a fragile comet's tail, curling around him in the frigid expanse of his cabin. The confession bore the sting of regret, the moon's pallid light now slipping through your blinds in silvery ribbons, tracing cool paths along your arms and the curve of your exposed wrist.
His face shadowed subtly, the overhead lights carving hollows beneath his cheekbones, his expression a mosaic of longing and restraint. He shifted in his seat, drawing your eye to the steady rise of his chest.
Leaning closer, his gaze ensnared yours with an intensity that made the air between screens hum with latent energy, a magnetic pull defying the physics of distance. “No you don’t,” He countered, shaking his head, his voice a velvet rumble, firm yet laced with that self effacing wit that masked deeper truths. “I was a loser on Earth. Still am now, but a cool loser since not everyone goes to space.” The joke landed with feather light grace, a humorous veil over the vulnerability, but his eyes, those storm tossed seas reflecting the infinite black held fast, the chemistry between you igniting like a flare in the void, drawing you inexorably nearer.
The question rose unbidden, heavy as the gathering night, your voice fracturing on its edges like thin ice underfoot. “Are you ever coming back?” It lingered in the midnight hush, the laptop's fan whirring a frantic dirge, the battery icon pulsing crimson in accusation, the raw plea etched in the lines of your face, the parted lips, the wide eyed hope warring with dread.
Silence bloomed, profound and eloquent, his jaw clenching with a faint tic of muscle, the unspoken verdict settling like cosmic dust in the wake of a supernova, no, not in the way that mattered, the mission's inexorable tide pulling him further into the dark.
His hand ascended slowly, deliberately, palm pressing against the lab tables unyielding surface in a mirror to your own gesture, fingers splaying wide as if to bridge the gulf, to feel the phantom warmth of your skin. The yearning in that motion was palpable, a tender ache that twisted toward something fiercer, more primal the imagined press of bodies, breaths mingling in shared orbit.
Then the feed rebelled, pixels splintering into chaotic fractals, the audio distorting into a mournful keen as the power reserves faltered. “Wait!” Lunging forward, but darkness claimed the screen in an abrupt quench, the room plunging into inky repose broken only by the faint glow of your phone on the nightstand.
The laptop's chassis radiated a dying warmth against your thighs, the absence of his voice a visceral void, like the sudden chill of winter wind stripping away summer's embrace. You remained frozen, gaze fixed on the blank void, the echo of his timbre haunting the shadows, your chest tight with the bloom of an infatuation both foolish and fervent a crush on a specter glimpsed in fleeting frames, his rough hewn allure and quiet strength stirring yearnings you'd scarcely named.
Childish, the doubt whispered, curling in your gut like smoke; he'd never cross that threshold, never trace the lines of your form with hands that knew the spin of wrenches and the spin of fate. Did he harbor the same shadowed interest, that blend of carnal pull and soul deep affinity? The uncertainty gnawed, sharp as asteroid grit, yet beneath it flickered defiance. Miracles unfolded daily in this universe, worlds saved from invisible foes, signals piercing the black. Why not yours?
The night enveloped you, stars indifferent sentinels beyond the glass, but in the quiet aftermath, you savored the residue, the flavor of your name on his lips, the tether of connection enduring like a persistent signal in the cosmic noise.
Your eyelids fluttered open to the insistent trill of your alarm, a synthetic birdsong the faint scent of brewing coffee wafting under the door like a promise of normalcy. But normalcy felt fractured, your mind still adrift in the echo of his voice, that gravelly timbre wrapping around your name like a secret shared in the hush of predawn. The laptop sat dormant on your desk, its screen a blank mirror reflecting the disarray, scattered notes on astrophage trajectories, an empty mug ringed with the dregs of yesterday's tea, and the faint outline of your handprint on the edge where you'd gripped it too tightly during the feed's final sputter.
You pushed yourself up, the mattress creaking under your weight, sheets tangling around your legs like reluctant lovers. A glance at the clock confirmed the inevitable. Class in under an hour, and the gnawing realization hit like a rogue asteroid. Your project submission, the predictive model for satellite data integration, was due at the start of lecture.
Panic bloomed in your chest, sharp and cold, mingling with the stale air of the room, heavy with the remnants of unwashed laundry piled in the corner. You'd been so consumed by the digital tether to him, those hours dissolving into a haze of laughter and confessions, that the real world had blurred at the edges. No model rendered, no simulations run just the ghost of his smile lingering in your thoughts, the way his eyes had crinkled with that wry amusement, pulling you deeper into an orbit you couldn't escape.
The campus unfolded around you in a symphony of routine as you hurried across the groups, backpack slung over one shoulder, the crisp air nipping at your exposed skin and carrying the earthy perfume of fallen leaves crunching underfoot. Students clustered in animated knots, steam rising from paper cups clutched against the chill, their voices a babel of exam woes and weekend plans that felt worlds away from the cosmic intimacy you'd tasted. Your breath came in visible puffs, syncing with the quickened beat of your heart, each step a reminder of the secret humming beneath your surface like a hidden engine, propelling you forward while whispering of distances unbridgeable.
The lecture hall loomed at the end of the engineering building, its brutalist concrete facade softened by ivy creeping up the walls in defiant green tendrils. Inside, the air hummed with the low buzz of fluorescent lights and the shuffle of bodies settling into tiered seats, the scent of chalk dust and overheated electronics thickening the atmosphere.
You slipped into your usual spot near the front, the worn armrest cool against your palm, but before you could even unzip your bag, a shadow fell across your desk. Professor Hale was tall and angular, with wire rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and a perpetual furrow etched between his brows hovered there, his tweed jacket shedding faint motes of lint like stars from a disintegrating galaxy.
"A word?" His voice was measured, carrying the quiet authority of someone who'd mentored prodigies and watched them falter. He gestured toward the side aisle, away from the gathering crowd, and you rose on numb legs, the scrape of your chair echoing like an accusation in the relative quiet.
The hallway beyond the doors was a narrow vein of linoleum, fluorescent strips overhead casting a sterile glow that washed out the colors of your shirt, making the world feel two dimensional. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, the fabric of his sleeves whispering against the cinderblock as he fixed you with a gaze that probed without malice, curious, concerned, laced with the disappointment of unmet expectations.
"You've always been one of my sharpest," Tone even, like the steady drip of a faucet in an empty room. The words landed softly, but they stirred the knot in your stomach, twisting it tighter. The narrow window, a pigeon fluttered against the glass, its wings a frantic blur before it veered away into the gray sky.
"Your work on the energy harnessing algorithms last semester? Brilliant. Predictive models that anticipated variables the rest of the class hadn't even touched. So, when I didn't see your submission this morning well, it's unlike you. Everything alright? Personal issues? Overloaded schedule?"
Heat crept up your neck, not from shame but from the proximity of the truth you'd buried deep the nights blurred into one endless conversation, Ryland's dorky jokes cutting through your isolation like a laser through fog, his confessions drawing out your own in a vulnerable dance that left you breathless. You could picture him now, adrift in the Hail Mary's confines, perhaps staring at his own console, wondering if the silence meant you'd drifted away. The thought sent a pang through you, sharp as the chill seeping from the floor tiles, but admitting it? To spill the secret of a man light years distant, a hero whose solitude mirrored your own in ways that felt fated? No, that was a bridge too far, a vulnerability that could unravel everything.
You swallowed, forcing a smile that felt brittle at the edges, your fingers twisting the strap of your backpack until the nylon bit into your skin. "Just... got caught up in some tweaks," The lie slipping out smooth as recycled oxygen, laced with just enough technical jargon to ring true. “The satellite data feeds were glitchier than expected astrophage interference patterns throwing off the baselines. I was iterating on a workaround late into the night, and time slipped away."
Hale’s eyes narrowed slightly, the lines around them deepening like craters under scrutiny, but he nodded, the gesture slow and appraising. The hallway echoed with the distant murmur of the lecture beginning without you, voices rising in a crescendo of rustling papers and the professor's opening remarks filtering through the door like muffled thunder. "I get it, passion projects can eclipse deadlines. But talent like yours doesn't excuse sloppiness. Mock something up by the end of the day? A variant model, perhaps? Focus on the core outputs energy yield projections, tracking efficacy. No need for the full integration if you're still refining. Just show me you're still in the game."
Relief washed over you, cool and fleeting, as he clapped a hand on your shoulder firm, paternal, the warmth of his palm seeping through your hoodie like a brief anchor to the tangible world. "Don't let it slide again," his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble, the faintest hint of a smile cracking his stern facade. "The field's cutthroat enough without self sabotage."
He turned then, the door swinging open with a hydraulic sigh, admitting a gust of warmer air scented with dry erase markers and the faint mechanical smell of projectors.
You lingered in the hallway a beat longer, the cool wall pressing against your back, grounding you as your mind raced ahead. A mock up simple enough. Pivot to a terrestrial simulation, repurpose public datasets on solar flares and algal blooms, fabricate the outputs to mirror the required details without dipping into the live feeds that had led you to him.
No risk of pinging Ryland's systems, no accidental breach that could sever the fragile thread between you. The harm in secrecy? None, you told yourself, the words a mantra against the flutter in your chest. It was yours a private constellation, unmarred by scrutiny or protocol. Professors pried into code, not hearts; they mapped algorithms, not the quiet ache of longing for a voice across the void.
Back in your seat, the lecture blurred into a haze of equations scrawled on the board, chalk dust swirling in the projector beam like nebulae birthing stars. Your notebook filled with sketches, but beneath it all simmered the undercurrent the memory of his laugh, low and rumbling, evoking the imagined brush of his fingers along your arm, steady and unhurried.
By afternoon, in the dim glow of the computer lab keyboards clacking, the air humming with the whir of cooling fans you pieced together the facade. Lines of code flowed under your fingertips, elegant and deceptive, yielding graphs of projected efficiencies that danced on the screen in vibrant blues and greens, echoing the real without invoking it.
As the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the quad through the lab's windows, you hit submit, the confirmation chime a hollow victory. No mention of the man who'd stolen your focus, his image flickering in your mind's eye the silver at his temples catching the console light, the subtle strength in his jaw as he leaned into the camera, eyes holding yours with a gravity that defied energy. The secret nestled safe, a warm ember against the encroaching dusk, promising more stolen moments in the quiet hours when the world slept and the stars aligned just for you.
The door to your apartment clicked shut behind you with a soft, definitive thud, sealing out the clamor of the evening campus, the distant laughter of students spilling, the rustle of wind through skeletal oaks, and the faint, acrid tang of exhaust from the shuttle bus rumbling away.
Your backpack hit the floor with a muffled thump, keys jangling as they followed, and you exhaled, the tension of the day uncoiling like a spring finally released. The room enveloped you in its familiar hush the faint hum of the fridge in the corner, the subtle creak of floorboards settling under your weight, and the lingering scent of vanilla from the candle you'd burned last night, now a waxy stub on the windowsill.
Twilight bled into indigo, streetlamps flickering to life like hesitant stars, casting elongated shadows across the rumpled bed where your thoughts had wandered all day back to him, to the gravel in his voice, the way his presence filled the screen like a gravitational pull you couldn't resist.
You sank onto the edge of the mattress, the springs sighing in protest, and fired up the laptop with fingers that trembled just slightly from the anticipation. The screen bloomed to life, its glow warming your face in the dimming room, and you initiated the call without a second thought.
All day, through the drone of lectures and the frantic tap of keys in the lab, he'd been a constant undercurrent a stolen glance at your phone during break, imagining his wry smile; the brush of your thigh against the desk as you pictured his hand there instead, steady and warm.
The connection stabilized with a familiar chime, pixels resolving into the confines of the ship that stark, utilitarian cockpit bathed in the soft light of control panels, the hum a perpetual whisper in the background like the ship's own restless breath.
Ryland appeared, framed by the camera's unyielding eye, and your heart stuttered at the sight of him. He was slouched in his lab chair, a black I Had Potential shirt clinging to his frame in a way that spoke of too many hours in space, the fabric rumpled and faded, hugging the breadth of his shoulders and the subtle definition of his chest.
His hair was disarray, as if he'd run a hand through it one too many times, and dark stubble growing, giving him that rugged edge that made your pulse quicken. But there was something off his eyes, usually sharp with that calculated precision, darted sideways with a mix of exasperation and something almost like glee. The ship looked... different. Cluttered. Hoses and makeshift contraptions snaked across the console, and in the corner of the frame, a peculiar setup glinted under the lights a small, rocky outcrop secured in what looked like a hamster ball habitat, light reflecting against the glass panes.
“Hey.” His voice crackling through the speakers with that warm, lived in timbre that wrapped around you like a blanket fresh from the dryer. A grin tugged at his lips, but it was lopsided, edged with the absurdity of whatever chaos had unfolded. “You look like you survived the academic trenches. How's Earth treating its favorite hacker?”
You laughed, the sound bubbling up unbidden, easing the knot in your chest as you leaned closer to the screen, propping your chin on your hand. The room around you faded the glow of the laptop, the only anchor, pulling you into his world. “Barely. Classes were a blur. But you... you look like you've had one hell of a day. What's with the mad scientist vibe? And that shirt is a bold choice for a guy who's supposed to be saving the galaxy.”
He chuckled, low and rumbling, rubbing the back of his neck in that nervous way that made your stomach flip. The motion drew your eye to the flex of his forearm, veins tracing paths under skin, and you bit your lip against the warmth spreading through you. “Oh, this old thing? Figured it was fitting. Also my irrational fear happened.” He paused for effect, his gaze locking onto yours through the feed, that spark of shared mischief igniting something deeper, a quiet thrill that hummed between you like static electricity. “Turns out, I'm not alone up here anymore. Meet Rocky.”
He shifted the camera with a casual swivel, angling it toward the habitat. There, in the lab, was... a rock. Not just any rock an alien, Erid spawned entity, its surface etched with faint, iridescent patterns that caught the light like bioluminescent veins. If you squinted, you could almost swear it pulsed with a subtle rhythm, alive in its foreign simplicity.
Ryland's voice dropped to a mock serious tone, laced with that dry humor that always pulled a smile from you. “Rocky, this is... well, my friend from Earth. The one who's been keeping me from going crazy.”
A series of clicks and chirps emanated from the speakers of Rocky's communication, translated in real time by whatever kludged software Ryland had whipped up. The rock bobbed slightly, as if nodding, and the audio rendered it into a gravelly, synthesized voice that sounded suspiciously like a chain smoker who'd seen better days. “Friend? From Earth? Is girlfriend?”
Ryland froze, his face flushing a shade that clashed hilariously with the black shirt, eyes widening like he'd been caught with his hand in the astrophage jar. He coughed, straightening up abruptly, the chair creaking under him as he fumbled for words. “Whoa, hey, no Rocky, buddy, pump the brakes. She's a friend. A colleague, even. You know, the kind who hacks into spaceships and saves lonely astronauts from themselves.”
His gaze flicked back to you, apologetic but twinkling with embarrassment, and the awkwardness only amplified the charm the way his ears pinked at the tips, the quick rake of fingers through his hair. It was cute, so much so that pierced the cosmic divide, making your chest ache with affection.
You couldn't help the giggle that escaped, covering your mouth as heat bloomed in your cheeks, mirroring his. The compatibility hit you then, sharp and sweet. His fumbling honesty bouncing off your easy laughter, weaving a thread that felt unbreakable despite the void. “Girlfriend, huh? Rocky's got better intuition than NASA, apparently.” Your voice teased, light and playful, but underneath thrummed the truth the pull toward him growing with every shared absurdity, every glance that lingered a beat too long.
Ryland groaned, but it dissolved into a laugh, genuine and freeing, his shoulders shaking as he leaned back, the tension easing from his frame. “Ignore him. Rocky's new to Earth lingo thinks every conversation's a rom com plot. But seriously, today's been a trip. Woke up to him commandeering the ship, rerouting power like he owns the place. Took over the entire vessel before I could even eat my ramen.” He gestured vaguely at the habitat, where Rocky emitted a series of smug chirps. “Rocky efficient. Human slow.” Ryland shot it a mock glare. “See? Cocky little gravel pit. But he's brilliant figured out astrophage tweaks I hadn't even dreamed of. Saved my ass, really.”
The way he talked about it, animated and alive, eyes lighting up as he described the chaos, the sparks from overloaded circuits, the frantic rigging in the dim glow of emergency lights drew you in deeper. You could picture him in that shirt, brow furrowed in concentration, a bead of sweat tracing down his temple. The image stirred something tender and heated, a slow simmer of desire tempered by the genuine spark of his mind, so like yours in its relentless curiosity. “Sounds like you've got a companion now. I’m jealous, my day's highlight was faking a model to cover for forgetting my homework because someone kept me up too late last night.” Your words carried a flirtatious hint, testing the waters, and his responding grin slowly, knowing sent a shiver down your spine.
“Guilty as charged.” Voice dropping an octave, the awkwardness from moments ago forgotten in the warmth of your rhythm. Rocky chirped again, oblivious, but neither of you paid it mind. In that suspended moment, with the ship's hum syncing to the quiet rhythm of your breaths, the distance felt illusory.
The glitch in the feed was a fleeting hiccup, a momentary stutter in the digital tether that bound you across the cosmos, but it served only to heighten the reluctance threading through Ryland's voice. He reached out instinctively, his fingers brushing the console as if he could steady the connection with sheer will. “Come on, don't bail on us now.” The words half to the screen, half to the indifferent machinery. The image sharpened again, your face reappearing in the warm lamplight of your dorm, eyes bright with amusement at his plea.
You tilted your head, a playful smirk tugging at your lips, the loose strands of your hair catching the light like threads of starlight. “Us? Already a package deal with the rock? I feel honored.” The words carried a teasing jest, and Ryland's flush deepened, but he recovered with a grin, the kind that crinkled the fine lines around his eyes and made the isolation of his ship feel a touch less vast.
Rocky's enclosure hummed to life in the background, the bioluminescent glow intensifying as if the alien were leaning in, his translated voice rumbling through the speakers with that gravelly edge part curiosity, part mischief. “Package? Like cargo? Humans bundle everything. Girlfriend cargo?” The question landed like a well timed asteroid, blunt and unfiltered, and Ryland's head snapped toward the shelf, his expression a mix of exasperation and reluctant fondness.
“Rocky!“ He pinched the bridge of his nose, walking and putting a foot against the bulkhead. The motion pulled his shirt taut across his shoulders, a subtle reminder of the body beneath the fabric, honed by necessity in this confined world.
You couldn't help the bubble of laughter that escaped, covering your mouth with one hand as your shoulders shook. The sound echoed softly in your room, mingling with the distant patter of rain against the windowpane, grounding you even as your pulse quickened at the easy camaraderie unfolding. “Girlfriend cargo? That's a new one. Rocky, if I'm cargo, do I get hazard pay?” You leaned forward, elbows on the desk, the sweater's soft weave brushing your arms, drawing his eyes for a fraction longer than necessary.
The rock's lights pulsed in what you imagined was delight, a series of rapid chirps translating into a dry chuckle. “Hazard? Space full hazards. But you fix code valuable cargo. Grace needs fixing too. Always bumping walls.” Ryland let out a bark of laughter, genuine and unrestrained, the sound reverberating through the feed like a warm current, chasing away the chill of the recycled air on his end.
“Those bumps are character building!” he protested, gesturing animatedly, his hands cutting through the air in exaggerated arcs. “And for the record, Rocky's the one who turned the nav console into his personal scratching post earlier. Scratched right through a diagnostic panel. I spent hours patching it while he supervised from the corner.” He shot the enclosure a sideways glance, mock accusatory, but the affection in his tone was unmistakable the way it softened at the edges, revealing the bond forged in the fire of survival.
Rocky didn't miss a beat, his response a smug vibration that the translator rendered with impeccable sarcasm. “Supervise efficient. You patch slow. Like human glue sticky mess.” You watched Ryland's face light up with indignation, his lips parting in a feigned scoff, and the sight sent a flutter through your chest, the banter pulling you deeper into their world, making the stars between you feel negotiable.
“Oh, come on, that's rich coming from the guy who glued his own sensor to the wall trying to improve the humidity levels.” You chimed in, your voice laced with mischief, drawing from the snippets Ryland had shared in texts the chaotic domesticity of sharing a ship with an extraterrestrial engineer. “What was it you called it? Optimal moisture matrix?” The reference hit its mark; Ryland's eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in playful retaliation, a spark of delight flashing across his features.
“You been paying attention, huh?” He drifted closer to the camera, the console's glow casting shadows that accentuated the stubble along his jaw, the subtle tension in his frame as he held your gaze. “Yeah, optimal disaster is more like it. Woke up to the whole habitat smelling like a wet cave. Rocky's idea of romance, apparently.” The word romance hung for a beat, unintended weight in it, and Rocky's lights flickered curiously.
“Romance? Like human bundling? You two bundle across stars?” The rock's innocence or was it calculated? ignited another round of laughter from you, your cheeks warming under the screen's scrutiny. Ryland groaned theatrically, running a hand through his hair, tousling it further into that effortlessly disheveled state that made your fingers itch to smooth it back.
“Rocky, buddy, you're killing me here. No bundling. Just... good conversation. The kind that makes a long haul feel shorter.” His voice dipped, sincere beneath the deflection, eyes locking with yours in a way that bridged the delay, conveying the quiet truth this exchange, this trio of voices weaving through the void, was mending something in him, stitch by invisible stitch.
You nodded, the moment shifting from levity to something softer, your fingers tracing idle patterns on the desk, the wood cool and familiar under your touch. “I like the bundling theory, though. Makes the distance seem... collaborative. Like we're all in this asteroid field together.” The words carried a gentle invitation, and Ryland's expression eased, a small smile curving his mouth as he absorbed it.
Rocky, ever the opportunist, rumbled approvingly. “Collaborative good. Bundle fixes ship.” The bluntness sliced through the tenderness, eliciting a chorus of chuckles, yours bright and breathless, Ryland's low and rumbling, the harmony of it echoing in the speakers like a shared pulse.
“Alright, philosopher rock, let the humans breathe,” Ryland said, though his tone brimmed with warmth, reaching over to tap the enclosure lightly, eliciting a series of indignant clicks. “Breathing inefficient. Talking better.” But the lights dimmed slightly, Rocky retreating to his observations, leaving the space for the two of you once more.
The banter had woven a new layer of ease between you, the call stretching onward as the rain outside your window intensified, drumming a rhythmic backdrop to your words. Ryland shared more tales of Rocky's antics the time the alien had reprogrammed the alarm to blare Erid hymns at dawn, or how he'd borrowed Ryland's last protein bar, mistaking it for a geological sample. You countered with cafeteria experiments that rivaled Rocky's culinary critiques.
Through it all, the undercurrent thrummed glances that lingered on the curve of a smile, the way his voice roughened when he spoke of quieter fears, your own admissions slipping out like confessions under starlight. Rocky's occasional interjections kept the levity alive, a gravitational pull keeping the conversation from tipping too far into the profound too soon.
As the hours waned, the feed's stability faltered again, the sun cresting on your horizon and painting your room in dawn's soft hues. Ryland's face, etched with the reluctance of parting, filled the screen one last time. “This... it's better than I imagined. Don't be a stranger.”
“I won't.” You promised, the words a vow etched in the quiet spaces between. The connection faded, but the echoes of laughter, the warmth of shared absurdity, lingered a constellation of its own, guiding you both through the dark.
The following day unfolded in a haze of ordinary tedium on your end of lectures droning through the haze of a too strong coffee, the relentless tap of keys on half finished assignments, and the quiet ache of absence that settled in your chest like uninvited fog. Your room felt smaller without the glow of the screen, the rain from the night before giving way to a crisp chill that seeped through the window cracks. You checked the connection sporadically, half expecting a ping, but the void remained silent, leaving you to wonder if the stars had swallowed the fragile thread between you.
When evening finally draped its shadows over campus, you initiated the call, the familiar hum of the prototype filling the room like a heartbeat. The feed crackled to life, Ryland's face materializing in the dim light of his habitat, the white fat cat shirt clinging to the subtle contours of his frame, shadows playing across the stubble that had grown a fraction thicker. His eyes, though, carried a weariness edged with that irrepressible spark, and behind him, Rocky's enclosure pulsed with a subdued rhythm, as if the alien sensed the shift in the air.
“Hey.” A low rumble that cut through the static, pulling a relieved smile from you despite the knot of anticipation in your stomach. He leaned forward, elbows on the console, the motion drawing your gaze to the way his fingers drummed idly a habit born of confinement, you suspected. “Missed this. Been a long one.”
You settled into your chair, the worn fabric sighing under you, the lamp's warm halo framing your face as you tucked a stray lock behind your ear. “Same here. Quiet day, but... yeah. How's the chaos holding up?” The words carried a lightness you forced, but his answering grin softened the edges, making the distance feel like a mere illusion.
Ryland exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck, the gesture exposing a sliver of skin at his collar that sent an unwelcome flutter through you as it always does. “Chaos is an understatement. I... I don't know if I can keep this up with Rocky. The rock's driving me up the wall.” He glanced sideways at the enclosure, where a faint glow stirred, as if eavesdropping. “Yesterday, he decides my quarters need inspection. Bounces around well, rolls, I guess poking into every corner. Asks if it's the garbage room because it's 'a little dirty.' A little! I've got limited supplies out here, and he's treating it like a biohazard zone.”
The image painted was absurdly vivid Ryland trailing after the pebbled intruder, exasperated pleas echoing in the confined space. You bit back a laugh, but it escaped in a soft huff, your fingers twisting the hem of your sweater. “Garbage room? That's... thorough. Did he reorganize your sock drawer too?”
“Worse.” Ryland groaned, but amusement laced the sound, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “He starts questioning the whole setup. Why the mess? Why the solitude? And then get this he hits me with, “don’t understand why she talks to you. Grace ugly. She's pretty. Incompatible.'' He mimicked the translator's gravelly tone with exaggerated bluntness, his face flushing a deep crimson that spread to his ears, the color stark against the pallor of recycled air life.
Your breath caught, heat blooming in your cheeks as the words sank in Rocky's unfiltered alien logic slicing through the banter like a comet's tail. Ryland's gaze locked onto yours through the screen, vulnerable and searching, the humor fading into something rawer, more exposed. He swallowed, the line of his throat working visibly, and leaned in closer, the console's edge pressing into his forearms. “So... do you? Think I'm ugly? I mean, out here, with the beard that's more scruff than style and the ramen weight starting to show, to be honest.”
The question hung, charged and intimate, the digital lag amplifying the tension until it thrummed like a live wire. Your heart stuttered, flustered warmth flooding you as you met his eyes, those expressive blue depths that held galaxies of doubt and hope. “Definitely not,” You blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush, your voice softer than intended, laced with a sincerity that made your pulse race. You shifted, the chair creaking faintly, aware of how your free hand clenched in your lap, the fabric of your jeans rough under your nails. “You’re... far from it, Ryland. The beard suits you. Makes you look... real. Approachable. Handsome, even.” The admission slipped free, hanging between you like a shared secret, your gaze dropping briefly to your hands before lifting again, emboldened by the way his expression softened, a slow smile curving his lips.
He let out a breathy chuckle, relief etching lines of ease across his features, and turned toward the enclosure with a triumphant tilt of his chin. “You hear that, Rocky? She says definitely not. Handsome, even. Take notes, buddy Earth compliments are a thing.”
The rock's lights flared in a cascade of blues and greens, the translator kicking in with a rumbling huff that bordered on indignant. “Heard. Humans blind? Or kind? Incompatible still. Pretty talks to ugly, mystery.” Rocky's response elicited a bark of laughter from Ryland, his head tipping back, the sound rich and unrestrained, vibrating through the speakers and wrapping around you like a warm embrace. You joined in, the shared absurdity easing the flush from your skin, though the undercurrent of his gaze lingered, heavy with unspoken layers.
As the laughter ebbed, Ryland's demeanor shifted, the playfulness giving way to a quieter intensity. He straightened, drifting slightly in the low gravity, his fingers tracing the edge of the console absentmindedly. “Speaking of mysteries... I've been turning this over in my head. Your hypothesis the pathlink tweaks, the algae models. Why haven't you handed it off to the government? They could run with it, get teams on it. You're onto something big here.” His tone was gentle, probing without pressure, eyes steady on yours, reflecting the soft glow of his instruments like distant stars.
You hesitated, the room's quiet amplifying the weight of the moment the distant hum of campus life outside your window a faint counterpoint to the vast silence of space. Leaning forward, you felt the cool air brush your skin, grounding you as you met his concern head on. “I don't trust them, Ryland. Not fully. They've got their agendas, their protocols, and... what if it gets buried? Or twisted? You've seen how they operate from up close.” The words carried the bitterness of late night doubts, your fingers interlacing on the desk, knuckles whitening briefly.
He nodded slowly, the motion thoughtful, his brow furrowing in that way that made you want to reach through the screen and smooth it away. “Yeah... I get that. More than you'd think. They sent me out here as the Hail Mary, literally. But even if you did give them the pathlink, it wouldn't change much for me. I'm still drifting, still the one who has to implement it. No one's on Earth gonna bridge this gap like I can no matter how many instructions I beam down. It's me or... nothing.” His voice dipped, laced with the quiet resignation of his reality, but there was a flicker of gratitude in his eyes, as if your reluctance mirrored his own isolation, binding you tighter.
The admission settled between you, tender and profound, the banter's levity yielding to this deeper accord. Rocky's enclosure hummed softly in the background, a silent witness, as Ryland's gaze held yours, the connection pulsing with a warmth that defied the cold void. “Thanks for... seeing it that way. Makes me feel less like a ghost out here.”
You smiled, small but genuine, the tension uncoiling into something softer, more enduring. “You’re not a ghost to me. Never were.” The words bridged the lag, a promise woven into the stars, as the call stretched on, the trio's voices human and alien intertwining in the quiet dance of shared truths before the connection cuts out.
The days had woven themselves into a tapestry of quiet longing since your last exchange, each hour on Earth pulling at the threads of your routine like the inexorable tug of gravity. Midterms loomed like distant storm clouds, your room a sanctuary of scattered notes and the faint scent of cooling rain seeping through the cracked window.
The prototype device hummed softly on your desk, its screen a dormant portal, but your thoughts drifted ceaselessly to the void beyond, to him adrift in the endless black, his voice a ghost that lingered in the spaces between your breaths. When the moment came to reconnect, your fingers moved with a deliberate grace over the keys, the connection blooming to life with a chime that resonated like a heartbeat, syncing yours to the rhythm of the stars.
The image sharpened into focus, revealing the cockpit's intimate confines the subtle glow of consoles casting shadows across metallic surfaces, the air recycler's whisper a constant undercurrent, carrying the faint, metallic tang that you imagined clung to his skin. Ryland filled the frame, and the sight of him stirred something deep and visceral within you a slow uncoiling of warmth that spread from your chest outward, tingling along your limbs. He wore that shirt, the one with that’s red and has Element of Surprise scripted in bold letters across his chest, the fabric a soft, worn cotton that molded to the contours of his torso, hinting at the lean strength beneath from months of solitary labor. Sleeves exposed the subtle flex of forearms etched with faint scars from tinkering, and his hair, in that effortlessly disheveled way, caught the light like burnished gold. lips that curved into a smile as his blue eyes met yours through the feed, holding there with an intensity that made the digital divide feel paper thin, charged with unspoken promises.
“Hey.” He greets as always he leaned forward slightly, the console's edge pressing into his palms, knuckles whitening just enough to draw your gaze, and the way his eyes traced your face lingering on the curve of your cheek built a tension that hummed in the air between you. “Missed that face. Space is not the same without my favorite hacker keeping me on my toes.”
You shifted in your chair, the fabric of your sweater whispering against your skin as you drew your knees up, the room's soft lamplight painting golden highlights across your collarbone. A flush crept up your neck, warm and insistent, under the weight of his regard, and you let your fingers toy with the hem of your sleeve, a small anchor against the pull of his presence. “Its been quiet without your chaos. Classes are devouring me, but... I've been counting the stars, wondering about you.” Your words carried a softness, laced with the vulnerability that had grown between you, and you watched the way his expression shifted eyes darkening with a shared ache, his breath catching just audibly over the line.
He nodded, the motion slow, deliberate, as if savoring the connection, his hand rising to rub the back of his neck in that habitual gesture that exposed the vulnerable line of his throat, the pulse there visible in the play of light. Behind him, Rocky's enclosure pulsed with faint iridescence, the alien's facets scattering prismatic glints like distant nebulae, but tonight, the rock's presence wove into the intimacy rather than intruding a silent witness to the deepening bond.
Ryland's fingers drummed a restless pattern on the armrest, the sound faint but rhythmic, betraying the undercurrent of nerves beneath his steady gaze. “Yeah, well... prepare for some chaos, because Rocky and I? We did it. Figured out the plan. Astrophage reroutes, drive optimizations, your tweaks were the key, by the way. I'm coming home.”
The words hung in the ether, a revelation that ignited a firestorm within you joy mingling with a poignant ache, the reality of his return both a balm and a torment to the longing that had taken root in your heart. You leaned in, elbows resting on the desk, the cool wood grounding you as your eyes searched his, tracing the flecks of green in the blue, the subtle crinkle at the corners that spoke of laughter held in check. “Home.” you echoed, the word tasting like hope on your tongue, your voice threading with emotion that made your throat tighten. “Ryland, that's... God, that's everything. Tell me more. When?”
A chuckle escaped him, vapid and warm, the sound curling through you like smoke, easing the edges of his tension even as his eyes held yours with a raw, unguarded intensity. He glanced briefly toward the viewport, where the starfield stretched infinite and indifferent, then back to you, his posture shifting closer, filling the screen until you could almost feel the heat of him, the imagined scent of his skin clean sweat and recycled air. “Rockys got this Eridian knack for efficiency. We bounced ideas off each other for what felt like eternities him chirping about quantum flows, me throwing in human gut instincts. It's nerve wracking, though. The re entry burn, the quarantine protocols, stepping back into a world that's moved on without me.” His voice dipped, husky with confession, vulnerability etching lines across his brow, but then his gaze softened, locking onto yours with a tenderness that sent a shiver racing down your spine. “But you... thinking about seeing you? Keeps the fear at bay, makes it all feel possible.”
Heat bloomed across your skin, a slow tide that pooled low in your belly, his words evoking visions of that meeting the brush of his hand against yours, the warmth of his breath on your neck and you bit your lip, savoring the anticipation that thrummed between you like a shared pulse. Rocky's lights flickered in the background, a playful ripple that drew a soft huff from Ryland, diffusing the intensity with a touch of humor. “See? Even Rocky's excited. Apparently he even has a mate, been together for eons. How do you say her name?” A long plethora of chimes come from Rocky and Ryland gives you a funny stare and nods. “Yeah, right, so that, we agreed upon to be Adrian.” The dry quip pulled a smile from you, lightening the air, but the tone remained desire tempered by the profound tenderness of souls reaching across the cosmos. “They’ve been separated for the past few years trying to figure out astrophage travel. But now since we figured it out… he gets to see her again.”
“That sounds incredible.” Your fingers drifting to trace the screen's edge, as if you could reach through and feel the texture of his shirt, the steady beat beneath. To feel Rocky’s dome. “Nervous for you and him, but... excited doesn't cover it. How long? I need to start marking calendars, dreaming up ways to make that year fly.”
He settled back, the shirt stretching taut across his chest for a heartbeat, drawing your eye to the rise and fall of his breathing, before his grin emerged crooked, inviting, laced with that comedic edge that made your heart stutter. “A year. Cosmic bureaucracy and all that. Long enough to build the suspense, short enough to keep me sane. Gives us time for more planning. Practice for when I can finally show you that surprise in person.” His wink was slow, deliberate, eyes gleaming with promise, the banter weaving seamlessly into the emotional tapestry, balancing the raw pull of want with the gentle anchor of their connection.
As the conversation unfolded into the night, the cockpit's hum and the rain's patter outside merged into a lullaby of possibility, their words a bridge spanning the void laughter punctuating tender admissions, glances lingering like caresses, the year ahead a canvas for the slow, inevitable convergence of hearts adrift no more.
The conversation meandered through the quiet hours, the ship's ambient hum blending with the distant patter of rain against your windowpane, each word a thread pulling you closer across the unyielding expanse. Ryland's presence on the screen felt more tangible with every shared glance, his eyes catching the console's glow like embers in twilight, and you found yourself mirroring his lean, the desk's edge cool against your forearms as you savored the subtle play of shadows along his jawline.
He shifted then, the fabric of his shirt whispering softly as he crossed his arms, the lettering twisting just enough to draw your eye to the steady rise of his chest. A thoughtful pause hung between you, broken only by Rocky's faint, rhythmic clicks from the background like pebbles tumbling in a gentle stream before Ryland's voice emerged, low and tentative, laced with that dry humor that always tugged at the corners of your mouth. “You know, when I do touch down whenever that cosmic red tape finally clears I've been thinking about our first real moment. What do you say to dinner? Or whatever passes for it after a year of freeze dried everything.”
The suggestion landed like a spark in dry tinder, igniting a warmth that bloomed slow and insistent in your core, visions flickering unbidden his hand brushing yours over a candlelit table, the brush of his knee under the cloth, the way his laugh might vibrate through the air between you. You tilted your head, letting a playful smile curve your lips as you traced the rim of your mug with a fingertip, the ceramic still warm from forgotten tea. “Dinner sounds perfect. Something simple, maybe? Italian? There's this little spot near campus cozy, with these twinkle lights that make everything feel like magic.”
He chuckled, the sound rich and rumbling, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he rubbed his chin, stubble rasping faintly against his palm. “Italian, huh? Bold choice for a guy who's been dreaming of a burger that doesn't taste like regret. But nah, let's go fancier steakhouse. Real meat, the kind that sizzles and leaves grease on your fingers. Earned it after all this.” The banter flowed easy, charged with an undercurrent of anticipation, his gaze holding yours with a lingering intensity that made your pulse quicken, as if he could already taste the evening unfolding.
You shook your head, laughter bubbling up soft and light, your hair falling forward to brush your cheek as you leaned closer to the screen. “Steakhouse? Too stuffy. We'd be those awkward people whispering over napkins. What about sushi? Fresh, light, something to celebrate without the heaviness.” The words danced between you, a playful push and pull that mirrored the deeper current of longing, his expression shifting from amusement to mock exasperation, brows furrowing in that endearing way that exposed the faint lines of fatigue around his eyes.
”Sushi? In the middle of... wherever we end up? I'd take one bite and start missing my ration packs.” He grinned, wide and unfiltered, the motion pulling at his features and sending a flutter through your chest, but before you could counter, Rocky's enclosure lit up with a sudden flurry of iridescent pulses, the alien's facets shimmering like a disco ball in distress. A burst of chirps erupted from the speakers, translated into that gravelly, synthesized drawl that always carried a hint of mischief. “No argue. Dinner at Earth home. Her place. Spaghetti. Simple. Efficient. No mess human style.”
Ryland's eyes widened, his mouth parting in a half laugh, half protest as he twisted in his seat to face the rock, the chair groaning under the abrupt motion. “Whoa, stay in your lane, buddy. This is human food. I’ve seen the way you eat, I want nothing to do with it.” But the alien's lights only flickered smugly, a series of affirmative beeps solidifying the decree, and Ryland turned back to you, shoulders rising in a helpless shrug, his cheeks tinged with a flush that deepened the warmth in his gaze. “Well, there you have it. Rocky's got opinions stronger than astrophage. Spaghetti at your apartment it is. Hope you've got a good sauce recipe, don't want him critiquing the quantum mechanics of your marinara.”
You couldn't help the burst of laughter that escaped, genuine and freeing, your hand pressing to your lips as the image settled in your mind Ryland in your space, stirring a pot. The thought wove tenderness into the desire, a domestic intimacy that made the year ahead feel both endless and achingly close. “Spaghetti it is, then. Your first Earth meal, courtesy of the galaxy's nosiest engineer. Just promise you'll save room for dessert, something sweet to make up for all the arguing.”
His smile softened, eyes tracing your face with a deliberate slowness that sent a shiver tracing your spine, the digital barrier thinning under the weight of shared possibility. “Deal. Can't wait to find out what that looks like, up close.” The words lingered, heavy with promise, as the night deepened around you both, the rain a soft symphony to the budding plans that bridged the stars.
The months blurred into a tapestry of pixels and promises, each video call a stolen breath across the light years, weaving your lives into something profoundly ordinary and extraordinarily intimate. What began as tentative banter evolved into a rhythm as familiar as your own heartbeat, Ryland's face filling your screen at odd hours, his voice a gravelly anchor amid the static of your room's fluorescent hum or the ship's ceaseless drone. Holidays became your anchors, virtual rituals that bridged the void with laughter and longing, turning isolation into shared secrets.
The first Thanksgiving arrived like a whisper in the dark, your screen aglow with the warm flicker of a candle you'd lit on your cluttered desk, textbooks shoved aside for a plate of makeshift turkey canned, but spirited. Ryland appeared disheveled, silver flecked hair messy from a nap, his shirt rumpled as he balanced a tray of rehydrated mash that looked more like glue than gravy. “Alright, hacker extraordinaire,” he drawled, eyes crinkling with that dry mischief, “Do we toast to overcooked birds or just pretend this isn't the saddest feast since the Mayflower's leftovers?” You laughed, the sound bubbling up as you raised your glass of cheap wine, the tart bite lingering on your tongue. “To survival. And to you not poisoning yourself with whatever that is.” His grin widened, fork pausing mid air, and for a moment, his gaze held yours with a heat that made the room feel smaller, the distance a tease rather than a barrier.
Rocky chirped from the corner of the frame, lights pulsing in rhythmic approval, as if joining the toast, and Ryland rolled his eyes. “See? Even the rock thinks you're the better cook. Next year, you're making the real stuff.” The words hung, laced with implication, your skin prickling at the thought of his presence, solid and warm, in your space.
Christmas unfurled in a cascade of lights strung haphazardly across posters of nebulae and code snippets, his rigged from console leds that bathed the cabin in a starry haze. You exchanged gifts through the ether a digital playlist of Earth anthems for him, crooners and rock that made him hum off key, his baritone vibrating through the speakers like a caress; for you, a hand sketched star map, annotated with silly notes “This one's where I first saw your message. Blinked like a heartbeat.”
The call stretched late, snow dusting your window while Tau Ceti's glow framed him, and conversation meandered from childhood memories to whispered what ifs. “Remember when Rocky tried caroling?” He chuckled, the alien's enclosure flickering to a discordant beep beep that had you both dissolving into giggles. But beneath the humor simmered something deeper; his eyes traced the curve of your neck as you adjusted your scarf, voice dropping. “Wish I could unwrap something real this year. Like... seeing that smile without the lag.” Heat bloomed low in your belly, your fingers twisting the fabric as you met his stare, the air between screens thickening with unspoken want.
New Year's Eve marked a turning point, the clock ticking toward midnight in disjointed time zones yours syncing to Earth's revelry, his to the ship's chronometer. Fireworks bloomed outside your window, bursts of color painting your face as you counted down together, Rocky adding a flurry of excited clicks like premature confetti. At the stroke, Ryland leaned close, breath fogging the camera lens, his whisper husky. “Happy New Year. To us whatever that looks like when I get back.” The kiss he blew was playful, lips puckering comically, but the linger in his eyes sent a shiver racing down your spine, your own lips parting on a soft exhale. “To not being alone anymore.” and in that charged silence, the flirtation edged toward fire, his hand flexing as if reaching through the void to trace your jaw.
As spring thawed into summer on Earth, your calls grew bolder, the banter laced with touches of skin glimpsed accidentally your tank top slipping during a stretch, his shirt riding up to reveal the taut plane of his abdomen, dusted with faint hair that caught the light.
Rocky became the unwitting chaperone, his gravelly interjections punctuating the tension. “Humans hot? Air recycle fail?” During a particularly heated debate over quantum entanglement that doubled as metaphor for your pull. Ryland's laugh would rumble then, self conscious but inviting, drawing you deeper into the dance of words and glances.
Autumn brought the ache of impending change, leaves turning gold outside your window as Ryland's updates shifted repairs complete, trajectory locked for home.
The goodbye to Rocky unfolded in fragments across calls, emotional cries bubbling like champagne ready to overflow. One evening, the ship’s lights dimmed to simulate dusk, Ryland cradling the alien's enclosure like a cherished relic, facets glinting softly. “He’s packing up too, heading back to Erid with his people. Been the best friend I’ve ever had.” His voice cracked, blue eyes misting as Rocky bobbed in farewell, chirps translating to a gruff. “Good Earth friend. Keep Grace out trouble.” You watched, heart twisting, as Ryland pressed his forehead to the case, murmuring promises of safe travels. “You were the best co pilot a guy could ask for. Don't go eating any more control panels without me.” The humor masked the raw edge, but when he turned back, vulnerability etched in the lines of his face, you felt it echo in your chest. “Feels like losing a piece of the ship. But... progress.” His gaze locked on yours, steady and searing, the weight of you unspoken but palpable.
A few nights after Rocky's departure shuttle undocked, intimacy crested in a wave neither could deny. The call started light Ryland, hair damp from a sonic shower that left his skin glowing. Conversation drifted to dreams, then desires, voices lowering as the ship's hum faded to background. “Tell me what you'd do if I were there.” He prompted, tone playful yet edged with gravel, eyes darkening as you described the brush of fingers along your collarbone, the slow unbuttoning that would follow. Heat pooled in your core, breath quickening as his hand mirrored the motion on screen, tracing his own throat, then lower, the fabric tenting subtly. “Like this?” He rasped, voice thick, and you nodded, emboldened, your palm sliding beneath your waistband, the friction sending sparks through your veins.
The screen became a portal to shared surrender, his breaths syncing with yours in ragged harmony. He leaned back, chair creaking, shirt tugged up to expose the ripple of muscle as his hand worked with deliberate slowness, eyes never leaving yours fierce, adoring, a low groan escaping when you arched, whispering his name like a prayer. “God, the way you move...” Laughter threaded the tension, dry and breathless “Rockyd call this inefficient energy use.” A tender smile curving his lips as he reached out, as if to cup your cheek through the glass.
Through it all, the year etched itself in stolen moments flirty jokes over virtual coffee, funny mishaps with Rocky's translations, sensual explorations that blurred screens into skin. The distance, once a chasm, now a thread pulling you inexorably closer, anticipation building like a slow orbit toward collision.
The Hail Mary pierced Earth's atmosphere like a returning prodigal, its hull scarred by cosmic tempests but whole, a testament to ingenuity and unyielding will. You watched the live feed from your apartment, heart hammering against your ribs as the shuttle detached, gliding toward the landing pad under a sky bruised with dawn's first light. A year of pixels and promises had led to this, the man who'd become your anchor in the void, descending back to solid ground.
Your fingers trembled as you smoothed the simple tee with jeans you'd chosen, the fabric whispering against your skin like an echo of his voice in those confessions. The world outside buzzed with media frenzy, helicopters whirring like metallic insects, but you slipped through the chaos with a forged press badge, your instincts guiding you to the secure perimeter where the real reunion waited.
The air hangar smelled of scorched metal and hydraulic fluid, a stark contrast to the sterile recyclers of his ship. You lingered in the shadows of a maintenance bay, pulse syncing with the distant rumble of engines powering down. There he emerged from the hatch in a flight suit that clung to his frame, unzipped just enough to reveal the faded collar of his I Wear This Shirt Periodically tee beneath.
His hair, longer now and forever messy, caught the floodlights in silvered waves, and those blue eyes scanned the crowd with a mix of wariness and wonder. His beard now a shadow. He shaved. When his eyes landed on you, time fractured his face split into a grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes, boyish and unguarded, cutting through the months of separation like a laser. He broke from the official greetings, weaving through technicians and officials with purposeful strides, the dry humor in his posture evident even from afar the slight hunch of shoulders as if bracing for Earth's gravity to mock him.
“You didn’t die.” You joked as he closed the distance, his scent hitting you first a faint tang of hydraulic fluid and something uniquely him, warm and lived in, a natural musk. His musk. He’s no longer filtered through speakers. Up close, he was taller than the videos suggested, his presence filling the space between you with an electric hum. “Told you I'd try not to crash.” That rich baritone wrapping around you like a familiar embrace, laced with the self deprecating edge that had first hooked you. But his eyes betrayed the jest, darkening with a hunger that mirrored your own, tracing the line of your jaw as if memorizing it anew.
The crowd blurred into irrelevance; his hand found yours, calluses rough from years of tinkering, thumb brushing your knuckles in a slow circle that sent sparks skittering up your arm. “God, you're even more... you, in person.” The words hung, incomplete but weighted, his free hand hovering near your waist before dropping, he flexes his fingers as if testing the reality of touch. He feels lightheaded, unsure whether it was from earth's gravity or you.
The drive to your apartment was a haze of stolen glances and fragmented conversation, his knee brushing yours in the borrowed SUV, the contact igniting like a short circuit. He marveled at the mundane the way streetlights flickered over rain slicked roads, the hum of traffic that drowned out the silence of space, his blunt and observational commentary “Feels like I've landed in a alternate universe, where I’m famous.” You laughed, the sound lighter than it had been in months, directing him through the city's veins to your modest building, where the elevator ride amplified the tension, the confined space thick with unspoken anticipation. His shoulder pressed against yours, heat seeping through fabric, and when the doors dinged open, he followed you inside without a word, the click of the lock sealing you both away from the world.
Your apartment was a sanctuary of controlled chaos bookshelves groaning under astrophysics tomes and code printouts, fairy lights still draped twinkling softly against the late afternoon sun filtering through half drawn blinds. The air carried the faint scent of takeout remnants and your shampoo, grounding and intimate.
Ryland paused in the doorway, taking it in with a slow sweep, his duffel bag thudding to the floor. “So this is your cave.” Turning to you with a tilt of his head that caught the light on his glasses. He stepped nearer, the space between you shrinking to breaths, his fingers grazing your elbow a tentative anchor. “It’s a nice cave.” He whispered quietly. You turned into his touch, heart thudding, and guided him to the kitchen, needing the ritual of motion to steady the tremor in your limbs. “Hungry? I promised you a real meal, no rehydrated mush.”
Cooking became the slow unraveling of restraint, a dance of proximity in the narrow galley. You pulled ingredients from the fridge, fresh basil from a windowsill pot, tomatoes bursting with summer's end, ground beef simmering in a cast iron skillet that filled the air with savory warmth. Ryland hovered, his forearms corded with muscle, his attempts at chopping garlic clumsy but endearing, knife slipping as he stole glances at you.
“Admit it.” He teased, bumping your hip with his, the contact lingering a beat too long, sending a flush creeping up your neck, “You just want me for my questionable knife skills. Like Rocky with his appendages enthusiastic, zero precision.”
You swatted his arm lightly, the brush of skin electric, laughter bubbling as you stirred the sauce, the steam curling between you like a veil. He leaned over your shoulder to taste, his chest brushing your back, breath warm against your ear. “Needs more... heat.” The double entendre slipping out with a grin, his hand steadying on your waist as if to emphasize the point.
The sauce bubbled, mirroring the simmer in your veins, and when you plated the spaghetti, twirls of pasta glistening under olive oil he pulled out a chair for you with exaggerated chivalry, eyes twinkling. “Ladies first. Or human. Whatever you are.”
Dinner unfolded in a rhythm of shared stories and silences heavy with subtext, forks clinking against ceramic as the city lights began to wink on beyond the window. He devoured the meal with unfeigned gusto, moaning appreciatively around a mouthful “Never thought I’d admit that Rocky was right.” He chews, glancing down at his plate. Lips glossy from sauce. “Spaghetti was the only answer.”
His foot nudged yours under the table, a subtle press that escalated to his ankle hooking yours, drawing you closer in the invisible tether. Conversation meandered from Rocky's farewell antics (the alien's final gift a little astronaut he made) to the absurdities of reentry briefings, his jokes painting pictures. “They grilled me on protocols like I was smuggling contraband. As if astrophage samples weren't enough excitement.” His gaze lingering on the way your lips curved around a sip of wine, the glass stem cool between your fingers.
You feel his intense gaze as you eat. “What? Is there something on my face?” Your brows furrow as you scan his face for a reaction. His face turns almost into adoration with a hint of a mischievous smirk. “Oh, nothing.” He sighs dramatically with a shrug of his shoulders. Liking the way you fall into his web. He eats casually as you now stare at him in return. “What?” You say incredulously with a smile erupting on your face. His eyes flick up to you again. “You actually do have something on your face.” Before you can register his words he’s leaning over the small table. Taking your jaw into his large hand, cradling your cheek as his thumb sweeps across your bottom lip. Wiping away the missed sauce; he settles back into his seat. The pad of his thumb between his lips as he swallows the liquid off his digit. He twists noodles around his fork casually like he didn’t completely rewrite your nerves.
Clearing the table was pretext, dishes stacking in the sink as excuses to orbit each other, his body heat a constant pull. A few jokes here and there about how the cleanliness would make Rocky spiral. He trapped you against the counter when he reached for a plate, hips aligning in an accidental on purpose press that drew a gasp from your throat. “Sorry.” He lied, voice gravelly, not pulling away his hand splayed on the small of your back, thumb circling in slow, deliberate strokes that unraveled you.
The air thickened, charged with the scent of garlic and desire, and when you turned in his hold, faces inches apart, the world narrowed to the flecks of green in his eyes. “You can stay the night if you want.” His eyes flick to your lips before he answers. “I don’t know. They asked me to go teach tomorrow. It’s kinda funny how they do that,” He pauses, removing himself from you to put away a spice on the top of the shelf. The sliver of his taut hips coming into view. He notices your stare and he revels in the attention. “How you get sent to space and you come back and have work the next day.” He props himself up against the counter across from you, his gaze heavy. It’s quiet and there’s a silent exchange of words shared. “Are you sure?” You blink dumbly at him like the question was unfounded, his eyes are downcasted when you say “yes.”
He takes a long step towards you, hands planted beside your waist on the counter top. Your back pressing against the edge. “You know I was expecting someone way different looking.” His remark hits you funnily in your chest. Was he expecting someone prettier all those calls ago? “What do you mean?” He shrugs, smirking. “I was expecting a troll.” You laugh slightly at how silly the idea was. “Why’d you imagine me as a troll?” He shrugs again. “Every hacker movie ever is a dude in a basement who looks like a troll.” He leans down closer to you. “All I’m saying is that you’re prettier than a troll.” You laugh breathlessly at his somewhat compliment. “I’d hope so.”
His eyes draw down to your lips before he leans in and presses his against yours. You accept the warranted kiss. All those months of longing felt excused. His lips were surprisingly nourished and soft. The short hair on his cheeks scratching your face. Your hands hesitate over his chest unsure of where to touch him. You’ve dreamt of this for so long that you’re not sure how to execute your dreams. You’ve been with men before sure, but never someone of his stature. He notices your hesitation and lack of affection, he pauses, lips disconnecting. A single string of saliva connecting you together. As he pulls back his lips wet, “Is there something wrong? I know it’s been a while but I didn’t think I’d lose that much of my game.” You shake your head quickly. Cheeks warm from him thinking it’s his inadequacy. ”It’s not that.” His eyes level with you, brows furrowed. “Don’t tell me you’re a virgin.” He chuckles deep in his chest. “No! Not that either.” You laugh softly and your eyes fall to the floor bashfully. “I’m just nervous.” He laughs a little louder, shocked at your revelation. “What’s there to be nervous about?” He steps back and leans his hip on the counter across from you. He doesn’t speak, he just stares. From the time that you’ve known Ryland his gaze tells you a thousand things. But when he looks at you, you can’t ever tell what he’s thinking.
“Look at you.” You blush at his words, head fallen downwards. His warm hand cradles your cheek as he tilts your head up. “Wanna know a secret?” His kind eyes search your face as you nod. “When I first looked at you I thought I died and saw an angel.” You laugh shoving his shoulder. “Did not” “Did too! I swear!”
He pushes his forehead against yours, his breath fanning across your cheeks. “So, tell me, what’s there to be nervous about?” “Nothing.” “Exactly, so kiss me.”
You lean up on your toes and press your lips against his instead of him leading you. You rest your hands on his thick shoulders and he moans at your touch. The touch he’s first felt in years. To say he was touch starved was an understatement. The rumble sends shivers down your spine. You feel like you’re melting into the counter, He lifted you onto the counter with effortless strength, the cool granite a shock against your thighs as his body slotted between them.
Your hands roam from his shoulders to the sides of his damp flushed neck, to his messy hair. Your hands roaming, fingers threading through his hair, tilting his head for better access, then his hands trail down your sides to grip your hips.
He bites lightly onto your bottom lip, as you gasp his tongue invades your mouth. At the invasion you slightly arch into his chest. He pulls back heaving. “Not so nervous anymore are you?”
You shake your head before he smiles lopsidedly. Pulling you up to his chest and you squeal wrapping your legs around his torso. Arms around his neck as he carries you down the hall, his eyes trained on your face. "Where's your room?” Pointing to the door he follows and you open it for him.
He stumbles slightly and sets you down onto your bed. You roughly bounce a couple times laughing. He looks up from his stance on the floor, his glasses shifted on his face, the legs of the glasses on his jaw. He looks to the door and sees a stuffed animal he tripped over. “A monkey really?” His face wrenches in confusion as he fixes his skewed glasses on his broad nose. You smile, throwing your hands around to emphasize “It’s cute!” “It ruined my smoothness.” You roll your eyes.“Did you have any smoothness in the first place?” His mouth falls open in mock shock, his eyebrow quirks, and you wonder if this is how he scolds his students. “Oh, really?”
He lifts to his achy sore knees and presses down on the mattress to gain his standing again. “That’s not what I heard in the kitchen.” His voice lowers as he climbs upwards. “yeah?” You whisper, encouraging him. “You know what I heard?” “What?” Laying down as he towers over you, his hands start to pull up your shirt. The warmth of his hands spreads across your stomach and ribs as they travel. His knees hovering beside yours, his body mere centimeters from touching your center. His hands stop once they reach the end lace of your bra holding himself with his forearms on the sides of your head. Lips going to your ear. “I heard pretty little moans coming from that mouth of yours.” His body pushes down slightly and you can feel the girth of him in his jeans on your abdomen. It's heavy
“How did they sound?” He asks himself, shifting his lips to your jaw arching into him as his hand roams from the side of your neck over your shirt. Over your bra and he starts palming your chest. Feeling your nipple bud under the fabric. Mimicking your high pitched whine in your ear and cheeks burning. Your clit throbbing from his touch on your breast. “Ryland please.” Spent out eyes half closed and dumb. His head foggy as he looks at how desperate you look “Yes what?”
Your breath ragged almost begging him. He toys with your bra, eventually dipping his hand into the cup and feeling your soft skin on his palm. Playing with your tit, your bra strap straining against his wrist. “I want you to touch me.” Kissing your jaw chastely, the hair on his face scratching your cheek. “Where?” “Everywhere.” You whine and that does something to him. With a final kiss pressed to your temple he looks at your chest spilling out. Making a mental note of the sight. Pulling your shirt overhead along with your bra.
When you lay back down he’s on you in an instant. Kissing and lapping at your chest, moaning against your heart. It burns you alive. He hasn’t even taken off his clothes yet and you’re already soaked. Thighs pressing together, still clothed, your top half naked and bare as he eats you alive. He’s starved, his lips circling around your nipples. Nibbling them until they're sore and aching. You have to push him off from how sensitive they’ve gotten. His wet mouth coming off with a pop and slobber connecting him to you. He moves downwards on the bed, his puppy dog blues dilated behind glass.
“You want me to take care of you?” You nod incessantly. “Please.” He smiles like he already knows the answer. Unbuttoning your jeans tugging them down with your panties. Your lower half jiggled with how forceful he tugged them down. Going on his knees at the end of your bed, pulling your legs apart to hang on his shoulders at the edge. Watching the slickness of your pussy glistening for him. He has to palm himself to keep the throbbing in his jeans.
Warm and patient his hands glide up your thighs as yours cling to the silk bedding. He drags a knuckle down the front of your spread lips, feeling how warm you are. How soaked, you shiver at his digit you can’t make a note of it before his mouth attaches to your core. Writhing as his tongue laps heavy wide strokes through you. Each stroke of his tongue sends fire through you. Tits bouncing with every jolt. Those pathetic whines he loves is like music to his ears. He waited months for this, imagining you strung out from his tongue. Countless lonely nights in his shitty bed longing for your touch. Your caress and now that he’s had it he can't get enough.
Groaning as he tastes you. He’s grinding into your mattress straining in his jeans. He's surprised he hasn’t accidentally prematurely came. Face burying deeper and his scruffy cheeks get crushed by your thighs. Squeezing his head as you get closer and closer to that heavenly feeling. Your whimpers surely to wake your neighbors but you don’t care you’re so close. So sensitive.
Clamping your eyes shut, not daring to see his blue eyes steadily looking up at you from behind your mound. His nose rubbing your pubic area as he attacks your clit. A long finger pushes itself into you and instantly the fullness tears you to shreds. Crying out his name and whimpering body locking around his dirty blonde head you shake and cry. Trying to run from his mouth but his mouth follows you. Teeth softly biting your core. You can’t breathe as you come down. He just laps it up like a dog.
Wetness pooling on the sheets he sighs huskily at the sight. Mouth drenched in your fluids. In a singular motion he pulls his shirt overhead, you stare leaning up on your elbows ogling his body. You knew he was strong, but not jacked. “Holy shit.” Slurring your words. He laughs softly. “Like what you see?” You nod dumbly, mouth open. He steps on the backs of his converse. Unbuckling his jeans before he realizes you’re staring at him so intensely. Slows himself down, slowly unbuckling his belt like some stripper. “Don’t tease!” You whine and he smiles patting your thigh. “Since you were so good I’ll obey.”
For some reason the word obey spikes your blood and your thighs clench together. He notices and smiles again, before he pulls his jeans down with his boxers they pool around his ankles. His cock springing free angry and pink veins pumping red from tip to mid shaft with purple ones littering around the circumference. God he’s longer than he is girthy but your pussy already is sore from looking at it.
He motions you to sit higher up on your bed and you do but as he puts his knees on to the bed and starts crawling up the only thing you can focus on is the bobbing head of his cock. His hands rest on your knees slowly pushing your legs more apart. “My eyes are up here angel.” You quickly look into his eyes but it was just a diversion, he watches your face twist into pain as he pushes the mushroom head inside your tight entrance.
Your hands immediately go to his chest and pushing your nails into the sculpted muscle. “It's too much! I can’t!” Feeling every ridge and vein intruding inside. He can’t even reassure you as his eyes are locked on his cock splitting you open. “You already are.” One of his hands falls from your thigh to your mound. Thumb circling over your bruised clit. His forehead pushing against yours as he leans down further and pushes deeper. You start feeling longer curves in his shaft, the veins in his arms popping as he strains his body weight up. Curteous to not crush you he tries his hardest to resist not fucking you until your bimbo.
He feels your pretty soft gummy walls fluttering around him and he accidentally thrusts shallowly. Making you keen. “You're taking me so good.” He praises, kissing you gently. You can taste yourself mixed with spaghetti on his lips.
When he bottoms out and he doesn’t move. Letting you relax around him, his balls settled against your ass. His chest pressed against yours. He forgets about being inside you and focuses on kissing you hungrily. Melting into his kiss he slowly starts rutting against you.
Not pulling out just shallow little ruts. His thumb speeds up on your clit, feeling you tighten and your legs locking around his hips. You’re so full you can’t think anymore. His lips. His thumb. His cock. His weight. Him.
Then he actually starts pulling back the long stretch and burn until his tip is the only thing in. Staring at your face for a long while, you stare back. Admiring his features, the sweat forming around his face, his chest, the locks of hair stuck to his damp forehead. The way his glasses are slightly foggy. Before you nod and he pushes back in, his head is thrown back. The veins in his throat pulsing. Groaning with your whine you both are the loudest things in your complex.
You feel your body stretch to fit him, your fingers clinging to his wrists. Without hesitation his eyes flickering from your eyes, your lips to your chest to your center, the wet squelching smash of his hips returning to yours. His thighs already wet with your slick. Setting an unfathomable pace for his age and you can’t keep up. Eyes rolling into the back of your head. His thrusts picking up, sweat starts to fall onto you.
Sticking your tongue out to taste the sweaty droplets as they fall and comically so does his wire glasses. his hips stutter and he’s babbling apologies. A red blush rising on his neck and face from embarrassment. It’s quickly halted when you take his glasses and put them on. They're too big for your small face, something burns in him seeing you wear his glasses.
Thrusts grows sloppy and you’re pitiful knowing that your next orgasm is a couple thrusts away deeper now. Rougher. Every thrust rocks you higher up the bed and the headboard knocking against the wall gasping each time, fingers tracing over the veins in his forearms overwhelmed but craving more. You cry out softly when he hits that spot, and he rasps, “Yeah? Right there?”
You fall apart with a cry, clenching around him so hard he chokes on a groan and stills himself. Your walls are so clenched tight he can’t move. A couple shallow thrusts later he follows thrusting deep. Spilling into you three white hot sticky stripes. His whole body shudders, as he drops down onto you. Careful to not crush you but his body weight is smothering in a good way. He’s too hot and too sweaty.
Both of your breathing staggered as each of you trying to capture your breaths. His heart drumming against yours. He hugs your chest to his, before both of you agree it’s too hot so he rolls over. Staring blurrily at the ceiling.
“The spaghetti tasted really good.” Laughing at his comment. “What it was?” Standing with a slight humph, taking his glasses back silently. Walking naked out of your room. Admiring his strong back with your red welts on his shoulders. His fatty cheeks before he pauses in your doorway. "Where's the bathroom?” “On the left!” As you hear him pee he starts yapping again. “You know dinner was so good that I’d love to have it every night.” You hear the sink turn on and off before he comes back with a rag. Gently spread the warm water between your thighs to clean you up. Trying to ignore the twitch of his cock seeing his seed spilling out. “But you know what I liked eating the most?” He arches his eyebrow with the most devious smile. He looks at you shoving his shoulder, getting up to go to the bathroom. “Shut up, spaceman.” “What? It’s true!”
summary: ryland grace may be able to carry the weight of the world, but not without breaking somewhere. Luckily, he has someone who knows exactly how to bring him back.
warnings: 18+ smut, oral f receiving, p in v, submissive ryland!!, ryland has a hair pulling kink lowkey, needy! ryland, overworked! ryland, slight angst, soft ending, gentle and emotional smut, pornwith plot
The sound of the clock was impossible to ignore that night.
Now, that’s not to say it was big. Objectively, it was small. An old white thing that had come from Ryland’s first flat, now sitting proudly above the kitchen door. It was cheap plastic and most definitely second-hand, offering a loud click as the seconds crept on. Each landing deliberately as it reminded you what you were trying so hard not to measure.
You checked it again.
22:47.
You exhaled through your nose, lips pressing together as you tried to soothe the ache in your stomach that had been pushing harder and harder as the weeks went on.
The flat was warmer tonight, blame it on the oven being on for too long and the windows not being open enough. The smell of roasted garlic still permeated the air, softened now that dinner was technically over. It now sat on the counter, carefully packed into mismatched Tupperware containers. It had once been plated, earlier, when you thought he’d be home by eight.
You’d even lit a candle. You were optimistic.
The flame had travelled halfway down the wick, the wax pooling unevenly along one side, before you decided to blow it out.
He wasn’t coming back.
You pulled your knees a little closer to your chest, where you sat curled into the corner of the sofa, a blanket half draped over your legs. The TV was on as it flickered a shifting light across the room. Something mindless played on the screen, not that you were actually watching; you zoned out around an hour ago.
You just wanted some noise at this point, or rather, the absence of silence.
There is a brief war in your mind as you debate whether to put the Tupperware away. It was still sitting on the counter. You decide that it is probably for the best to move from your sanctuary on the sofa, stretch your legs and whatnot.
You wander over to the kitchen, socks shuffling across the floor as you reach for the plastic containers to put away.
He may not be here, but there are traces of him everywhere.
It’s what makes you so worried about him.
You turn towards the fridge—it was the first thing anyone noticed when they walked in. Not because it was particularly nice, but because it was covered.
Layered in magnets and paper and colour. Crayon drawings, most of them, curling slightly at the corners where the magnets didn’t quite hold them flat.
Stick figures with wildly disproportionate limbs. Planets coloured in purple and green. A sun with sunglasses. A lopsided rocket labelled—very proudly, in uneven block letters.
MR GRACE’S ROCKET SHIP!!!
You smiled softly.
He’d come home with that one months ago, careful not to let it crease too much on his bike ride home.
“Look at this,” he’d said, laughing. “They think I’m cool enough to go to space.”
You’d laughed then too, teasing him gently, telling him he was cool enough, and he’d ducked his head.
There were more of them now.
More drawings. More little notes. One that just said “Thank you Mr Grace :)” in pencil.
He’d never had the heart to take any of them down.
Your chest tightened.
Because that was him, wasn’t it?
That earnest kind of care. The way he gave himself to things—fully, without hesitation, without holding anything back. Whether it was his students, or a problem he couldn’t quite solve, or you.
Especially you.
Your eyes flicked back to the clock as you put dinner away.
22:52.
You wondered, not for the first time, what he was actually doing.
His most recent job was vague, always described sheepishly. He said there were NDAs involved, said it was "research." Papers were always hidden away where you couldn’t see them, let alone try to understand them.
You trusted him. That was enough for you not to pry. That paired with the way that he’d looked at you—not excited, but lit from within in a way you’d never seen before.
That had been enough.
You didn’t need to know the details to know that something had shifted.
It had started small. A meeting here. A call there. Then longer hours. Then missed dinners. Then the creeping realisation that whatever he’d been pulled into, it wasn’t temporary.
Most nights now, the flat felt too still without him in it.
It wasn’t that you minded. If anything, you were glad he’d found something that lit him up like this. It was the way he gave himself to it, completely and without pause, that worried you. The sense that he was stretching himself thinner and thinner, and that one day there might not be enough left to hold him up.
You lingered for a moment in the kitchen, fingers brushing along the edge of the counter as your eyes drifted once more to the clock.
23:01
Later than you’d promised yourself you’d stay up.
You should go to bed.
He’d understand.
With an exhale, you reached for the switch. The overhead light flickered softly, your hand hovering, as if you were hesitating, as if some part of you was still holding out hope.
The sound of the lock turning cut through the stillness.
You stilled.
Metal against metal. A stubborn click. The push of the door easing open.
Ryland.
You could hear he was trying to keep quiet. His shoes hardly made a sound as he kicked them off, nor did the door as it softly shut, trying not to disturb a space he already thought was asleep.
The flat stayed dim, the kitchen light still on behind you, casting a soft spill into the hallway, catching just the edge of his silhouette.
You could stand here and giggle as he fumbled around, trying to keep silent as he took off his bag and jacket, but the feeling in your chest stopped your thoughts immediately.
Before you could think better of it, you were already moving.
You rounded the corner quickly, too quickly for him to anticipate. He barely had time to look up before you were on him, arms wrapping around him and relief flooding your system.
“Oof—”
He let out a startled sound as you collided with him, hands coming up instinctively to catch you, steady you.
And then, just as quickly, he melted into you.
His arms slipped around you, pulling you in close. His chin dipped toward your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin.
He smelled the same. Coffee, soap, completely familiar and him.
“What are you—” he trailed off, voice lower than it usually was, tiredness hinting at the edges. “Should be in bed by now, sweetheart.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him, not taking his gentle scolding too seriously.
He should take his own damn advice.
You smiled, practically glowing in his embrace and the knowledge that you’d be able to say goodnight to him in person this time.
“I wasn’t tired.”
It wasn’t a lie.
Your eyes lingered on his face, fully taking him in, even if you hadn’t quite clocked everything yet.
“Plus,” you continued, a little quieter. “I sleep better when you’re here.”
He huffed softly, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly.
“That’s not true,” he said, voice still gentle. “You’re usually still snoring when I leave in the morning.”
You frowned immediately, offended.
“I do not snore.”
He gave you a look.
“Mm,” he hummed. “Okay. Whatever you say.”
You barely had time to argue before he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. It was unhurried, something you let yourself smile into.
When you pulled back, you tilted your head slightly, still holding onto him.
“I made dinner.”
That got his attention.
He blinked at you, like the words took a second to land, his tired eyes softening just a fraction.
“You did?”
You nodded, a little eager despite yourself.
“Pasta. Your favourite.”
He let out a groan, dropping his head into the crook of your neck, his arms tightening around your waist just slightly.
“You spoil me,” he mumbled.
You shrugged, smiling as your fingers brushed lightly against his back.
“It’s my job.”
He huffed softly against your skin.
“Should be mine.”
“What was that?” you asked, tilting your head just enough to try and catch it.
“Nothing,” he said quickly, lifting his head again.
You studied him for a moment, then stepped back just enough to gesture vaguely toward the kitchen.
“Do you want me to heat it up?”
He hesitated.
You saw it, even before he answered.
“Nah—no, no,” he said, a little too quickly. “You go, get comfy, yeah? I’ve just got… I’ve just got some stuff I need to read. Then I’ll be right with you.”
You stilled.
“You’re still working?”
The words came out soft, but they hit.
He stopped too.
In the brief pause between the two of you, it allowed you to really see him.
Even in the low light, it was all there. The shadows under his eyes were darker than they used to be. The strain on his expression that he was so obviously trying to hide. His glasses had slipped slightly down his nose, unnoticed by him, his hair a little more dishevelled than usual.
He looked exhausted.
“Ry—“ you murmur as your chest tightens, lifting your hands to his face. You drag your thumbs lightly along his jaw as you hold him there. “You can’t work all the time.”
“I know,” he said quietly.
“You need rest.”
“I’m gonna,” he insisted, but there was no real conviction in it.
You searched his face, your mouth turning into a frown.
“But you never get any.”
He hated to admit it, but you had a point.
Damn it.
He exhaled and it was heavy. His gaze dropping to the floor like he disappointed you. He didn’t want to argue, but he also didn’t want to deflect.
Because he knew. He knew you were right.
You brushed his hair back from his forehead gently, fingers slipping through the soft strands, and the effect was immediate.
He couldn’t help himself when it came to you.
His shoulders dropped just slightly, his eyes closing for half a second as he leaned into the touch without thinking, like his body recognised something his mind hadn’t had time to catch up with.
Like he needed it.
You let your fingers linger, nails dragging lightly across his scalp, and he let out a low groan, his grip on your waist tightening instinctively.
Your heart gave a small, startled thud.
When was the last time—
You didn’t even finish the thought.
Too long. Far too long.
Your fingers curled slightly in his hair, just enough to guide his head back, and he followed easily, eyes opening again, a little unfocused now, a little softer.
You had an idea.
You looked up at him, your expression gentler now, something more deliberate settling in your gaze.
“Ry,” you said quietly, almost coaxing. “Are you sure I can’t help you relax?”
It took him no time to understand your insinuation.
He looked at you like the question physically pained him.
Torn.
He dragged a hand briefly over his face, exhaling under his breath.
“Baby, I—” he started, cutting himself off quickly, like he’d caught the words just in time. He shook his head slightly, a faint, tired smile pulling at his mouth.
“Okay,” he said, softer now. “Okay. Yeah.”
His hands found your waist again.
“We can do whatever you want.”
Something bright, almost giddy, flickered in your chest. Because finally, you could take care of him.
Your fingers slid down from his hair, tracing the line of his jaw one last time before you caught his hand in yours. His palm was warm, a little clammy from the long day, but the second your skin met his he laced your fingers together.
You gave a gentle tug and he followed, his steps heavy and dragging behind you, socks scuffing softly against the floorboards. He moved like a man who’d forgotten how to want anything except the next thing you offered him, like a tired puppy trailing after the only light left in the flat.
You led him down the short hallway. The bedroom door was already ajar; you pushed it open with your hip, and the street lamps outside spilt in through the half-drawn blinds, painting everything in soft gold and cool silver.
The way he liked you best.
The glow caught on the rumpled sheets you’d left this morning, on the curve of his shoulder as he stepped in behind you, on the faint sheen of exhaustion that still clung to his face.
He stopped just inside the doorway, blue eyes locked on you. Even half-dead on his feet he looked hungry—starved, really—desperate with his pupils blow wide and his breath hitching every time you moved.
He perked up quickly.
Good.
Time to ease his thoughts away from work and solely on you.
You could still feel it rolling off him in waves: the weeks of late nights, the missed dinners, the way his body had forgotten what it felt like to be touched with anything but clinical efficiency.
You stepped closer, letting your hip cock to one side, head tilting as you looked up at him through your lashes. The movement made the hem of his old t-shirt ride up your thighs, and his gaze dropped there for half a second before snapping back to your face like he’d been caught.
“You gonna let me take care of you, Ry?” you asked, voice low and sweet, the way you knew made his knees weak.
He swallowed hard, throat working.
“You always take care of me,” he murmured, the words rough.
“Yeah…” You smiled, teasing. “But I have a feeling you’re really gonna like this one.”
He opened his mouth—probably to protest, to say he should be the one looking after you, to offer some tired half-joke—but you rose up on your toes and kissed him before the words could escape. He melted instantly. The sound he made was broken, almost embarrassed, like he hadn’t meant to let it out.
His free hand came up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, needing something solid to hold onto while the rest of him dissolved.
You kept kissing him as your hands found the top button of his cardigan—soft green wool, the one he’d worn the day he first told you about the “research job” that was eating him alive.
One button, then another. You worked slowly, letting your knuckles brush the warm skin of his chest each time. He didn’t move to help. He just stood there, eyes half-lidded and gentle. When the cardigan finally slid down his arms and pooled on the floor, he shivered, even though the room wasn’t cold.
Next came the shirt underneath. You tugged it free from his jeans, palms skimming up the flat plane of his stomach, feeling the way his muscles jumped and twitched under your touch.
He was so pliant, so perfectly willing—arms lifting when you guided them, head ducking so you could pull the fabric over it.
The shirt joined the cardigan and he stood there bare-chested, breathing a little faster now, chest already tight from the weight of your stare.
Your fingers dropped to the buckle of his belt. Metal clicked. You looked up at him again, searching his face.
“Is this alright?”
His hands covered yours immediately, warm and steady despite the tremor in his voice.
“Baby,” he said, almost laughing but too wrecked for it, “you can have me whenever you want. You know that.”
The words came out hoarse and you couldn’t help but think about every night he’d come home after midnight, every morning he’d slipped out before you woke.
Your chest squeezed—but you shoved the ache aside.
Not tonight.
Tonight he was here, and he was yours.
You popped the button, dragged the zip down, and pushed his jeans and boxers off his hips in one. He stepped out of them clumsily, kicking them aside, and he was naked in front of you—cock already half-hard and curving up toward his stomach, flushed dark at the tip and beading at the slit.
He looked so vulnerable like this, eyes soft and a little glassy, waiting for whatever you wanted to do to him.
Before you could sink to your knees or touch him the way you were aching to, he reached for you with that same tired, adoring smile.
“Your turn?”
You giggled—couldn’t help it—and let him pull you in. His hands were eager, sliding under the hem of the oversized t-shirt you’d stolen from his drawer. He peeled it off you slowly, reverent.
God, you missed him.
When your breasts were bare he exhaled shakily, thumbs brushing the undersides like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed. The shirt hit the floor and then his fingers hooked into the waistband of your sleep shorts, dragging them down your thighs in one go.
You stepped out and suddenly you were both exposed, skin glowing in the light, the air between you thick with weeks of pent-up need.
He didn’t waste time. He hauled you against him, mouth crashing into yours in a kiss that felt deeper than the last, like the exhaustion was finally cracking open.
One of his hands splayed across your lower back, the other slid between your legs without hesitation. Two fingers stroked through your folds, finding you already slick and aching, and he groaned into your mouth when he felt it.
“Baby…” he rasped against your lips, voice wrecked. “Seems like I’ve been neglecting you, huh?”
His fingers circled your clit once, twice, slow and perfect, and you whimpered, hips jerking forward.
You grabbed a fistful of his hair and softly tugged—just hard enough to make him gasp—then shoved at his chest playfully.
“Tonight I’m taking care of you, Dr Grace.”
Dr Grace.
The title landed like a live wire. You knew exactly what it did to him; he could see it in the way you said it.
His eyes fluttered, a broken little sound punched out of his chest, and he let you push him backwards until the backs of his knees hit the mattress. Let you move him where you wanted him.
He dropped down willingly, sprawled out on his back, cock now fully hard and leaking against his stomach. He looked pathetic in the best way—chest heaving, cheeks flushed, arms already reaching for you like he couldn’t stand another second without your weight on him.
You crawled over him, knees bracketing his ribs, ready to sink down and take him inside you the way you’d been dreaming about for weeks. But his hands caught your hips, stopping you. His blue eyes were hazy, pupils blown, yet somehow still so gentle.
“Baby… can you go a little higher?”
You blinked down at him, confused, thighs already trembling with want.
“Aren’t you tired?” The words came out soft, almost worried, and the sound of it made his expression melt even further. “Tonight I was gonna be good to you.”
Not that you were complaining.
He shook his head, thumbs stroking soothing circles over your hipbones.
“I don’t think I’ll last five seconds if we do that,” he admitted, bashful and honest and so fucking needy it made your stomach flip. “It’s been… Gosh, it’s been so long. Let me do my job first, yeah? Then you can have your way, okay, sweetheart?”
Your cheeks burned, but you nodded, heart hammering. He guided you higher, hands firm until your knees settled on either side of his head, and you were hovering over his face.
The light painted his features in silver and shadow—his tired eyes still locked on yours, lips parted, breath already fanning hot against your soaked cunt.
Fuck, he was stunning.
You lowered yourself slowly, and the first drag of his tongue had your head falling back with a moan.
He was tired, yes, but he knew you—knew exactly how to flatten his tongue and lick a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, how to hum in satisfaction when your taste flooded his mouth.
How could he forget you?
His hands gripped your thighs, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks you’d treasure tomorrow, anchoring you to him like he never wanted you to leave.
He licked and sucked with lazy, devastating precision, built from months of learning every hitch of your breath, every roll of your hips.
When you started to rock against him he groaned, the vibration shooting straight to your core, and the sound was so desperate—so pathetically grateful—that it made you clench around nothing.
“That’s it,” he mumbled against your pussy, voice muffled and wet, “ride my face, baby. Use me. Let go for me—”
Please.
His fingers dug harder into the soft flesh of your thighs, pulling you down with a desperate strength that belied how exhausted he looked.
You could feel the tremble in your legs already starting, the way your muscles quivered around his head as he devoured you like a man who’d been starving for months—and maybe he had.
Ryland Grace, brilliant and overworked and so fucking touch-starved that he couldn’t get enough, kept dragging you back and forth over his tongue with low, needy sounds vibrating straight into your core.
He was rock-hard beneath you, cock straining and leaking against his stomach, but he didn’t even seem to notice or care. All that mattered was you—your taste, your weight, the way you ground down on his face like it was the only thing keeping him awake.
He cursed every single late night he had, every single hour overtime.
How on earth could he put work before this pure heaven?
You reached down blindly, fingers tangling in his messy hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan loud and broken against your soaked pussy. The sound was pathetic in the most beautiful way. He’d let you use him until there was nothing left if that’s what you wanted.
And you did.
You rode his face harder, hips rolling in messy circles, chasing that building heat while he licked and sucked and hummed like he was trying to memorise every single reaction you gave him.
He felt it when you started to tip over the edge—your thighs clamping tighter around his ears, your breath hitching into these sharp little gasps. His blue eyes flicked up to yours, glassy and adoring even through the fogged lenses of his glasses, and he doubled down, tongue flicking relentlessly over your clit until you tugged on his hair again and came with a broken cry that echoed off the bedroom walls.
It was overwhelming, the way he didn’t stop—licking you through every pulse and shiver, dragging you back down when your hips tried to pull away.
Oh no, you don't.
He cleaned you up with reverent strokes like he couldn’t bear to let a single drop go to waste.
You were shaking, quivering above him, vision blurry with the aftershocks, and only when you were completely spent and whimpering did he finally loosen his grip on your thighs. His hands slid up your sides instead, soothing, like he was afraid he’d break you even though he was the one falling apart underneath you.
You lifted off him on unsteady knees, sliding down until you could look at his face properly. His glasses were completely fogged up, cheeks flushed crimson, lips swollen and glistening with your arousal. He blinked up at you, dazed and blissed-out, chest heaving like he’d just run a marathon.
“Was that… good?” he asked, voice hoarse and shy; he still needed the reassurance even after you’d just ridden his face into oblivion.
Tell him he was still good.
You let out a shaky sigh, brushing a thumb over his wet bottom lip.
“You know it was, Ry.”
A sleepy smile spread across his face—pure, unguarded bliss.
You shuffled lower, knees bracketing his hips now, and looked down at him with a teasing little tilt of your head.
Finally, it was his turn.
His cock was throbbing between you, flushed and leaking steadily against his stomach, and he was staring at you like you hung the moon.
“You gonna let me ride you now, Dr Grace?” you asked, voice dripping with sweet mockery.
He groaned, head dropping back against the mattress with a soft thud.
Again with the titles?
“You’re gonna kill me, I swear,” he mumbled, but his hands were already sliding up your thighs.
You chuckled, leaning down to nip at his jaw.
“Good. Maybe that way you’d finally get some rest.”
He huffed a breathless laugh that turned into another groan when you reached between you and wrapped your fingers around his cock. He was so hard it was almost painful to the touch and he jolted up with a sharp wince, hips bucking involuntarily.
“I—sorry, baby—”
It’s been so long.
His cheeks burned even darker, eyes squeezing shut in embarrassment.
You looked at him. His flushed face still shiny with your slick, hair sticking up in every direction from your tugging, that tired but desperate expression that made him look so beautifully pathetic. He was the most gorgeous thing you’d ever seen, soft submission and needy love, and your chest ached with how much you’d missed this version of him.
“You’re beautiful,” you murmured, meaning it with every part of you.
He whined, hips twitching again.
“Stop teasing, please. I need you.”
You chuckled softly, finally taking pity on him. You grabbed his shaft properly, angling it so the thick length slid easily between your slick folds. The motion had his tip catching perfectly against your clit before popping free, and you both moaned at the wet glide.
Fuck, it's been too long.
He sighed against your mouth, which had fallen open in a silent ‘o’, rolling his hips up in search of more friction, chasing the heat of you like he couldn’t help it.
“Patience,” you began, but the last of the word was stolen by a gasp when you ground down to meet his next thrust. The blunt tip of him prodded at your entrance, gliding up again with just the right pressure to make sparks shoot up your spine.
You both moaned louder this time, the sound tangled together in the quiet room.
His arms circled the curve of your waist, pulling you closer, dragging you over the full length of him again. It made you shudder hard in his grasp, nails digging into his shoulders for balance.
He caught right where you needed him most, your walls fluttering greedily around his tip, trying to suck him in. A low growl rumbled from deep in his chest when he tried to push a little more. But it was your hips that rolled this time, taking just enough for him to finally slide all the way in with a slow, delicious stretch that had you both gasping.
“Fuck,” you whined, feeling so full for the first time in way too long. Your walls clung to him tightly, trying to accommodate his size after all these weeks apart. You sat up straighter with a low huff through your nose, letting your nails drag down the centre of his chest. He shuddered hard under you, eyes rolling back for a second. “Fuck—missed you so much—”
“Language, baby,” he managed to choke out, but the words dissolved into a broken moan as you rolled your hips again, taking him even deeper. “Taking it so well—just like that—”
His praise hit you like a spark. You clenched around him involuntarily, and he twitched hard inside you, a fresh spurt of pre-cum leaking out. His big hands found the tops of your thighs, pads of his fingers leaving trails of fire as they slid up to grip your hips.
You started riding him properly then—slow at first, savouring every inch as you lifted and sank back down, the sounds of your bodies meeting filling the room. Ryland turned into an absolute babbling mess beneath you, desperate, eyes glassy as he stared up at you like you were everything.
“Missed you so much,” he gasped, hips jerking up to meet yours. “Missed this—missed baby, I—feels so good, so—”
You let out a sharp whine when he hit that perfect spot inside you, and his eyes lit up with that familiar hunger.
“Right there? That’s it? Yeah, baby?” he panted, begging you to tell him he was doing it good. “Look so beautiful, you—“
You moaned, head tipping back as you kept moving, chasing that building pleasure while he fell apart under you. His hands roamed everywhere—your hips, your waist, up to cup your breasts like he couldn’t decide where he needed to touch you most.
“Please, sweetheart, please,” he begged suddenly, voice wrecked and so fucking pathetic it made you throb around him. “Look at me—need to see you. It’s been so long, I need your eyes on me—”
It was hard to open your eyes—the slow, dragging drag of his cock against your slick walls was almost too much, the feeling of being so perfectly connected to him after all this time. But you did, locking gazes with him as you rode him harder.
He was trembling now, fingers digging bruises into your hips, breath coming in short, desperate pants.
“Not gonna last—I’m not gonna last much longer—”
“Neither am I,” you breathed out, leaning down to kiss him messy and deep, tasting yourself on his tongue again. “Cum for me, Ry. Let go.”
That was all it took.
He did—hard. His whole body seized up, back arching off the bed as he came with a broken, guttural moan that sounded like it had been ripped out of his soul. He swore he saw stars, eyes squeezing shut, mouth open in silent ecstasy while he kept thrusting up into you through it, needy even in the middle of his orgasm.
You followed right after, clenching around him as the wave crashed over you, moaning his name like a prayer while your thighs shook and your vision whited out.
You both came down slowly, chests heaving, skin slick with sweat. His arms circled you immediately, pulling you down against his chest. You stayed there for a long moment, just breathing each other in, hearts hammering in sync.
For a while, neither of you moved. You lay half-draped over him, cheek pressed to his chest, listening to the way his heartbeat slowly began to steady beneath your ear. It was still a little fast, still a little uneven, but it was him again.
Not halfway lost in whatever equations or impossible problems had been pulling him away from you.
His hand rested at the small of your back, fingers tracing against your skin like he didn’t quite know what to do with all this quiet. Like he was relearning it.
You felt him shift slightly beneath you, reaching again for the tissues on the bedside table.
“I’ve gotcha,” he murmured, softer this time, more awake.
He's always got you.
You huffed a small breath against his chest, but you didn’t move away. Let him fuss. Let him take care of you in the way he always did. He needed to feel close as much as you did.
He worked slowly, methodically, brows pulling together just slightly in concentration as he cleaned you up, determined to do it properly. You watched him through half-lidded eyes, the light catching on the slope of his nose, the faint flush still high on his cheeks, the way his glasses had slid crooked again without him noticing.
You reached up, nudging them back into place with a small smile.
“Occupational hazard,” you murmured.
He blinked down at you, a little dazed still.
Tease.
He finished cleaning you up, then his hand came back to you, settling at your hip, thumb brushing. You traced your fingers lightly along his chest, following the faint rise and fall of his breathing.
“You know,” you said after a moment, voice softer now, “you should take nights off like this more often.”
He huffed a breath, eyes flicking down to you, something a little brighter sparking there now.
“Oh, trust me,” he said, a hint of humour creeping back in, “I will be adding that to my schedule immediately. Very high priority.”
You stilled slightly.
The smile didn’t quite leave your face, but it shifted.
“Ry…”
He noticed.
Your fingers paused against his chest, your gaze lifting to meet his properly now.
Here we go.
“I know you can’t tell me what you’re doing,” you said gently, not accusing, not pushing. “And I’m not asking you to.”
He nodded slightly, something flickering in his expression—gratitude, maybe. Relief.
“But,” you continued, quieter now, more earnest, “I am serious.”
Your thumb brushed lightly along his collarbone, grounding yourself as much as him.
“You need to take time like this. Not just for you.”
A small breath.
“For me.”
That stuck. You could feel it.
You saw it in the way his expression shifted again, the humour softening. He looked at you, not just the comfort of you, but the person who had been waiting. Who had been worrying.
Who loved him.
His hand moved from your hip to your cheek.
“I know,” he said quietly.
He exhaled slowly, gaze dropping for just a second before coming back to you.
“I think I… yeah,” he admitted, softer still. “I think I’ve been… a little—”
“Obsessive?” you offered gently.
He huffed.
“That’s a polite way of putting it.”
You smiled faintly.
“It’s one of the things I love about you.”
“Yeah,” he said, a little sheepish. “It’s also one of the things that turns me into a complete disaster when I don’t manage it properly.”
Your fingers threaded lightly through his hair again, softer this time.
“You’re not a disaster.”
“Mm,” he hummed. “Debatable.”
You nudged his shoulder.
“Ry.”
He smiled at that.
“I hear you,” he said, more seriously now. “Okay? I do. I… I can take a night. Or—” he paused, recalculating, already trying to be better, “a couple. I can make that happen.”
You searched his face for a second, like you were checking if he meant it.
“Okay,” you said softly.
His thumb brushed your cheek again, lingering there.
“Okay,” he echoed.
There was a quiet between you. That was until you saw the cogs in his head turning once again.
“…we should probably shower.”
You couldn’t help but laugh.
Typical Ryland.
“Probably.”
He glanced down at himself, like he was doing a very quick, very scientific assessment.
“Yeah,” he added. “Definitely.”
You pushed yourself up slightly, offering him your hand this time. He took it without hesitation. You tugged him gently toward the bathroom, and he followed, steps still a little heavy but no longer dragging.
The light flicked on with a click, filling the small space with warm yellow, as steam already began to gather as you reached for the shower.
He leaned against the counter, watching you, something gentle in his expression.
“What?” you asked, glancing back at him.
He shook his head slightly, a small smile pulling at his mouth.
“Nothing.”
He gave a small shrug as his cheeks heated again.
“I just… missed this.”
Your chest tightened, but in the best way.
“Yeah,” you said, stepping back toward him, brushing your hand against his as the water started to run. “Me too.”
He squeezed your fingers before stepping in with you, pulling you under the warm spray.
For the first time in weeks, it felt like he was finally back with you. Where he belonged.
a/n: first ever post on this blog wooo!!! not new to writing, just new to ryland and couldn't help myself.
just testing the waters to see if there is anyone interested in more of ryland, lowkey want to do a series on him for the movie/book (it will be angsty though but with a happy ending) if people were into that?
anyway let me know what you all think and if you want more of ryland x reader!!
summary: the spaceship seems to be malfunctioning and you are forced to sleep in your crewmates quarter. in the same bed. obviously.
warnings: ship malfunction
word count: 2.1k
a/n: ofc i had to write same bed trope for ryland i mean who else would i be.........
MASTERLIST
You are forced to stop your research, because of an unexpected noise beeping into your ears.
It’s a low, persistent hum - slightly off from the usual rhythm of the systems, just enough to make you stop mid-step and frown at the wall like it personally offended you. You listen for a second longer, tilting your head, trying to place it, but before you can, Ryland’s voice cuts in over the comms.
“Okay, quick question,” he says, far too casually for someone who definitely found the same issue you did, “how attached are you to your current sleeping arrangements?”
You freeze.
“…Define attached.”
There’s a pause. You can practically hear him deciding how honest to be.
“Hypothetically,” he continues, “if I told you that one section of the crew quarters has decided to become… not livable for a bit - purely temporarily - would you be open to, say, a roommate situation?”
You close your eyes.
Of course.
“Ryland.”
“Yes?”
“…What did you break?”
“I didn’t break anything,” he says immediately, which is exactly how you know he did. “Something broke. Near me. While I was being completely responsible.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “That’s not reassuring.”
“It shouldn’t be,” he agrees. “But good news! I fixed most of it. Bad news: your room is currently part of the ‘most’ that is not fixed.”
You stare at the wall for a long second.
“…You’re kidding.”
“I wish I were. On the bright side,” he adds, and you can hear the grin in his voice now, “my room is perfectly functional. Very comfortable. Plenty of space for-”
“Ryland.”
“-two people,” he finishes anyway.
You exhale slowly, already regretting every life decision that led here.
“Fine,” you say. “Temporarily.”
“Temporarily,” he echoes, far too pleased about it.
His room is, unfortunately, exactly as functional as he promised.
Clean. Organized. Slightly too neat in a way that makes it obvious he tried to make it look like he didn’t prepare for this possibility. There’s an extra blanket folded on the side, and you immediately narrow your eyes at it.
“You planned this.”
He looks up from where he’s pretending to adjust something on the console. “Wow. Accusations already? We’ve barely started living together.”
“I am not living with you.”
“You are currently standing in my room with your stuff,” he points out. “That feels like living with me.”
“It’s temporary.”
“Mm-hmm.” He nods like he believes you. He absolutely does not.
You set your bag down on the chair, glancing around. It’s… fine. Smaller than your quarters, but manageable.
Then you notice it.
You turn slowly.
“There’s one bed.”
Ryland, who had been very deliberately not looking at you, finally glances over. “Ah. Yes. The bed.”
“The one bed,” you repeat.
“The singular bed,” he confirms.
You stare at him.
He stares back.
“…You’re enjoying this,” you say flatly.
“A little,” he admits. Then, quickly, “But I am also a gentleman. I can take the floor.”
You look down at the very obviously not floor-sleeping-friendly metal surface.
“You will not survive the night on that.”
“I have survived worse,” he says, placing a hand over his heart. “I am resilient.”
“You complain when your coffee is too hot.”
“That is a valid complaint.”
You cross your arms. “You’re not sleeping on the floor.”
He tilts his head. “So what I’m hearing is… we share?”
Your heart does something extremely unhelpful.
“We… manage,” you say carefully.
“Manage,” he repeats, like it’s the best word he’s ever heard.
The first hour is awkward.
Painfully awkward.
You sit on opposite sides of the bed, pretending to go through notes, both of you very aware of the fact that you are, in fact, sitting on the same bed. Ryland clears his throat approximately every thirty seconds. You flip through the same page three times.
“So,” he says finally.
“So,” you echo.
“This is normal.”
“Completely.”
“Very professional.”
“Incredibly.”
A pause.
“You’re sitting really far away,” he adds.
You blink at him. “We are on the same bed.”
“Yes, but there’s a clear… emotional distance.”
You stare. “Ryland.”
“I’m just saying,” he shrugs, “if we’re doing this, we could at least commit to the bit.”
“We are not committing to anything.”
“Wow,” he says, mock hurt. “That’s devastating.”
You try not to smile.
You fail.
Night makes it worse.
Of course it does.
You both go through your usual routines - brushing your teeth, pretending this is normal, avoiding eye contact like it’s a dangerous experiment. By the time the lights dim, the tension in the room is thick enough to be its own atmosphere.
You hesitate beside the bed.
Ryland gestures dramatically. “After you.”
You climb in, carefully staying on your side, pulling the blanket up like it’s some kind of barrier. He follows a second later, settling in on the other side.
There is space between you.
Not much.
Too little.
“Okay,” he says into the darkness. “Ground rules.”
You sigh. “There are ground rules?”
“Oh yeah. Very important. Rule one: no kicking.”
“I don’t kick.”
“Everyone says that until they do.”
“I don’t.”
“Noted. Rule two: if I snore-”
“You snore?”
“I don’t know,” he admits. “But if I do, you’re allowed to… gently wake me. No violence.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “Good to know.”
“Rule three,” he continues, voice softer now, “if this gets weird, we just… pretend it’s not.”
You glance at him in the dim light.
“It’s already weird.”
“Yeah,” he says. “But like… manageable weird.”
You relax a little, staring at the ceiling.
“…Okay.”
A beat passes.
Then another.
You’re just starting to think maybe - maybe - you can actually fall asleep like this when-
“You’re still awake, aren’t you?” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
“Same.”
Silence again.
Then-
“You’re really close,” he says.
You turn your head. “I have not moved.”
“I know. That’s the problem.”
You stare at him.
“…Do you want me to move?”
“No,” he says immediately. Then, softer, “No, you’re fine.”
Your heart stumbles.
Neither of you moves.
For a while, neither of you says anything.
The lights are dim, the steady hum of the ship filling the silence, and the space between you - small as it is - feels like something you’re both very aware of without wanting to acknowledge it too directly.
You try to focus on sleeping.
It doesn’t work.
“You always this bad at falling asleep?” Ryland murmurs after a minute, voice quieter now, like the dark has softened him a little.
You huff softly. “Only when I’m sharing a bed with someone who won’t stop talking.”
“That’s fair,” he admits. “I bring a certain… energy.”
“That’s one word for it.”
He shifts slightly beside you, the mattress dipping just enough for you to notice. “Okay, but in my defense, this is new. Usually I get the whole bed to myself. I can spread out. Exist dramatically.”
“Exist dramatically?” you repeat.
“Yeah,” he says. “You know. Starfish position. Peak comfort. Maximum presence.”
You snort quietly, turning your head just enough to look at him. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet, here I am, sharing my tragic lack of space with you.”
“You offered,” you remind him.
“True,” he says, and there’s a hint of something softer under the humor now. “I would offer again.”
Your chest tightens, just a little.
You look away first.
A few minutes pass.
You close your eyes again.
Still not asleep.
“You’re still awake,” he says.
“You are too.”
“Yeah, but I asked first.”
You roll your eyes, even though he probably can’t see it. “Go to sleep, Ryland.”
“I’m trying,” he says. “You’re just… very distracting.”
You blink in the dark. “I’m literally lying still.”
“Exactly,” he says. “Suspicious behavior.”
You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Correct.”
There’s a pause.
Then, softer-
“Hey.”
“…Yeah?”
“You comfortable?”
The question catches you off guard a little. There’s no teasing in it this time, just something simple and genuine.
“…Yeah,” you say after a second. “I am.”
“Good,” he murmurs.
Another pause.
“…You?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Better than I thought, actually.”
Your heart does that small, annoying thing again.
Somewhere between one quiet breath and the next, things shift.
It’s subtle. Barely noticeable.
You move - just slightly - adjusting the blanket.
The space between you gets smaller and your arm brushes his.
“Sorry,” you whisper automatically.
“Don’t be,” he says just as quickly.
Neither of you moves away.
The contact is light. Barely there.
But it stays.
“You ever think about how weird this is?” he says after a moment.
You let out a quiet breath. “All of it? Or just this part?”
“This part,” he says. “Though, to be fair, all of it is weird. Space, saving the world, sharing a bed with someone who definitely judges my life choices.”
“I do not judge your life choices.”
“You absolutely do.”
“Only the bad ones.”
“Ouch.”
You smile into the darkness. “You’ll recover.”
“Debatable.”
A small silence settles again, but this one is different. Easier.
Quieter.
“Hey,” he says, voice softer now.
“Yeah?”
“I’m… glad it’s you.”
Your breath catches.
“…What?”
“For the roommate situation,” he adds quickly, but not quite fast enough to hide it. “Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been someone who actually enforces rules or something.”
You huff out a quiet laugh, but it doesn’t quite cover the way your chest tightens. “Yeah. That would’ve been terrible.”
“Exactly,” he says. “You’re… you’re easy to be around.”
That does it.
That stupid, simple sentence lands harder than any of his teasing ever has.
You turn your head slightly, looking at him in the dim light.
“…You too,” you say quietly.
For once, he doesn’t joke.
At some point, you fall asleep.
You’re not sure when.
Everything just sort of fades - the quiet hum of the ship, the tension, the awareness - until there’s nothing but warmth and stillness.
You wake up slowly.
Warm.
There’s a moment where you don’t move, still caught halfway between sleep and awareness, trying to figure out what feels different.
Then it hits you.
You are very, very close to Ryland.
At some point during the night, the careful distance you both maintained has completely disappeared. Your arm is tucked against his, your shoulder pressed lightly into his side, and-
You freeze.
His arm is around you.
Just… there. Resting, like it ended up there without permission and neither of you noticed.
Your heart immediately starts racing.
Okay. Okay. You could fix this. You could move. Very carefully. Very slowly.
Like it never happened.
You start to shift.
His arm tightens slightly and you stop breathing.
“…Don’t move,” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep.
You go completely still.
“I’m not,” you whisper, even though you definitely were.
“Good,” he says, barely awake. “This is… comfortable.”
Your brain short-circuits.
Comfortable. Right. Of course. Totally normal.
You stare at the wall, trying to ignore the fact that you are very much still half tucked against him, his arm still loosely around you, his presence warm and solid and entirely too distracting.
After a second, he exhales softly.
“…Wait,” he says.
Oh no.
“Are we-”
“Yes,” you say immediately.
“Okay,” he says.
A pause.
“…Okay.”
Neither of you moves.
“This is… new,” he adds after a moment.
“Very.”
“Not bad,” he says.
You swallow. “No. Not bad.”
Another pause.
“Should we… move?” he asks, like he doesn’t actually want to.
“Probably,” you say, equally unconvincing.
Neither of you moves.
He huffs out a quiet laugh, finally lifting his head slightly. “Wow. We are handling this with incredible professionalism.”
“Absolutely,” you agree.
“Top-tier astronauts,” he says.
“Scientists,” you correct.
“Right. Even worse.”
You finally shift, just enough to create a little space, though it’s less than before. He lets his arm drop back, but slowly, like he’s not entirely sure he wants to.
You sit up, running a hand through your hair, trying to regain some composure.
“…So,” he says.
“So,” you echo.
“We survived our first night as roommates.”
“Barely.”
“Speak for yourself,” he says. “I slept great.”
You give him a look. “You were using me as a pillow.”
“I was not-” he pauses. “…Okay, maybe a little. But in my defense, excellent pillow. Ten out of ten. Would recommend.”
You laugh despite yourself.
He grins, clearly pleased.
“…We’re doing this again tonight, aren’t we?” he asks.
You hesitate.
Just for a second.
“…Looks like it,” you say.
His smile softens, just slightly.
“Good,” he says.
And somehow, that one word lingers a little longer than it should.
can't stop thinking about bsf!percy being absolutely gobsmacked when reader suggests practicing giving a blowjob on him (could be his first time getting one, or not, whichever)
Practice? Oh...practice.
Pairing: Percy Jackson x reader
TW:Explicit Sexual Content, blur-of-boundaries, exploration of sexual themes within a platonic friendship, sexual tension, themes of surrender and vulnerability, consent.
A/N: Muehehehe.
The silence in Percy’s cabin usually felt like a warm blanket—familiar, safe, and smelling faintly of sea salt and the blue cookies his mom had sent in a care package earlier that day.
You were sprawled on the edge of his bunk, staring at the ceiling, while Percy sat on the floor, leaning against the bed frame as he absentmindedly sharpened Riptide with a whetstone. It was a mundane Tuesday afternoon, the kind of afternoon where the boundary between "best friends" and "something more" usually felt solid as a rock.
Then, you opened your mouth.
"I’ve been thinking," you said, your voice casual, though your heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. "About… practice."
Percy didn’t look up. "Practice? Sword fighting? Because I told you, your footwork is getting better, you just need to—"
"No," you interrupted. "Not sword fighting."
He paused, the whetstone scraping one last time against the bronze blade. He tilted his head back, looking at you upside down. His sea-green eyes were bright and curious, completely unsuspecting. "Then what?"
You took a breath, the oxygen feeling thin in your lungs. "I was thinking I need practice…giving a blowjob. And I was wondering if I could practice on you."
The silence that followed wasn't like the warm blanket from before. This silence was a vacuum. It sucked the air out of the room.
Percy didn't move. He didn't blink. For a full five seconds, he looked like a statue carved from Olympian marble. Then, the color started. It began at the tips of his ears and raced down his neck, a deep, frantic crimson that clashed spectacularly with his orange Camp Half-Blood shirt.
"Wh—" His voice cracked, a high-pitched sound he hadn't made since he was twelve. He cleared his throat, trying again. "What?"
"You heard me," you said, your own face heating up, but you pushed forward. "We’re best friends, Percy. I trust you. And I figured…if it’s your first time too, or even if it isn't, it’s better to do it with someone you actually like."
Percy dropped the whetstone. It hit the floor with a heavy thud, but he didn't seem to notice. He scrambled to his feet, looking down at you with an expression of pure, unadulterated shock. He looked gobsmacked—jaw slightly ajar, eyes wide, hands twitching at his sides as if he didn't know whether to grab you or run for the Long Island Sound.
"You want to… on me?" he stammered. "Like, right now? In the middle of the afternoon?"
"Is the timing the problem?" you teased, though your voice trembled.
"No! I mean—no, the timing isn't—" He cut himself off, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair, making it stand up in even wilder peaks. "Gods, _____. You can't just… drop a thermal detonator like that and expect me to function."
He took a shaky breath, his gaze dropping to your lips for a split second before snapping back up to your eyes. The "best friend" mask was gone. In its place was something raw, hungry, and incredibly overwhelmed.
"You're serious?" he whispered, stepping closer until his knees brushed the edge of the mattress. "You’re not joking? Because if you’re joking, I might actually jump off the climbing wall without a harness."
"I'm not joking, Percy."
He let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-groan, sinking onto the bed beside you. The mattress dipped under his weight. He looked at you, the shock slowly melting into a look of intense, focused heat that made your toes curl.
"Okay," he said, his voice dropping an octave, sounding more like the son of the sea god and less like the boy who forgot his sandals this morning. "Okay. Let’s… let’s practice."
Percy’s hands were shaking. It was a subtle thing—the kind of tremor he usually only got after fighting a drakon or holding up the sky—but as he reached down to unbutton his jeans, the metal button felt like a puzzle he couldn't quite solve.
"Wait," he breathed, his voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel. "Wait, _____. Just... give me a second to catch my brain. It’s currently somewhere near the bottom of the canoe lake."
He sat back on the edge of the bunk, his legs spread slightly, looking at you with a mix of reverence and terror. When you moved to kneel between his knees, the denim of your own clothes rustling in the quiet cabin, his breath hitched so sharply it sounded like a sob. The floor was cold against your knees, but the heat radiating off Percy was intense, a localized summer storm.
As you eased his jeans and boxers down, the air in the cabin seemed to thicken, smelling of sea salt and a sudden, sharp spike of adrenaline. Percy’s head hit the headboard with a soft thud, his eyes fluttering shut the moment your fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. He was already hard, a pulsing, heavy weight that spoke of how much he’d been suppressing while sitting next to you during campfire songs and strategy sessions all these months.
"Holy shit" he whispered, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the blue-clothed mattress so hard the wood frame creaked.
You looked up at him, the sight of the Great Prophecy's hero looking so utterly dismantled bringing a flush to your cheeks. "You okay, Percy?"
"Yeah," he choked out, his eyes snapping open. They were a dark, stormy green now, turbulent and deep, the way the ocean looks right before a hurricane hits. "Yeah, I’m... I’m great. I’m fantastic. I’m just trying to remember how to breathe in and out in the right order."
When you finally took him into your mouth, the warmth of the contact made Percy’s entire body jolt as if he’d been struck by one of Thalia’s highest-voltage lightning bolts. A low, guttural sound tore from his throat—a sound you had never heard him make in all the years you’d known him. It wasn't the sound of a best friend or a leader; it was the sound of a man being systematically undone.
And gods if it wasn't hot.
He didn't know what to do with his hands. First, they stayed locked on the mattress, then they hovered indecisively in the air, before finally plunging into your hair. His fingers tangled in the strands, not pulling, just holding on like you were the only thing keeping him from drifting out to sea.
"Gods," he gasped, his hips twitching upward instinctively as you swirled your tongue around the head. "You... you said you needed practice? Who told you that? Because you're—fuck, _____—you're doing everything exactly right."
As you grew more confident, experimenting with the rhythm and the pressure, the suction he so clearly craved, Percy stopped trying to maintain his composure. His head rolled back, exposing the long, strained line of his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed back a moan. His chest heaved under the orange cotton of his shirt, the fabric damp with sweat. He looked beautiful like this—vulnerable, stripped of his legendary status, and entirely dominated by a sensation he couldn't control.
The "practice" became less of a clinical exercise and more of a desperate, messy scramble. You used your hand to stroke the base while your mouth focused on the top, and the combination made Percy lose his grip on reality.
"I'm gonna..." He gripped your hair tighter, his eyes blown out until the green was just a thin, vibrating ring around his pupils. His heels dug into the floorboards. "I can't—_____, stop, no, don't stop—wait, I’m gonna—"
He didn't finish the sentence. He couldn't. With a final, choked-off cry of your name that sounded like a prayer, Percy stiffened, his back arching off the bed in a violent line of tension as he surged into you. He held the position for several long seconds, his heart hammering so hard you could see it thumping against his ribs through his shirt, before he finally collapsed back against the pillows.
When it was over, a heavy, sweet silence returned to the cabin, charged with the weight of a brand-new reality. Percy stayed slumped against the headboard, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in deep, shaky heaves that gradually slowed.
Finally, he opened one eye and looked down at you, a dazed, lopsided, and entirely smitten grin spreading across his face. He reached out a shaky hand to brush a stray hair from your forehead.
"So," he whispered, his voice still trembling with the aftershocks. "Do you... do you think you need more practice? Because I checked my schedule, and I’m free every Tuesday. And Wednesday. And, uh, every other day for the rest of my life."
wearing robby’s clothes and him getting all hot n bothered about it…
it’s nothing fancy, just an old tshirt and a pair of his boxers. but seeing how low they hang on your hips, eyes catching on the strip of skin visible when you lift your arms to stretch…
“you look good, baby,” he’s murmuring against your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin there to make you arch back against him. fingers dip below your waistband, his other hand slipping under your shirt, splaying out across your chest to brush against your nipples.
robby doesn’t bother taking off your (his) clothes. just tugs them low enough to give him access, shuddering when he feels how wet you are. he palms at your hips, your chest—any inch of skin he can reach, really.
“robby,” you gasp, and he’s there. grinding up against you as you cum, the feeling of your slick coating his cock making him curse. he doesn’t cum in you—doesn’t have time for it, even if he wants to.
both of you are soaking the fabric by now, and he’s a little desperate.
so he shifts his hips, rests his cock higher instead. pulling your waistband down just enough to let him see. his cock presses over your clit until he groans quietly, covering your folds and still-pulsing cunt with his cum.
merry christmas, please don't call (ex!Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader) -- one shot
Hope everyone had a wonderful Christmas/wonderful day yesterday! Here's a mostly angst-filled festive one shot about our other ER cowboy (clearly I love the ex!trope with them) (based on this post I made!)
Summary: Jack fucked up two years ago and he never got the chance to fix it before you left the Pitt entirely, moving on to bigger and better things. But when Dana convinces you to come back to town for a holiday party, maybe, maybe Jack will get his second chance.
Warnings: far too much alcohol consumption (be more responsible than this), mentions of nausea/vomiting, so much angst, reader's grandparents are dead, reader is described as wearing jeans + a sweater + slightly shorter than Jack, Jack is emotionally constipated but he's trying his best, very platonic reader x robby, one bed trope I guess, hopeful/open ending (but y'all idk if i'll write a part 2/how long it would take me 😭), not really proofread i am too tired from working retail at this time of year </3
WC: ...10k
Jack Abbot left your life the same way he entered it: out of the blue and all at once.
The first time you met him in the Pitt, he came in because the dayshift was short. One second you knew of him only by name, and the next, a curly, grey-haired man was sidling up next to you in Trauma One, asking you what you had and what you needed him to do. By the end of the shift, he had invited you to drinks in the park, and by the end of the night, when it was only the two of you left on the park bench, he asked if he could take you out to dinner that weekend.
And by the end of that dinner, he was in your bed.
It wasn’t technically an HR nightmare because you never did the nightshift, and the one time you did, it was because Jack was out of town and someone else was out sick. You stuck to the dayshift. For all intents and purposes, you were Robby’s star resident, not Jack’s.
You kept things professional when you did cross paths at shift change, so much so that it took months for anyone outside of Robby and Dana to catch on to your relationship status.
The thing most damning wasn’t even something you were there to witness. You and Robby butted heads more often than not on shift. The two of you held a great deal of respect for one another, and maybe that was the exact reason the two of you were quick to press the other. It wasn’t arguing, per se, or at least neither of you ever called it that. Until one day a nightshift nurse said something about hearing Robby yelling at you, the rumor mill stated that Robby made you cry -- you were crying, but not because of Robby or what he said -- and the next thing everyone knew, Abbot was at Robby’s throat about “practice what you preach, man” and “don’t fuckin’ yell at a resident just because they have a better idea than you.”
It equally warmed your heart and made you grin mischievously when you heard about it. Jack Abbot, defending you, to his best friend’s face, over something that was actually a giant miscommunication. It was too good. You had to restrain yourself from pulling Jack in for a kiss in the middle of the ED, right then and there.
It’s funny, in a morbid sort of way, when you remember that specific occurrence. Because you had no idea that less than a month later, he’d end things.
One day everything was fine, and the next, Jack was standing in your living room, wringing his hands, telling you he wasn’t actually staying for dinner because the two of you were done.
Just like that.
His reasons? You roll your eyes every time you think about them -- or maybe that’s just to stop yourself from crying.
“It’s not working out.”
In the moment, you didn’t have any words to reply with; he had stolen them all. But after, you began to wonder. What wasn’t working? Because it surely wasn’t the two of you together, not if the night prior was any indication.
“It’s inappropriate, as your senior.”
Your response had clawed at your throat then, desperate to come out, but you knew it would make no difference. But still, but still, you wanted to cry. We talked about this before. He was senior to you as an attending, but he wasn’t your senior; Robby was. And if he was talking about the age gap, you had talked about that too, and it didn’t bother you. If it had bothered you, you never would’ve kissed him in the first fucking place.
“You need to get out there and live, you don’t want to be tied down to your first boyfriend.”
Oh, that one had stung. So what if he was your first official boyfriend? So what if you only had time for a handful of dates and the rare hookup in med school? Did he think you didn’t have enough life experience for a relationship? Did he think you were inferior to him because of it?
You stopped really trying to make sense of why Jack ended things when he gave you the cold shoulder at the following shift change. You had tried to remain professional and ask a simple, normal question about one of the patients, and he ignored you. Looked right through you as if you weren’t even there.
So, you thought, two can play at this game.
You gave him the most impressive cold shoulder in return. If he was ever around, well, he didn’t exist to you, and if he was ever brought up in conversation -- mainly by Robby -- you’d leave or act so disinterested that it shriveled up and died. The same way he did to you.
You were due to finish your residency in a couple months, anyway, and the last thing you needed was to worry about how Jack felt or why Jack was ignoring you as if you were the one who broke up with him with little to no explanation. None of that mattered.
What did matter was the hospital three hours away that offered you an attending position with nearly twice the pay that PTMC offered you. You took it and fucking ran.
You said goodbye to everyone, but not Jack, because what the hell did it matter to him anyway? He’d probably be glad to have you gone, so he didn’t have to put any effort into ignoring you anymore. He’d probably be glad to not even have to see your face anymore. He’d be glad, you convinced yourself.
Except, he wasn’t.
Because what you didn’t see was the aftermath of your leaving. The way it took Jack Abbot one singular day to notice you weren’t on the schedule for that week, or the next month, or the next one, and so he went to Robby in a panic, only to hear that you were gone. Entirely. Locker cleaned out and everything.
“Friday was her last day,” Robby had explained, scratching the back of his neck, eyeing his friend warily. “I thought you would’ve heard. It wasn’t a secret. She was saying goodbye to everyone.”
“But not to me,” Jack had added, pathetically. It wasn’t a secret. Except it was. Or maybe it wasn’t, and Jack just hadn’t noticed, because he started putting so much work into not noticing you.
Robby just sighed and hung his head. “Well, man, did you really expect her to?”
The glare that Robby received might as well have killed him. Clearly Jack didn’t want to hear the truth, so Robby backed off.
But Jack knew. He knew the truth. He knew Robby was right. He knew he couldn’t -- and shouldn’t have expected you to say goodbye to him. Not when he left you so abruptly and then ignored you as if you never happened.
He had wanted to give you space. From him. Because you were finishing residency, you were at the top of your game, and he didn’t want you considering him in any of your big life decisions. It just. It came out all wrong.
It came out all wrong and then suddenly he was standing across from you in your living room, watching the tears gather in your eyes. He watched the way your throat closed up like it always does when you get emotional, and how you held your palm over your neck as if it might help. He watched the way you fought back a million emotions. Sadness, anger, confusion. He wished you had screamed at him, done anything other than just stare at him like he was ruining your life. He didn’t mean to ruin it. He wasn’t trying to ruin it.
But he did. In his twisted, fucked up way, he did. He ruined it all. And then you took a job three hours away, moved apartments with Robby’s help (Jack found that one out a few months after), and you were gone. Disappeared from Jack’s life as if you were never in it at all.
But, he guesses, he did that to you first.
He went to therapy for the first time a month after you left. Starting scaring himself with the thoughts he was having and the way he’d get just a bit too close to the edge of the roof. So, he found a professional. Started working through his shit. Got better. Started to breathe a little earlier.
But it didn’t really matter. Because you were gone. And he couldn’t even apologize because you blocked his number. Not that he didn’t expect you to, but it still stung when he worked up enough courage to call one night and got sent to voicemail each time. He left one message that he’s not proud of, but you probably never heard it. It probably went straight to your trash.
What Jack doesn’t know is that he wasn’t blocked -- not at first.
The first time he called, it scared the shit out of you. You were on call for your new hospital that night. You thought you were being called in just as you settled down to try to catch some sleep, but no.
It was just Jack.
You panicked and declined the call after two rings, heart nearly pounding out of your chest. What the fuck could he possibly have wanted? It had been months of the cold shoulder, then months of radio silence after you moved -- not that you exactly expected or wanted a housewarming gift from him -- and now he wanted to talk?
And he did want to talk. That much was obvious by how many times he tried to call you. You let the second one ring out. Declined the third after one ring. And by the fourth, you knew you had to block him. He wasn’t even leaving a voicemail, clearly wasn’t taking the hint, and it was just starting to make you cry.
Because every time that damn phone rang, you wanted to answer it.
But you couldn’t. You knew you couldn’t. It wouldn’t be good for you. For either of you.
So, you blocked him and rolled over. Didn’t get called into work. Slept the whole night through.
You checked your inbox in the morning, the hidden folder for messages from blocked numbers, and found one. You hit play before you could stop yourself.
He sounded stone-cold sober. You weren’t sure if that made it better or worse.
“I know I shouldn’t be doing this, but I think you’ve got me blocked, so you probably won’t see it anyway and uh,” he paused, clearing his throat, “I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry. The-- When I ended things, it came out all wrong, and I never got a chance to explain, and I’m sorry. I hear you’re an attending now, congratulations. I know you’re doing great. And um, yeah, that’s--”
It cut out there, whether by him doing it or the message timing out, you didn’t know. But you didn’t care, either.
It came out all wrong and he didn’t get a chance to explain? That was his excuse? That was rich coming from him. It was so rich that it had you laughing until you had tears in your eyes.
You went to work that day like a woman possessed, fueled only by energy drinks and pure, unbridled rage at the man you thought you’d spend the rest of your life with. The man who told you he might never get married again but he wanted to settle down -- with you -- and you were content with that. You never really cared about marriage anyway, but wanted a long-term partner, someone to come home to. Someone that made you feel the way he did. Before it came out all wrong.
You went back to your roots, started going on random dates and hooking up after. Found one man and let it go on for a few weeks before moving on to the next. Over and over. Sometimes it ended because you pulled the plug, sometimes he did it. You didn’t care either way. You didn’t want it to last anyway. None of them were who you really wanted, and so by default you weren’t who they wanted either.
All you knew was that you would never let yourself feel as much as you did for Jack. And for that to never happen, you could never be in an actual relationship. Random dates were safer.
Random dates didn’t leave you crying on your bathroom floor. Random dates didn’t rip sounds from your throat that still haunt your ears to this day.
So what if you put up walls? So what if you locked your heart inside and vowed to never let it out again? So what?
It didn’t matter. You were never going to see Jack again anyway.
+++
Jack Abbot re-entered your life just the same as before.
One moment you’re hugging Dana’s neck, squeezing her so tight because it’s been too long, and the next you’re locking eyes with a certain man halfway across the Christmas-themed bar. The colorful lights dancing off his features make him look so handsome that a long-forgotten ache settles in your heart immediately.
You hold Jack’s gaze for one moment, your expression neutral. Your eyes flick back to Dana, settling on a scowl. “You didn’t tell me he’d be here.”
“Who-- Oh,” Dana grimaces, hand reaching out to your arm. “I’m sorry, kid. I heard last minute, and I knew if I told you--”
You sigh. “I know.”
“We’ve missed you,” she says. “Selfishly, this was an excuse just for all of us to get together and see you again.”
You give her a look, turning to face the bar. “I know that’s a lie.”
She elbows you with a laugh. “Only a little one. It’s also an excuse for us all to get drunk.”
“Why isn’t he at work?” you ask, flagging the bartender down. “No one else from nights is here.”
“Ellis said she might pop in later,” Dana protests. You just barely glance at her out of the corner of your eye. Dana shakes her head, finally explaining, “He’s been taking some days off for once.”
“Huh,” you say quietly. You order your drink, something mistletoe themed because of course it is. You just hope it’ll give you a buzz that’ll make tonight bearable. Because if neither of you will budge -- and you most definitely will not -- then it means you’ll be in the same room as him for the next few hours. Which means he’ll likely try to talk to you.
Fucking Christ.
“You don’t have to speak to him,” Dana says quietly as you wait for your drink. “He’s been in therapy.”
You can tell she isn’t telling you this to guilt you, but just to let you know. A simple fact. Just as simple as the fact that he’s here on his night off, wearing what can only barely be called a Christmas sweater even though it’s grey because it at least has white snowflakes on it.
You just nod. “Good for him.”
Your drink barely hits the bar before you’re taking two long sips of it. It burns, sort of tastes awful, and is a shade of green you haven’t had in a drink since med school, but it will absolutely get you the buzz you’re looking for, and maybe a little more.
“Alright,” you grin. “Let’s mingle.”
Dana just laughs as she hooks her arm through yours. “You’ve got to meet the new kids. The old kids still love you, don’t worry, but we’ve got some new blood and they’re a handful and a half.”
“I bet,” you snort, remembering the med students you witnessed when you were there.
“There you are!”
You gasp and turn, Samira Mohan staring right back at you with the widest smile. You give her the biggest hug you can manage with a drink in hand and practically squeal. She was just finishing her first year of residency when you left, and you had practically taken her under your wing for that year. Saying goodbye to her was one of the hardest.
“I’m so glad you came,” she says, just a little too loud right in your ear, so she’s definitely had a drink, maybe even worked a shift today and is still riding that high. “When Dana told me you’d said you’d make it I was so happy! And Jack too!”
You go rigid against her. While the two of you were close at work, it never really translated into a friendship outside of the hospital, thus you never really told her the ins and outs of your relationship with Jack. Of course people knew, but it was unspoken. Just like the breakup had been.
Samira feels you stiffen and pulls back, the grimace on her face saying she knows exactly what she said. “Sorry,” she whispers. “I know something b-- I know you don’t talk anymore, or at least, he just gets this look in his eyes whenever you get brought up--”
“You guys still talk about me?” you’re half-joking as you say it, but really there’s a tugging sensation in your chest.
“All the time!” she beams. “I mention you to the med students a lot, actually. You taught me a lot.”
“Samira,” you groan. “I was only two years ahead of you.”
“And still,” she says with a shrug. “You’re a great teacher.”
“Thanks,” you murmur, soft now, forgetting momentarily about Jack. Without meaning to, you’ve let the breakup taint everything about the Pitt for you. And it shouldn’t have. Jack isn’t the only person in that ED, and when everything weighs out, you certainly have more to be thankful for than upset over. You need to forget about him.
But it’s so hard to forget when you look up and he’s just there. And you make eye contact with him again. Because he won’t fucking stop staring at you. And he’s standing with Robby, goddamnit, which means if you want to say hi to one, you’ll have to be near the other.
Part of you wonders if Robby’s doing it on purpose. Since, apparently, Jack’s in therapy. So he must be a changed man. He must be brand new. Therapy makes up for it all.
You head back to the bar instead of toward Robby, running into Mateo and Donnie, hugging them both. They introduce you to Trinity and Dennis, one intern and one med student. They follow you to the bar and you find Cassie who started soon after you left.
“Have you seen Robby yet?” they all ask. As if none of them know who Robby is standing next to.
“We miss you a lot,” Donnie says. “He does too.”
“Which one?” you scoff. He never tells you.
+++
Jack Abbot feels (and he imagines, looks) like he’s seen a ghost. And in a way, he supposes he has.
Because you’re here. At this stupid holiday work get together that he, for some God forsaken reason, let Robby rope him into. He can’t even be angry with Robby right now for convincing him to get out of the house on his night off because you’re here.
You’re here, and you look good. Healthy. Like you’ve been sleeping more and eating good. Like the new hospital treats you well -- and they fucking better be.
You look like you don’t miss him.
You miss everyone else. That much is obvious to Jack as he watches you wrap your arms around Dana, a wide grin on your face. Dana must’ve been the one to text you.
Jack’s always had a staring problem. Been called out on it a few times at work and a few times by you when the two of you would be in the comfort of your own home and he would be staring you down as if he couldn’t believe you were choosing to spend your time next to him.
He guesses he must wear a similar look right now. Because he can’t believe you’re real, you’re here-- And then your eyes find his.
He’s not sure what he expects you to do, really. He long let go of the notion that if he ever saw you again you’d come running at him and hug him close and tell him how much you missed him. And you’d listen as he apologized profusely and begged for one more chance, and then you’d grant him said chance. That fantasy is childish. Impossible.
What’s real is the stare you give him right now in return. It’s not exactly a cold-hard glare because…well, it’s not anything. There is nothing behind your eyes when you look at him. And it fucking hurts.
You look away first because of course you do. He’s in a trance and you’re completely unfazed, as if he doesn’t faze you anymore. As if he never did.
And that’s what he deserves, he guesses, so he can’t even be angry with you for it.
“Sorry,” Robby says, and that one word is all he needs to say to incriminate himself.
Jack just chuckles, shaking his head. “You knew she was coming, didn’t you?” Robby nods and Jack says “asshole” around a sip of his beer.
“Yeah, well,” Robby laughs. “When Dana was putting this together she wanted to get some old people back, especially her, and,” he pauses to raise his eyebrows, taking in a breath with his next words, “I knew if I told you…”
Jack rolls his eyes. “She doesn’t want to talk to me. What part of ‘I’m blocked’ do you not understand, old man?”
“I’m not saying you have to talk to her,” Robby says, ignoring the usual jab. “I’m just saying I wanted you to socialize and I knew you wouldn’t do it if I told you she’d be here, so I left that part out. I’m looking out for your mental health.”
Jack laughs loudly at that one. “You aren’t looking out for shit.”
Robby entertains some of the med students when they come over to say hello, drunk off their asses already, but it’s endearing because they deserve it. Times are tough. They’re young. They deserve a night to get plastered.
Jack goes back to watching you. He makes sure to look away periodically, trying not to catch anyone else’s attention, because that would be some fucking shit, wouldn’t it? If Dana catches him, it’s over. It’s bad enough that Robby caught him, but that was inevitable. If Dana catches him from halfway across the bar, he might as well cut his losses and leave early.
He’s still debating on that. He initially agreed to come out for two hours. Just a couple beers. But you showed up at the hour and a half mark, and Jack isn’t sure he’s ready to leave just yet.
He doesn’t have to speak to you. And you probably won’t speak to him. But he can look at you.
He’s missed looking at you. Used to be his favorite thing to do. He never could sneak up on you at home -- not with his crutches or even his prosthetic that you told him one night clicks ever so softly -- so you always knew when he was watching you. He thought he’d be self conscious about that, but you said it with such a soft smile on your face that he couldn’t help but kiss you. You once said you loved how much he looked at you, that at first it weirded you out, but that was because you hadn’t realized yet why he was always looking at you. It’s because he was enamored with you.
Was. Is. He still is. Even as he watches you drink a hideously neon green drink just a little too fast. Even as he watches you swivel around to start greeting old friends. Even as he watches you lock eyes with him for the second time tonight.
Even, damn him, as this time your gaze levels into a glare.
Yeah, he won’t be speaking to you tonight. Not unless you speak to him first, but that possibility grows more and more unlikely with every passing second.
And there’s not a damn thing he can do about it. He made his bed -- two years ago when he broke your heart in your apartment -- now he has to lie in it. Forever.
+++
You had a plan for tonight. A concise, safe plan. And seeing Jack fucking derailed it all.
You told yourself you’d have at most two drinks tonight. Then you see his face and suddenly you’re ordering a fourth. You can’t blame him though, not really. He’s not exactly forcing you to order the drinks.
He is, however, watching you from across the room like some lovesick teenager who doesn’t understand where he went wrong and why you won’t give him the time of day. Which you guess is just as bad.
You haven’t even said a word to Robby yet, not by choice necessarily because you have been catching up with everyone else, but also because of the fact that he designated himself guard dog of Dr. Jack Abbot tonight -- for whatever fucking reason.
The problem fast approaching is that now you’ve had just enough alcohol that your body is warm, your tongue is loose, and your feet have a mind of their own. Because the next thing you know, you’re making your way over to Robby, and his eyes are going just as wide as his grin the second he spots you.
“The two old guys, holding up the wall as usual,” you joke, opening your arms for a hug that Robby accepts easily. “How are you?”
Robby laughs as he hugs you back. “I’m just fine. Clearly not doing as good as you.”
You roll your eyes, stepping back to look at him. “I never have time to drink. This is me treating myself.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Robby smiles, all soft. “You deserve it. Still loving the new hospital?”
“It’s not new anymore, it’s been two years,” you remind him, and you see Jack go stiff in the corner of your eye. You almost forgot he was right there. “But yeah. They love me there.” You try not to shoot such a pointed look in Jack’s direction, but you’re drunk and you fail.
“We love you here too, you know,” Robby chides, his tone just a bit jilted.
You just shrug, purposefully not looking at Jack.
Until he speaks. To you.
“It’s good to see you,” Jack says, and it comes out a bit uncertain, like even he can’t figure out if he’s justified in speaking to you. He nods, just barely smiling at you. “I’m glad you’re…you know, doing good.”
You stare at him a second. Narrow your eyes. “Thanks,” you finally say, and you leave it at that, leaving the two of them there to go back to holding up the wall.
You try not to grumble as you walk away. It could’ve gone worse. Jack could’ve said some ridiculous “Can we talk?” line and you could’ve said yes. He could’ve commented on your appearance and thank fuck he did not.
Still, seeing him up close has done something to you. Hearing his voice again has made you dizzy. You’re absolutely blaming that on him and not the drinks you’ve had tonight. Because it’s his fault. All of it. It has to be.
You know you stumble a bit walking away, but god, you don’t have it in you to give a single fuck about how it might look. You, still unable to hold your liquor. You, still having learned no better of your limits. You, still so easily effected by Jack fucking Abbot.
You turn and head for the doors, hoping some cold air will do you good. Clear your head. Or some other bullshit.
The cold air does sober you momentarily, purely by its shock factor. You turn and press your back against the brick wall, tipping your head back and shutting your eyes.
Fuck. Fuck this fucking night, what were you thinking, coming back here? You should’ve told Dana that you couldn’t make it. That they’re strict about schedules at the new hospital, that you can’t ask any favors. But you know why you didn’t.
Deep down, you wanted the chance at a glimpse of Jack. Just to see if he looked better off. Or if he looked worse. Or if he looked like he hadn’t changed and hadn’t learned a damn thing from how poorly he treated you. The worst part is that right now, you don’t know which of those three options fits. Because all you can think is how handsome he looks. Still.
It’s not fair. Everything about this is so unfair. He broke your heart and got to stay at the Pitt, got to go back to his life as normal, and you had to move. You had to run away from it all, just as more horrors chased you down, and then when those got to you, you were all alone in a brand new city with a brand new job with brand new people who weren’t entirely sure what to make of you yet, and their first impressions of you were you in the middle of a mental breakdown that you were trying to stave off by being a workaholic.
Before you know it, there’s a wetness on your cheeks, and that sobers you up just about as much as it pisses you off. You wipe the tears and practically slap your palms on your pants, two seconds away from punching the brick wall next to your head when the door to the bar opens and--
“Here.” Jack Abbot steps out in all his dull Christmas sweater glory with a bottle of water. For you.
You take the bottle but not without glaring at him. He studies your face a bit and you glare harder, as if daring him to say something about the leftover tears in your eyes.
He’s smart -- for once. He doesn’t say anything. He even looks away.
With any luck, he might go back inside and leave you alone, but that hope quickly fades away when he decides to lean against the brick wall next to you. The only consolation is the distance he places between the two of you.
If you were sober, you wouldn’t say anything. Hell, if you were sober, you wouldn’t even be in this situation to begin with. Which you guess is your fault. Like everything else.
And if you were sober, you wouldn’t have said that last part out loud.
Jack’s head whips toward you, his gaze disbelieving and gentle and harsh all at the same time. “What did you just say?”
You cap the water bottle and roll it against your forehead, the cold a welcome feeling despite the cold air already wrapping around you. “I honestly don’t even remember.”
He looks like he wants to comment on that, but he doesn’t. He just nods. Turns his gaze forward again. Pauses.
“Why are you out here?” you blurt, a weak, defeated exhale disguised as a chuckle leaving your lips.
“Saw you stum-- walk out here,” he corrects himself, then shrugs. “I know you can be a bit of a lightweight--”
“Thanks.”
“I don’t mean it in a bad way.”
“I know,” you murmur. You never did. “Thanks for the water.”
“It’s nothing,” he says. “You deserve a lot more than water from me.”
“Yeah, I do,” you agree, not caring that your smile is a bit sardonic. “But it’s fine.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not. I--”
“Jack,” you try not to say his name so harshly and so loudly, but it happens all the same, the anger still quick to boil over. “Don’t. I really don’t want to hear it.”
“I know you don’t, but I-- Can I at least say it?”
“Do you have to?” you aren’t even shouting, but you’re not exactly speaking at a normal volume either. You don’t know what this is. You don’t know what he still does to you. “Was the voicemail not enough?”
He opens his mouth and promptly shuts it, eyebrows furrowing as he stares at you. Blinks. Then says, “You listened to that?”
“Of course I fucking did,” you grumble, exasperated. “You blew up my phone after I kept declining the calls and then left a voicemail and you expected me not to play it?”
“No, it’s not that, I just-- Why didn’t you say anything?”
You just give him a withering look.
He sighs. “I’m sorry--”
“Yeah, you said that.”
“Will you just let me explain?” he asks, and it shocks you because he doesn’t actually sound annoyed with you at all. He sounds desperate.
And fuck. Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the night air. Maybe it’s the fact that he still notices you enough to know you needed to drink some water -- it has helped. Maybe it’s also the fact that he wears the same damn cologne and you can smell it right now and it’s driving you crazy just how badly you want to bury your face in his damn neck.
Whatever it is, you stay silent long enough and Jack takes that as your answer.
He rakes his hands through his hair, like he’s two seconds away from tugging it all out at the roots. You look away from him, waiting.
“When we broke up-- When I ended things, it wasn’t-- I never meant for it to--” He pauses, shakes his head, curses under his breath. “I’ve had this damn speech rehearsed for years and now I can’t-- I can’t get it to come out right.”
“Seems to be a common excuse for you,” you mutter, still not looking at him. You know you can’t drive like this, and maybe it was stupid to drive yourself here in the first place, but you had a plan, you remember. One that didn’t involve getting so plastered you now might as well sleep in your car until sunrise. Anything would be a great option instead of listening to his same excuse of ‘It came out all wrong.’
“Yeah, I know,” he replies. “I’m working on it.”
“Right, therapy,” you comment and when you practically feel the shock radiating off him, you add, “Dana told me.”
He nods slowly. “I started it soon after you left.”
“Good for you.”
“Don’t worry, my therapist thinks I handled it all wrong too.”
It makes you snort out a laugh, just a small one. You don’t have a therapist. Maybe you should, after all the shit you’ve gone through, Jack Abbot’s infamous breakup aside.
“Listen, I--” He stops himself again and you raise an eyebrow, wondering if he’ll ever get it out. “I was in way over my head and instead of talking to you about it, I stayed in my head about it, and thought that ending things was the smartest option. For both of us.”
You glare at him. “How? How could you possibly have come up with that?”
“You were finishing your residency,” he says, and it’s just stating facts and he’s got two seconds before he pisses you off again. “I was so attached I was lashing out at Robby because of a whisper that he had made you cry.”
You remember that day. “I told you he didn’t.”
“I know, he told me too, he set me straight,” Jack says. “And told me I needed to keep my head on straight, which I clearly wasn’t.”
“Sorry-- You listened to Robby of all people for relationship advice?”
“Not exactly,” Jack says, a small smirk creeping in. “And I over-corrected. I thought if you were feeling even an ounce of how I felt, there’s no way you also had a clear mind, and you, out of the two of us, needed to have one. You were about to make a big decision, finishing residency, deciding where you wanted to go next. I didn’t want you to think about me. I wanted you to just think about yourself.”
You stand there, shellshocked, mulling his words over in your mind. Replaying them as he stands in front of you. Wondering if you’ve heard him correctly.
And then you laugh. God, you can’t help it, you start laughing. So hard that you get damn tears in your eyes.
“You really-- You broke up with me because you-- Oh my god, that’s too good.”
Jack’s eyebrows furrow. “It is?”
“You broke up with me right before my residency ended because you wanted me to think about my next step and not think about you?” You shake your head as you repeat his reasoning. “That fucking backfired for you.”
“No, it didn’t,” he argues. “You have a great job--”
“Yeah,” you laugh, “that I took because I knew I wouldn’t have to watch you pretend I didn’t exist every day.”
He freezes. You can see the pieces finally clicking in his head. Because, of course, why would he think you’d take the job for any other reason?
“You know, Jack,” you make a noise somewhere between a scoff and a laugh and it is so, so bitter. “You didn’t have to hide behind all of the good samaritan bullshit. If you didn’t want to be with me anymore, you could’ve just said that. The truth probably would’ve been a lot easier to stomach.”
+++
Jack watches you head back inside with a pit deep in his stomach. He tips his head back against the brick wall. Still, even after the years in between, his words come out wrong. It was and had never been about not wanting to be with you anymore, but that’s clearly how it looked, didn’t it?
He debates not going back inside. It would be all too easy to slip away now, send Robby a text once he’s far enough down the road to tell him he’s gone. To tell him he tried, it was a bust as expected, and he really shouldn’t push his luck with you anymore.
But the stupid side of his brain wins out, the one that wants to keep an eye on you, especially after how fast you downed those four drinks and how you stumbled out here. He knows it isn’t his place, and he knows that everyone inside that bar right now would keep a good enough eye on you. But still.
So, he goes back inside, orders another beer that he’ll probably nurse until the end of the night, and goes back to standing beside Robby.
Robby pretends to show self-restraint and doesn’t ask Jack how it went with you for a whole five minutes. He actually doesn’t get to ask because Jack blurts out the answer for him.
“It didn’t go well.”
“Did she take the water?”
“Yeah.”
“It went well enough, then.”
Jack just shakes his head. You were right, he shouldn’t take advice from Robby of all people on this kind of thing. No matter how much he loves the guy.
He watches you from afar for the rest of the night, as he should’ve been doing for the entire time.
The hours grow later and soon people are beginning to file out. Some have shifts tomorrow, some had shifts today and need to finally sleep them off.
You remain at the bar, nursing your second (or third?) drink since you came back inside, chatting up a storm with complete strangers. Jack can’t remember which number drink this one is, and is of course beating himself up for it. He’s supposed to be in here to keep an eye on you.
And he is, especially when your head starts drooping a little.
Robby notices, too, straightening up beside his best friend. “I’ll go.”
“Yeah,” Jack nods. Probably the better idea.
Robby strides over and leans against the bar right next to you, and you in your drunken state give him a wide grin before practically throwing yourself at him in a hug. It startles Jack, but he knows it isn’t like that. You’ve always said that you and Robby have a sort of fucked up father-daughter, begrudging mentor-mentee relationship. If you had wanted to jump Robby’s bones, you would’ve done it already.
What Jack isn’t prepared for, though, is your loud protest when Robby says he should get you home.
“No,” you whine, and Jack thinks, thank fuck it’s just the three of you left here. “I wanna go with Jack.”
Jack’s eyes widen and his gaze meets Robby’s across the bar. You’ve definitely had too much to drink.
You’re already twisting around in Robby’s arms, eyes searching for Jack. “Where is he? Where’d he go?”
And Jack, god fucking help him, nearly breaks his good leg trying to get over to you. “I’m right here,” he says, not questioning anything you’re saying, but also trying like hell to not lose his mind over it.
“Jack!” Your whole face lights up the way it used to and you practically fling yourself at him, arms around his neck. “I thought you left.”
He’s watching Robby’s face, both of them trying to gauge just how drunk you are right now. “No, I’m-- I’m right here.”
“I accept your apology,” you say, words muffled by his neck. “Even though you were a dick to me.”
He knows you don’t mean it. He knows you’ll sober up and you either won’t remember this, or you’ll walk all of it back. And he’d deserve it.
“Come on,” he says instead, arm tightening around your waist. “You need to sleep this off.”
You put up very little protest as Jack walks you to his truck, Robby not far behind the two of you. He’s not worried about driving because didn’t touch his second beer at all; he was too worried for you.
“Call me if anything changes,” Robby says to Jack, eyeing you warily where you sit in his passenger seat, head resting on the window.
“Don’t worry, I’m a doctor,” Jack tries to joke, but it falls flat because of the sheer worry surrounding him.
“Drive safe,” Robby says, clapping Jack on the shoulder. “Let me know how she’s doing in the morning.”
Jack just nods, hopping in his truck. Your eyes crack open at the sound of the door opening and shutting, but they fall closed again when you see Jack.
“Doing okay over there?” he asks gently, starting the engine.
“Just tired,” you mumble, and he takes that as a good sign, but he will be making you down some water before you fall asleep.
“We’re going to my place,” he tells you, even though you won’t remember this. “We can come get your car tomorrow. Do you work tomorrow?”
“Nope,” you sigh. “Cashed in on a favor.”
He smiles. “They do those at the new hospital?”
“Yeah,” you let out a breathy little laugh. “‘Cause they love me.” Then you go quiet. “Hey Jack?”
“What is it?”
“Do you still love me?”
He nearly runs the truck off the goddamn road.
He doesn’t answer you fast enough because then you’re saying, “Please.”
He answers too fast this time, unable to think his words through before they’re flying out of his mouth, “Please what, baby?”
“Please don’t make me go through this again.”
His heart nearly chokes him with how far it’s lodged in his throat. “I still do,” he answers. “I always have.”
Jack’s not sure if that’s the right or wrong answer, or maybe it’s both, because then you’re sniffling and there’s still three more redlights before you’re at his place.
You don’t say anything else and he doesn’t press, he just lets you sniffle into your hands until he pulls in his driveway. And then he’s hopping out and practically sprinting around to the passenger side, opening your door and catching you when you crumble into his arms.
“Okay,” he groans with your dead weight. “Gonna need you to walk for me.”
You cling to him as he walks you up to his front door, fishing his keys out and shoving them inside.
“Kitchen first,” he says, and you automatically turn, your body still remembering the way, and something in Jack’s gut twists deep and sharp.
“You’re gonna make me drink water, aren’t you,” you grumble, your eyes fully closed.
“I am,” he says, trying and failing to not be so amused by you in this state. “And you’re going to take some Tylenol.”
You scrunch your nose up at him, still clinging to him as he fills a glass with water for you, and then shakes out two Tylenol.
“Drink that,” he says.
You pick it up immediately, but not without a muttered, “Bossy” first.
He watches you drink and if you were sober you would’ve commented on the intensity of it. Instead, you don’t even notice. Or at the very least, you say nothing.
You finish the water and set the glass down, your gaze expectant as it finds Jack’s. “I need to sleep this off, don’t I?”
He just nods. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”
You wrap your arms around him again, snuggling into his neck. “Are you coming too?”
He will not be sleeping in the same bed as you, purely because if you wake up next to him there will be hell to pay. But if he says that to you in your current state, there might also be hell to pay.
“Yeah,” he says instead. “Let’s get in bed.”
You sigh contentedly, quiet as he walks you down the hall to his bedroom.
He just needs to get you settled in bed, preferably in some other clothes because you’ll wake up a sweaty mess if you sleep in your jeans and sweater like this. But getting you undressed without your mind thinking he has other intentions is nearly impossible.
He’s only ever seen you drunk like this one time. And for more positive reasons. Not like this. Not because of him.
Which doesn’t mean you haven’t been this drunk before, since the breakup. He just didn’t witness it, if you were.
He tries not to think about it, the guilt quick to eat at him as he helps you to his room and to settle you on his bed.
“I’m gonna get you some shorts to sleep in,” he says, and almost immediately, you start undoing your jeans. He smirks and turns away, rummaging in his drawers for a pair of shorts and an old t-shirt.
By the time he turns back, you’re tugging your sweater over your head. Heat flares in him at the sight of you in only your bra and panties, but, he reminds himself, now isn’t the time. It hasn’t been the time in two years.
“Here,” he hands you his clothes. “Put those on.”
You pout for all of a second before you do as you’re told, pulling the shirt over your head. It’s backwards, but it’ll be fine that way to sleep in. But you don’t touch the shorts.
You crawl backward on the bed, stumbling a bit, all limbs, just like a fawn, as you scramble to get under the covers. “You coming?”
Jack just gives you a tight smile, walking around the edge of the bed to tuck you in. “Just need to lock up and shower.”
You sigh as you settle down, turning onto your side. The amount of alcohol running through you is clearly starting to exhaust you. You’re no doubt exhausted in general from working as much as he’s sure you do. You always were working too many hours.
Jack smooths the back of his knuckles over your cheek as your eyes flutter closed. He waits just a few moments before your breathing evens out.
He leaves the room before he can do something stupid. Like crawl into bed beside you and pull you against his chest.
Instead, he goes and checks that he locked the door (he did). He checks that the windows are locked (they always are). He checks that all the lights are off (neither of you turned any on when you came in). He paces until his leg absolutely fucking aches, and then he stops.
He sits down on the couch. He’s a light sleeper, but he doesn’t know that he trusts himself to hear you down the hall in case you need anything. He doesn’t think you’re drunk enough that you’d be at risk of vomiting in your sleep, but he also doesn’t want to chance it. But he can’t sleep in the same bed.
So, he does the next best thing. He carefully walks down the hall, carefully grabs a pillow from the bed, and carefully grabs a blanket off his dresser.
He sits down next to the bed, next to the side you’re asleep on, and works his prosthetic off. He props it against the wall, massaging the irritated skin. He’s had it on for too long today, he knows. But he always does.
He lies back, adjusting the pillow under his head. He’s slept in worse conditions than this, but he knows his back will feel like hell tomorrow. It’s his price to pay.
He glances up at the bed, where your hand hangs loosely off the edge. He smiles just a little at it, and then settles down to sleep.
+++
When you wake up, it’s still dark out, and you have an absolutely horrific headache.
To make matters worse, you know exactly where you are. You’d recognize it anywhere.
“Fuck me,” you mutter, feeling around in Jack’s bed for, well, Jack, but you come up empty. But you can hear him -- or rather, you hear him snoring. “What the--”
You lean over the side of the bed, finding Jack fast asleep under a poor excuse for a blanket and on the bare fucking floor.
“Jack!” you hiss, reaching down and swatting at him. “Wake up!”
He jolts awake, eyes wide as they find yours. “What’s wrong? Do you feel sick?” He sits up as he says it, hands reaching up toward you.
“What the fuck are you doing sleeping on the goddamn floor?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Get up here!”
“What?”
You’re close to smacking him, but instead you grab his hands and pull until he gets the message. You scoot to the other side of the bed, pulling him with you, helping him onto the mattress.
“What are you-- Okay, fine! I’m on the fucking bed! Fine! Happy?”
“No,” you mutter. “But you’ll be grumpy as hell tomorrow if you sleep on the fucking floor and murder your back.”
He stares at you in the dark and you stare back, equally as incredulous.
You slide back down under the covers, still tired, still grumbling. “Just lay down and go to sleep. And don’t touch me.”
Jack just barely chuckles, but you finally feel him settling down. “Yes ma’am.”
You’re glad you’re turned the opposite way so he doesn’t see you smile.
+++
When you wake up for the second time, the sun is streaming through the window, and the bed is empty. Again.
You’re not upset about it. You’re not.
God, you’ve just woken up and you already need to get out of here as soon as possible. The only problem is you can hear Jack in the kitchen, so fleeing without him noticing isn’t an option.
And. Your fucking car.
“Fuck,” you whisper, reaching for your phone, finding it plugged in on the nightstand. Definitely Jack’s doing.
There’s a message from Robby. And Dana. And Samira.
You at least look at the previews. Robby’s and Dana’s a similar variation of You okay, kid? And Samira’s is her expressing how good it was to see you again and how much she’s missed you.
You respond to Robby’s with a simple Alive and to Dana’s with a more in depth I’m okay, alive, at Jack’s, will explain later. You’ll respond to Samira later when you can think better and accurately express just how much you also enjoyed seeing her again.
You look down at yourself and notice you’re in Jack’s clothes, of course, just his t-shirt. You hardly ever sleep in clothes, especially not when you’re drunk.
You shove your face into your hands. At least you’re not that hungover. Probably also Jack’s doing.
Speaking of, you can smell coffee brewing, and that never fails to drag you out of bed.
You do at least have half the mind to put shorts on before you go.
You find Jack standing at the kitchen counter, dressed in shorts and a t-shirt not unsimilar to your attire. He’s using a crutch this morning, always so stubborn about them sometimes. His curls are a mess, his bedhead having not changed in two years. It makes you giggle.
The sound causes Jack’s head to turn comically fast, eyebrows raised in surprise and you don’t need to ask why.
You frown. “What am I doing here?”
Jack just turns back around to the coffee pot. “You were too drunk to drive.”
You scoff. “I gathered that.” You move further into the kitchen, leaning against the counter next to him, not looking at him. “How drunk was I?”
“You wanted to come home with me.”
“Yeah,” you laugh, rubbing your forehead. “Sorry.”
He shakes his head. “It’s fine.”
“Thanks for making sure I didn’t like, choke on my own vomit.”
He smirks. “Thanks for making sure I didn’t completely murder my back.”
“Anytime, old man.”
“Coffee?”
“Sure.”
“Truce?”
You just give him a look.
He smirks. “Didn’t think so.”
You sigh, dropping your head. “Half a truce. Maybe.” You pause, looking up to meet Jack’s hopeful gaze. “Just because you kept me alive. I know I was probably a terror.”
“Not at all,” he says, shaking his head again, watching the coffee drip. “You were just…”
“Clingy?”
“Yeah,” he answers quietly. “That.”
“Fuck, I didn’t kiss you, did I?”
“No, no,” he shakes his head rapidly this time. “No. You just-- Wrapped yourself around me. Look, we don’t have to talk about--”
“We kind of do, though, don’t we?”
“We don’t,” he says, but he doesn’t sound at all convincing. “Do you still like coffee with your sugar?”
“Very funny,” you reply. “And no, black is fine.”
His head whips up toward you as if that is the most shocking thing you’ve ever said to him. “Really?”
“Just pour the coffee so I can drink it and leave,” you snap, without your usual heat, face breaking into a smile when his starts. “Don’t be an asshole.”
“Can’t help it,” he says, still smirking when he reaches up to grab two mugs. His hand freezes, though, because sitting right there, still in his cabinet, is your mug.
You see it, too. Your favorite mug. The one that you assumed got lost in the move or, more likely, got lost here at Jack’s place. And you were not, under any circumstances, going to ask him about it. Not while he was ignoring you so expertly.
“Sorry,” he says as he brings it down, along with one of his. “Saw it a few weeks after and by then we weren’t really-- Anyway, you can have it, obviously.”
“Thanks,” you say. “I’ve been looking for it everywhere.”
He pours your mug nearly to the brim, doing the same to his. You grab his mug before he can protest, walking both of them over to his table.
“I could’ve gotten that,” he mutters, sliding down into the chair across from you.
“Yeah, yeah,” you wave him off. “Last time I do something nice for you.”
It was a running joke, back when you were together. An old habit that just slipped right out.
“Sorry,” you add. “I should’ve let you.”
He just shakes his head. “You were just trying to be nice. Thanks.”
Tight smiles pass between the two of you. You sip your coffee and hate that it’s good this way, with nothing else in it, and that it’s Jack’s.
“What are you, um,” he stops, straightens his shoulders, “what are you doing for Christmas? Still going to see your grandparents?”
You stiffen. “No,” you stare down at your reflection in your coffee. “They uh, they died. Few months after I moved.”
You take a long sip of your coffee while Jack fails to find any words. He knows how close you were with them. How much you worried about them passing and you being unable to travel for the funerals.
You decide to put him out of his misery. “I’m working on Christmas, so.” You pause, finally meeting his eyes again. “Are you?”
“No, I actually uh, took Christmas off this year.”
You hum. “Cool.”
“I could come visit you, if you’d like that.”
You can’t help it, you start laughing. “Sure.”
“I’m serious,” he says, his expression stern, but not because he’s angry. “When you get off shift, we could have dinner.”
“It’ll be Christmas, Jack. Nothing will be open.”
“Well it’s a damn good thing I can cook then, isn’t it?”
You start to smile around your mug. “You’re serious?”
“If you’ll let me,” he nods. “Let me make that day easier for you.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re actually serious.”
He nods, his gaze not once wavering. “If you’ll have me.”
You wait a beat. Mull it over. “I’ll think about it,” you settle on saying. “And I’ll text you when I figure it out.”
“So I’m out of jail?”
“Your number will be,” you quip. “Not so sure about you, though.”
“There’s time,” he says confidently. “I can make it up to you.”
You’re still not even totally sure that you want him to, but the thought is sweet. The gesture is even sweeter. The idea of coming home from what will no doubt be one hell of a shift on Christmas to Jack in your apartment with dinner cooking is way too tempting.
You finished your coffee and he poured you another without you even needing to ask.
“I can give you some sweatpants to drive home in,” he says. “And a hoodie. It’s cold today.”
“I have heating in my car.”
He ignores your comment. “I’ll go grab them for you.”
You roll your eyes and let him go, not wanting to argue with him on this. It’s a nice gesture.
And you have missed wearing his clothes.
By the time he returns, he’s got his prosthetic on too. “Left the clothes on the bed for you.”
“Thanks,” you say, standing up. “I’ll go change and then we can head out. I should be getting back anyway.”
He nods just a little and you think he looks disappointed, but you can’t touch that right now. You need to get dressed, get back to your car, and blast music for three hours while you think about what the fuck has happened to your life since last night.
Jack says next to nothing as he drives you back to your car. You try to remember when you were here in his truck last night, but everything is too hazy. Who knows what you said to him.
When he pulls up beside your car, he cuts the engine on his truck and sits. You know him too well, though, so you wait. You know there’s something he needs to say. You don’t have a single guess as to what it might be, though.
“I’m glad you came last night,” he says quietly, turning his head to look at you. “It was good to see you.”
“Yeah,” you murmur. “You too.”
He nods. “Got your keys?”
“Yep.”
“And you’re stopping for breakfast?”
You roll your eyes. “Yes, Jack, I’ll stop and eat something. I’ll probably need gas too. And no you are not allowed to pump my gas for me. Go home.”
He clenches his jaw, absolutely not wanting to relent on this, but he has to. “Next time.”
“Sure,” you huff, hand on the door. “Next time.”
“See you at Christmas,” he calls out as you slide out of his truck and shut the door.
You just glare at him in response, but he knows you. He knows it’s a yes just as much as you do.
Which is why once you make it home, you text him your address, along with Don’t forget my mug.
author's note: wrote this one in response to this lovely ask i received earlier today:
"Omg but like, the reader being so flirty with jack all the time (secretly is in love with him) amd he just smiles and shakes his head but he loves the attention from her then one day she sees him ask dr al hashimi for beers and she assumes he asked her out on a date and she backs off and stops flirting and barely even looks him in the eye because if she does she'll fall apart and abbot doesn't understand why she stopped flirting and tries to give her openings for her usual flirty lines but she doesn't bite anymore and just the she fell first, he fell harder stuff it's soooooogood😭😭"
thanks so so much to the lovely @stuffingbuttsandshit for this message (i fw your username sm) and i hope i did it justice. please never be afraid to send me a request, and thank you for all the support, it means the world !!! also, i'm back into my teaching job tomorrow, so this will be the last of what you'll hear from me for a couple days <3
pairing: jack abbot x resident! reader
word count: 4.1k
warnings: miscommunication/misunderstanding trope! medical inaccuracies, reader is a resident but no mention of age, no specific phsyical attributes to certain gender mentioned, also not proofread!
songs i listened to while writing this: so easy (to fall in love) by olivia dean, easy by the commodores, purple by wunderhorse, when we are together by the 1975
description: You flirt with jack every shift like that's what you spent years in med school studying for. When you overhear a conversation between him and another attending, you decide to pull yourself together and face the music - no amount of one sided love would ever change your relationship. At least, that's what you think.
It started out as a joke at first.
It wasn't a calculated one. Not even a particularly brave one. It was a way to find a bit of fun in the middle of a 12-hour shift that tested every line of the Hippocratic oath that you had taken against your better judgement. It was the kind of dumb thing that slipped out of your mouth during a long shift that should have died an embarrassing death right then and there.
It was harmless flirting. Something to take the edge off. Maybe you should have taken a less, well, serious victim.
"Careful, Dr Abbot," you'd said lightly, half leaning against the nurses station while he was in the middle of catching up on charting. "If you keep looking that good under fluroescent lighting, people are gonna start accusing you of witchcraft."
Jack had looked up from the keyboard he was typing away at with that familiar flat, unreadable expression and the smallest hint of amusement at one corner of his mouth. The entire nurse's station had gone quiet, and if you hadn't known any better, you might have thought an elephant had waltzed into the room and taken his seat in trauma room one. You watched as Mel looked up so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash, which is what made you realise you may have taken it too far, because to be honest, Mel usually passed no heed on your usual antics.
Jack had lifted his eyes to yours, studying you for exactly two seconds, then given one slow shake of his head.
"I could do with a check-up on our food poisoning patient in room 4, doctor y/l/n."
That had been it. No scolding, no shutdown, no sharp reminder of professionalism. You ran the image of that twitch in the corner of his mouth over and over again in your head that night like a teenage girl with a crush on her best friend's brother. Or in this case, more like her best friend's dad.
So naturally, because you were a glutton for punishment and loved the thrill of tethering on the edge of something hopeful, you did it again.
And then again.
And somehow, over the next few months, flirting with Jack became a part of your regular shift rhythm, as natural as grabbing gloves from the wall or stealing sips of stale coffee between traumas. You called him handsome under your breath while passing in the hall. You leaned into his space during chart review just to watch his jaw flex. You told him he was ageing like your favourite bottle of red, which had earned you a long, suffering stare and a low, "Jesus Christ."
You did it at first because it was fun. A way to pass the time. But as the months went on, and you moved from junior to senior resident, the truth behind your incessant flirting became a lot more embarassing than you ever wanted to admit.
You were smart. Too smart. Educated and graduated at the top of your class, saved countless lives on the daily and still had time to feed your tabby cat at the end of it all. So there was no reason why your stupid, dumb brain had decided to fall in love with your attending.
You flirted, because you were in love with him. With Jack.
You had been for longer than you wanted to admit to yourself. Long enough that the whole thing had settled beneath your ribs like a live wire. It was warm, and humming, and a little dangerous. Long enough that it had stopped feeling like a crush and started feeling like something worse.
The problem was, Jack never really gave much away.
He liked the attention, you knew that. You weren't imagining that part. He never stopped you. Never looked annoyed in any serious or real way. There was always that familar tiny shake of his head, that almost-smile, that quiet tolerance that was so stupid adorable and somehow felt more intimate than an outright encouragement would have.
But Jack was Jack.
Steady. Closed off. Impossible to read unless he wanted to be read. So you flirted, and he let you, and you told yourself that that was enough for now. You were a resident, and he was your attending. You weren't naive enough to believe that he would ever take a relationship with you seriously.
And you know, maybe it would have been. If you hadn't caught him mid conversation with Robby's sabbatical replacement, Dr Baran Al Hashimi.
It happened halfway through a nightmare shift when you were running on little else but caffeine and instinct, and the Pitt had that strange, overstretched feeling it got when every room was full, and everyone inside them was talking too loudly. You were cutting through the hall outside the break room with a chart tucked to your chest, already halfway to Trauma Two in your head, when you heard Jack's voice from inside.
It was common to catch Jack in during the day shift, and you wouldn't have stopped if he'd been talking to anyone else. But you caught Al Hashimi's laugh first. Low, and brief, and then Jack saying, "You want to grab that beer later?"
Your feet stopped moving before your brain caught up. There was no hesitation in the question or audible awkwardness. No heaviness to it that made it sound work-related. It sounded easy, casual. Like asking someone out. You wondered if he was shaking his head in that way he did with you.
Al Hashimi said something you didn't fully hear, because by then your pulse had gone loud in your ears. You self-diagnose with mind-numbing tinnitus and prescribe yourself a huge dose of amitriptyline. The ringing grows louder as you watch her smile, small, but warm, and nodded once.
"Yeah," she said. "I'd like that."
And that was it. So, you kept walking before either of them could see you standing there. By the time you eventually got to trauma two, your face was perfectly composed and your stomach felt like it had dropped through the floor. It was ridiculous, really.
Jack had never promised you anything. He had never flirted back in the way you flirted with him. Never said anything you could hold up in your defence. He just let you tease him and seemed to enjoy it. That was not the same thing as wanting you. And Baran Al Hashimi was gorgeous, and strikingly intelligent, and better yet, an attending. You heard that she had worked overseas doing humanitarian work in Afghanistan. She was everything you weren't and more. Of course Jack would want her. God, you didn't blame him.
So, you stitched up a teenager's chin and reassured a frantic mother and signed off on discharge paperwork with steady hands, all while something sore and humiliating tore through your chest and the ringing in your eyes got louder.
Then, because apparently the universe had a cruel sense of humour, Jack found you by the supply closet twenty minutes later.
"There you are," he said.
You looked up automatically and cursed yourself. And there he was. The same broad shoulders, same tired eyes, same infuriatingly unreadable expression.
Usually, by instinct, you would have said something. Nice of you to finally show up, handsome. Missed me? Something stupid and teasing and light enough to keep the whole thing moving. To keep that little nugget of hope that lived between your ribs aflame.
Instead, you just held out the chart in your hand.
"Dana needs your signature on this."
Jack took it, but his eyes didn't leave your face.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine-
You cut in, begging to be finished with the conversation, and forced a small smile. "All good, really."
His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. It was the first time in almost a year that you'd walked away from him without giving him something. And Jack, as it turned out, noticed immediately.
The following night, you called him Dr Abbot during rounds. It came out before you could stop it, a verbal guard you decided to throw up to protect yourself from more hurt that wasn't even his fault. Not Jack, not any of your usual easy little digs. Just Dr Abbot, flat and professuonal and wrong enough that his head lifted from the chart like you'd said something in another language.
He looked at you for a second too long.
Then he said, "You sick or something?"
You pretended to not know what he meant. "Nope."
"Then why are you acting weird?"
"I'm not acting weird?"
Santos, standing two feet away with a pen tucked behind her ear, visibly turned her whole body to watch.
Jack's mouth flattened, unreadable. Shocker. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
He looked like he wanted to say it outright, but with half the team standing around the nurse's station and Lena calling for updates across the room, all he ended up saying was, "Never mind."
But it wasn't never mind, because you kept doing it. You stopped leaning into his space. Stopped giving him those easy openings for banter. Stopped calling him old man, stopped telling him his curls looked good, stopped stealing sips from his coffee and dropping protein bars in his pockets when you passed him in the hall.
At first, Jack felt confusion, which quickly turned into a gnawing annoyance he couldn't shake. By the third shift, with no change from you, the whole thing had become impossible to ignore.
You were charting at the nurse's station when he came up behind you and set a fresh cup of coffee down by your elbow. A sleek, black takeaway cup that looked suspiciously like the one from the new bakery across the street you talked about going to with Santos before shift.
You looked at it, and then at him. Usually, this would have been an easy way in. What, no little heart on the lid? Starting to lose your touch, Abbot? Anything, anything would do.
Instead, you said, "Thanks."
Jack stared at you.
"Thanks?"
You blinked at him. "What?"
"That's all I get?"
You looked back at the screen where your chart lay half full. "It's coffee."
"It's your coffee. Two shots, and vanilla creamer. I made sure they used the barista oat milk you always rant on about."
You kept your eyes on the screen, even though every bone in your body was begging you to reach out and touch his forearm in thanks. "Oh, well, thank you very much, Dr Abbot."
He stood there for another beat, arms crossed, like he was waiting for the rest of it. When it didn't come, he muttered, "Right," and walked away.
Across the station, Santos leaned slowly towards Whitaker.
"This is sooo much worse than I thought."
Whitaker looked nervous. More than usual. "Should we..do something?"
"No," Santos smirked. "Absolutely not. This is premium entertainment."
Javadi, creating a circling motion with her hand towards the direction of you and Jack, said, "That looked like some form of attachment rupture."
Santos pointed at her while still looking over at you. "You are absolutely right."
You ignored them all and kept writing. Any acknowledgement and you'd have to crawl into a hole and die of embarrassment and humiliation. You think that actually might be a better way to go then facing Jack again the way you just did.
Four days go by. Four days of you being perfectly pleasant and professionally distant and absolutely miserable about it. You felt like like a three year old kid sulking in the corner after being refused ice cream for dinner.
Jack still tried, in his own strange, increasingly irritated way, to hand you opportunities you no longer took. You didn't read them as openings anymore, couldn't let yourself slip again into the realm of hoping it meant anything more than trying to get through a shift in one piece.
By the end of the week, Dana got involved.
She caught you restocking suture kits in a supply alcove and leaned against the doorframe with the expression of a woman who already knew the answer and was just waiting for you to say it out loud.
"What'd you do to him, hon?"
You kept your eyes on the shelf. "Nothing"
Dana snorted. "Honey, I know I'm in day shift territory, but I have known Jack Abbot for too long to miss when he's sulking."
"He doesn't sulk"
"He absolutely does. He's just old enough to do it quietly."
You smiled despite yourself. If Jack was here right now, you'd make a joke about old dogs not being able to learn new tricks, or whatever that saying is.
"There it is," she said, poking an accusatory fingernail at your shoulder. "Tell me what happened, kid."
You hesitated, fingers tightening around the pack of gauze. Dana Evans had a way of dragging honesty out of people with nothing but eye contact and a gaze that reminded you of your mother. You make a mental note to call her after shift and apologise for every time you've ever talked back to her.
"You know Al Hashimi? Robby's stupidly hot replacement? I overheard him ask her out"
Dana let out a laugh - no - a cackle. Dana was cackling at you.
You frowned. "Dana! Seriously, I know, it's not like I'd have any chance with him, but I just thought, just maybe-"
"You are a total idiot."
"Dana."
"She was going to a trauma conference with one of his old friends from the military and he asked if she wanted to talk to talk about it over a beer."
Your grip loosened on the gauze, and you turned to stare at her.
"Sorry, what?"
Dana crossed her arms. “Robby asked him to get her thoughts on some presentations he's gonna miss on his sabbatical. He's tryna suss her out, you know."
Your stomach dropped all over again, but this time for an entirely different reason. If your first option was crawling into a deep, dark hole, well, this option would have to be something far worse. Like, being shot from a canon, butt naked, while every one of your ex-boyfriends watched.
Dana's expression softened just enough for you to recognise her natural maternal instinct taking over. "You really thought he was asking her out on a date?"
You nodded, slowly. You ran an exhausted hand over your face, hoping the ground would come and swallow you whole.
Dana shook her head then, taking your shoulder in her hand and rubbing softly, a comforting presence that took you out of your head. "Baby, that man has been halfway in love with you since before Christmas."
You didn't acknowledge it until she was already pushing off the doorframe, walking away with that irritatingly final air of hers.
"What?!"
That made everything worse. So, so much worse.
Because now, you had no excuse. Now it wasn't about Al Hashimi, not really. It was about the fact that if Dana was right, if Jack had wanted your attention all this time, if all those tiny almost smiles and deliberate little openings had meant what you'd wanted them to mean - then you had spent four days acting like a stranger because you were too scared to ask, and too damn immature to think of any other possible situation.
That night, you slipped into the stairwell in between consults to breathe for exactly thirty seconds and maybe lightly bathe yourself in peace. Then, the door opened, and there he was, filling the space with the same steady presence that always made it feel a little smaller, and a little warmer.
He shut the door behind him, and you waited for the onslaught of questions.
"You gonna tell me what the hell your problem is?"
You stared at him over the railing. There was no real heat in his voice, but there was frustration. And beneath that, something else, something tighter.
"Uh, nothing?" You cursed yourself for making it sound like a question you definitely knew the answer to.
"Try again."
"Shouldn't you be working?"
"Yeah," he said. "I should be. But instead, I'm here. Because you've spent four days acting like you don't know me anymore."
Of all the things you expected him to say, that one landed harder than you expected. You looked away. Embarassment was a feeling that you were getting far too used to.
Jack waited a beat, then came down two steps so he was closer, though not close enough to touch.
"You stopped flirting with me." You laughed at his bluntness. He continued.
"You won't look at me. You won't call me Jack. I spent fifteen minutes of my twenty minute break time arguing with a lady in a bakery the other day about how she had to use the milk I brought for your coffee, and all you could say was thanks?"
The obvious edge of offence in that almost undid you. Load the canon now, doctor!
You said quietly, "I heard you ask Al Hashimi for a beer."
Jack turned and blinked at you, and for one second, his face went completely blank. Then he stared at you like he'd just discovered the source of a leak that had been flooding his basement all week.
"That's why?"
You swallowed. "Um, yeah. I assumed, you know. You, gorgeous woman, a beer. Date territory."
"That wasn't a date."
"It wasn't a date."
"No." He let out a breath through your nose. "Robby wanted me to ask her about this conference. We were talking about work. He's cagey about her, taking over his ER and all."
"Oh."
"Yeah," Jack said.
He continued, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Why would that matter, anyways?"
You laughed once, sharp, and utterly miserable. You were so far past the point of humiliation, you might as well get it all out now. "Seriously?"
"Yes, seriously."
You looked at him then, really looked at him. And you saw it, that he genuinely didn't understand. That whatever this had been to him, it had not included the possibility that you'd step back so quickly. That made it worse somehow. Better, too, But mostly worse.
You looked down at the stairwell floor and said, because apparently there was no salvaging you dignity now. Here goes, you guess. "Jack, I don't know how to say this without, just saying it. I-I'm, in love with you"
Then the words sat there. Plain, horrible, real. For a second, that felt like so much longer, neither of you moved.
Jack broke the silence, very quietly, "You're kidding."
Your head stayed staring at the ground. That was it, there was no going back now. You tried to ignore the intense stare you could feel burning two holes through your head.
"You're in love. With me?" he repeated.
Heat climbed your face, and you couldn't believe this was happening right now. Is this not an ER? Does nobody with a GSW want to come through and interrupt your lovely moment here?
"This is deeply humiliating, so, if you could not-"
"Jesus Christ." He laughed once, and your heart fell into your ass and ran fifty miles in the opposite direction.
Then he came down the last two steps and stopped right in front of you.
“You thought that was one-sided?”
Your mouth opened. Closed.
“I flirt with you constantly and you smile and shake your head,” you said weakly. “What was I supposed to think?”
Jack looked at you like that was the most ridiculous sentence he’d ever heard.
“I never stopped you.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“I wait for it.”
You blinked.
His jaw flexed once, like he was annoyed you weren’t getting there fast enough.
“I know what time you usually get coffee. I know when your shift starts from the sound of your shoes in the hall. I know when you’re about to make one of those stupid little comments because your whole face changes before you say anything.”
Your heart was pounding now, hard enough to hurt.
Jack took one more step closer.
“When you stopped, the place felt wrong.”
That did it.
That cracked the whole thing open.
You looked at him and saw it all at once. Every quiet little allowance he’d made for you, every almost-smile, every opening he’d handed you on purpose just to hear what you’d say.
You whispered, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He huffed out a humorless laugh. “I thought I was being obvious.”
You let out a wet, startled little laugh of your own, because of course he had. Of course Jack Abbot thought silently orbiting someone and letting them flirt without interruption counted as emotional transparency.
“You are a disaster,” you said.
“So are you.”
You smiled despite yourself.
His gaze dropped to your mouth for the briefest second before lifting again.
Then, in a voice gone rougher somehow, he said, “Say something.”
“What?”
“One of your lines.”
You stared at him.
Jack looked almost impatient now, but there was something fragile hidden under it too, something he would probably deny to the grave.
“You’ve had one ready every shift for 9 months,” he said. “Say it.”
A laugh caught in your chest.
Then, softly, because it felt different now and somehow still exactly the same, you said, “You know you’re ridiculously handsome, right?”
Jack shut his eyes for half a second.
When he opened them, there was that tiny head shake again, the one that had started all of this.
“Jesus,” he muttered, and then he kissed you.
It wasn’t tentative, or rushed either.
It was the kind of kiss that felt held back for too long, warm and sure and a little bit annoyed, like he was making up for the fact that both of you had apparently been idiots about this. Your hand came up to the back of his neck automatically. His slid to your waist, steady and firm, drawing you in until you had to grab the front of his shirt just to hold onto something.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours.
“You done making assumptions?” he murmured.
You laughed softly, breathless. “Maybe.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“Okay,” you said, smiling. “Yes.”
“Good.”
You looked up at him. “You loveeeeee me!"
Jack’s mouth twitched.
“Don’t start.”
“You do.”
He leaned back just enough to look properly annoyed. “You really want to have this conversation right now?”
“Yes.”
He sighed in that long-suffering way of his, but you could see the amusement sitting just under it now.
“You realised it first” he said.
You grinned. “Yeah, okay, but mine was slow. Yours was like, falling off a cliff into a stream of like, love crocodiles .”
Jack looked at you for a second, then gave in with a tiny shake of his head.
“Yeah, okay ” he said quietly. “Shut up.”
Something in your chest melted completely.
You kissed him again before he could ruin it by pretending he hadn’t said that. This one made him laugh against your mouth, just for a second, and then his hand tightened lightly at your waist and he kissed you back.
When you finally pulled away, there was a muffled voice from the other side of the stairwell door.
“Are they in there?”
Damn it Trinity.
You dropped your head briefly to Jack’s shoulder and groaned. “I hate this hospital.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No,” you admitted. “I really don’t.”
Jack tipped your chin up with two fingers.
“You coming back down?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No.”
You smiled. “Very romantic.”
“I’m not here to romance you. I’m here to stop you making yourself miserable over nothing.”
“Wow.”
“You started it.”
You laughed again, because there it was, that grumpy, teasing edge that somehow made everything feel more like him, not less.
As he opened the stairwell door, Santos nearly fell inward from where she’d clearly been listening.
Her eyes went wide.
Then narrowed. Then widened again.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “I knew it.”
Jack looked down at her with profound irritation. “Don’t you have a patient to bother?”
Santos, unfazed, looked past him at you and grinned. “So I was right.”
Whitaker, standing three steps behind her looking mortified, asked, “About what?”
She pointed at both of you. “Everything.”
Jack muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like unbelievable and moved past her, one hand brushing your lower back as he guided you into the hall.
Not enough to draw attention.
Just enough that you felt it.
And this time, when you looked at him, he was already watching you with that same tiny, impossible almost-smile.
You smiled back. He shook his head once more, like he couldn’t believe you. But he looked pleased.
Description: New city, new hospital, new job. You give yourself one last day to be free before your first shift, and happy hour ends with a stranger on your bed. The real problem starts the next morning, when he shows up in the same ER answering to “Dr. Abbot.”
Tags/warnings: second year resident fem!reader, smut, sleeping with the boss (?), porn with plot, Jack talk ‘em through it Abbot, clit stim, oral m receiving, p in v, hotel sex. ER cameos, mentions of a minor head injury, and banter.
Note: New man who disss 🤭 This one’s dedicated to my dear @nexxen24, who got me into The Pitt, and also gave me the idea for this lol. Enjoy! 🤍
Masterlist
And I could see you being my addiction
You can see me as a secret mission
Jack Abbot needed something sweet.
That was the excuse he gave himself today, anyway. The truth was, he found himself at the hotel bar a few blocks from the hospital more often than not, because it was quite dark, even in daytime. Dark enough that he could sit at the corner of the long counter and just exist for a couple of hours.
Sometimes he came for a beer. Sometimes a sandwich. Sometimes just to swap stories with the bartender until it was time to go back to real life and drown himself in someone else’s blood.
Today, he came for a very specific thing: Chocolate cake. A slice of expensive, moist, and obscenely sweet cake. He was sure his imminent descent to madness was the root cause of these…cravings. Whatever.
He slid onto his usual stool at the far end of the bar, in a black shirt, and some joggers, badge and scrubs stuffed away in his backpack.
He looked up at the bartender, but it wasn’t his usual guy. Instead, a girl with the darkest hair in a ponytail, walked up to him with a tired expression. There was a small white pin that said ‘Lisa– TRAINEE’ clipped to her uniform.
“Evening, sir,” she greeted.
“Afternoon, and just Jack, please,” he corrected with a small smile, glancing at the fancy clock on the wall. 4:43 pm. He still had a few hours off duty.
“Oh yeah–sorry! I get a little lost in here sometimes. Ugh, the only thing getting me through this shift is knowing I’m off tomorrow for the PittFest,” she said, making him chuckle.
“Trust me, I get it. I’m also looking for something to help me get through mine,” he shrugged. “Festivals are not my thing, though. I’ll leave that to the ones with healthy knees.”
“Mm, that’s fair,” she said, chuckling back. “So what can I get for you, ‘just Jack’? Gin? Old fashioned?”
“No drinks, but can I get a slice of that infamous chocolate cake?”
The girl looked at him like she wasn’t necessarily expecting that, but you know what? Hell yes, old guy.
“Sure.”
She walked round the bar, to a discreet door that led toward the kitchen, and asked for the cake to be served before stepping back to the bar again.
“Thank you, Lisa,” Jack smiled, finally letting his shoulders loosen.
You needed a stress reliever.
You weren’t stressed now, but you knew that in less than 24 hours it would become your new normal…again. You are meant to start your first shift at PTMC as a second year resident tomorrow.
New city, new program, and still…no apartment. But at least your hotel room was nice and ready for you to make it an early night, slightly tipsy and relaxed for your last blissful hours of freedom. Which is why at four something, you decide you’re going to treat yourself to be first in line for the hotel’s happy hour like the responsible adult you are.
The hotel lounge is large and dimly lit. A couple takes one of the single couches, curled into each other with matching martinis. The rest of the space is almost empty, aside from–
Wait. That man is cute. Wait again. You have to do a double take.
An attractive–no, very attractive man is sitting at the far corner of the long bar, waiting for his order. Simple outfit, camo backpack resting by his feet. He looks a little worn to be honest, but then again, don’t we all?
Huh. Guess someone beat you to happy hour.
You take the opposite corner, leaving about six empty stools between you, when the bartender approaches you.
“Afternoon, Miss.”
“Hi, Lisa,” you smile. “I don’t really know what cocktail to get. Can I just get whatever your favorite is?”
“Oh–yeah I can do that,” she shrugs with a smile, turning back to her inner counter to mix the drink.
Your phone vibrates in your pocket so you pull it out, checking the payment notification from the guy who’s buying the festival tickets you’re selling. You text him to confirm he has to pick them up at the hospital tomorrow, hoping you get a spare minute to walk out the ER, when someone walks out a hidden kitchen door and slides a plate in front of you.
“Chocolate cake,” the guy announces politely, but before you could even say that’s not yours, he turned around and disappeared into the kitchen again. You shrug, turning to the bartender who’s handing a drink to the man you saw when you came in.
“I didn’t order this,” you both say at the same time.
His head snaps toward your voice, and your eyes meet across the row of empty stools. He sees the generous slice in front of you, and with a not so subtle up and down look at you, a smirk lifts the corner of his mouth. Something flutters in your chest, so you break eye contact first, dropping your gaze to your phone and pretending to read another message.
Come on, play it cool.
“No drinks for me, Lisa. Remember?” you hear him say playfully, turning back to the counter.
“Oh my god, I’m sorry,” she rushes out, reaching for the drink in front of him. “I’ll switch them right now, I–”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, stopping her by wrapping his hand around the glass. “I got it.”
Your thumbs froze over your phone. He got it?
From the corner of your eye, you see him stand up, and duck down to scoop up his backpack. Your heartbeat does something very stupid as you try very hard not to stare while he walks in your direction. Okay. Okay. This is fine. Silver fox is walking toward you. You are not freaking out. You are a doctor, you have seen actual organs on tables. You can handle an older guy with pretty eyes.
He slides easily onto the stool right next to you, setting the glass down with a soft clink. Fuck. Of course he smells good. You have no choice but to look at him properly this time, and up close, he’s even more handsome. Fluffy, wavy grey hair, with matching stubble (makes you wonder if the carpet matches too) and a glint of humor in his eyes that you know is trouble.
“I believe this is yours,” he says, nudging the cocktail close to where you’re still holding your phone for dear life.
“Then I believe this is yours,” you say, setting your phone with a smile and sliding the plate toward him.
He narrows his eyes playfully, looking between you and the cake. “Tell you what.” He leans in, and nudges it closer so it sits between the both of you. “I don’t mind sharing…do you?”
Oh. Okay. So that’s where this is going.
“I don’t mind a lot of things,” you tilt your head, leaning one elbow on the bar, deciding to match that dangerous glint in his eyes with your own. His smirk grows before turning to the bartender again.
“Can we get another spoon, please?”
“Oh, sure. Here,” she says, handing it over.
He takes it with a quiet ‘thank you’, then holds it up in front of you like an offering.
“I’m Jack, by the way. Don’t think I heard your name.”
You let out a small chuckle as you take the spoon, the tension in your shoulders loosening a little under his charming gaze. You tell him your name, his smile softening when he repeats it back to you.
“Nice to meet you, thanks for sharing my cake,” he says, finally digging his spoon into it.
“Thanks for bringing me my drink,” you reply, reaching for the glass. You definitely need some buzz if you intend to survive this interaction. “I guess we’re even now, Jack.”
“Not yet,” he says, getting the first bite of cake. He hums in delight, wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “But we’re getting there.”
You divert your gaze to your phone once again, heat blooming your cheeks. He smiles triumphantly at your reaction, deciding to push you a little more.
“Well, aren’t you going to try it?”
You bite back a smile, nodding as you dig your spoon into the cake. He watches your every move like a hawk as you lift it towards your mouth. You mirror his hum when you taste it, instinctively running your tongue over your lips to get the sugary remains off.
Jack shifts in his seat.
“Great, isn’t it?” He says, “tried it once and never was the same.”
“Would’ve never thought to try it, to be honest,” you chuckle.
“Me neither, guess I just needed something sweet today,” he shrugs, still too calm and too smug, still making your heart rate go crazy without even trying. “Looks like I came to the right place, though,” he winks, digging his spoon again for another bite.
Yeah, no. He’s definitely trying.
“So, what brings you here to the land of cake instead of…I don’t know, a whiskey?” You ask, playing with the straw of your drink.
“No drinks for me,” he shrugs.
“Designated driver?”
“Designated something, I have to leave at seven,” he glances at the clock again. You follow his gaze, and see it’s just after five.
“What, you gotta catch a flight or something?”
“Yeah, something like that,” he grins.
His answers are vague, intentionally so. You recognize it instantly because you use that tone too about your own job, when you don’t feel like opening that door with a stranger.
“What about you? Are you celebrating something?” He asks, and you swear with every question he shifts a little closer to you.
“I’m making it an early night, tomorrow’s a big day,” you nod with a smile.
“Oh yeah? Festival?” he asks, you can feel the genuine curiosity under the smug tone.
“I wish,” you shrug. “I got tickets but something important came up, so…here I am, first in line for happy hour instead. Making the most of that hotel lifestyle,” you lift your glass, he lifts his spoon with a chuckle.
“You’re staying here?”
“Mmhm. It’s actually pretty great. Nice room, silk bed sheets, the works.”
“Decent cake, too,” he adds mocking seriousness. “Too bad someone stole it.”
“Excuse me,” you protest playfully, “If it wasn’t for me you’d still be looking sad and lonely at the end of the bar.”
He laughs, catching the attention of Lisa who’s clearly not trying to eavesdrop. “Yeah. I’m glad I’m not, then,” he says quietly. “Company’s good.”
From there, the conversation just flows.
At some point, you realize you’ve barely touched your cocktail, or the cake between you. You can feel the tension building with every shared look. The way his gaze dips to your mouth when you bring the spoon to your lips. The way your knee kept drifting closer to his, the faintest brush when either of you shifts on your stool.
And that warm, electric buzz in your veins has very little to do with sugar or alcohol.
Your eyes flick instinctively toward the clock on the wall when you laugh about something he said, and see it’s a few minutes past six already.
This is the moment where you could let him go, say goodnight and head upstairs alone. But you feel like you haven’t gotten your fix yet. That good moment of pure bliss before you go back into charts and monitors and reminding yourself you love the career you chose.
Some people do drugs or caffeine, or apparently, sugar as a stress reliever. The poison you chose today was supposed to be alcohol, but maybe you have something better sitting right next to you.
Huh. Sometimes dick does the trick too.
You turn your gaze back to him, lashes half lowered and innocent, catching him watching you already.
“It’s getting late,” you say casually, “but I think you still have time to walk me to my room.”
For a split second, the words just hang in the air. Clear and irreversible. His expression doesn’t change much, because he’s already been giving you bedroom eyes this whole time, but you notice the way his jaw tightens slightly, before that unmistakable smirk reappears.
“Yeah, I think I do,” he rasps.
Cake be damned. He’s got a sweeter dessert right in front of him.
He straightens on his stool and lifts a hand, catching Lisa's attention with a small wave, then reaches for his wallet. You press the button to pay with your phone, but he puts his hand over yours to stop you.
“Don’t worry, I got it,” he says, sliding his card over the counter before you can protest.
You’re not sure what exactly made your heart almost jump out of your chest again, the gesture or his electric touch on your skin. Maybe both.
You distract yourself by looking at your glass, still more than half full.
“Thank you. I didn’t even finish it…”
“I don’t think we’re going to miss it,” he looks at it, then back at you amused.
Your face warms–again–at the implication.
The girl gives him the receipt, and the way his arm flexes on the counter when he signs it with a quiet ‘thank you’, makes your thighs rub in anticipation. He slips a final twenty over the receipt as a tip, before turning fully toward you. He stands up first, grabbing his backpack with one hand, and helping you out of your stool with the other. His hand finds its way to your lower back, settling there as you walk.
“Lead the way, sweetheart.”
By 6:10 pm the door of your room clicks shut.
Jack drops his backpack somewhere to the side, one hand finds your waist, the other cups the back of your head before he pins you against the wall, and his mouth finds yours in an instant.
You gasp into the kiss, immediately grabbing him by his white shirt, dragging him impossibly closer. His gray stubble scrapes your skin in the best possible way, burning along your jaw as he tilts his head, deepening the kiss. You slide one hand up to his hair, it’s softer than it looks, and he makes a low sound when you tug it just enough to angle his mouth where you want it.
His hands slip under the hem of your shirt, rough palms spreading over your back. You can’t keep your hands to yourself either when you get past his shirt, running them through firm muscle and chest hair. Your hands can’t help but wander around his strong back, nails scraping against his skin when he starts kissing down the line of your jaw, scraping his beard along your throat in a delicious burn.
“Jack…” you breathe, tightening your grip in his hair.
He smiles against your skin, dragging his lips and stubble slowly across your neck, sending sparks all the way down to between your legs. When he sucks a particularly sensitive spot, the sound that slips out of you is embarrassingly close to a whimper.
“I got you,” he whispers, pulling back just enough to tug the hem of your shirt. “Is this okay?”
You nod quickly, and soon enough both of your shirts end up somewhere on the floor. You’re left in your bra, chest rising and falling as you try to catch your breath, but it’s hard when his gaze drops to your chest and lingers there.
So you ogle him too.
He’s built like a brick wall. Solid, toned chest dusted with hair, and framed by broad shoulders. And those arms? Oof. God, you can’t wait to feel all that strength he hides under those tired eyes and easy smiles.
He nudges you away from the wall steering you backwards, mouth never leaving yours, until the back of your legs bumps into the base of the bed. He gently guides you to sit on the edge of the mattress. You look up at him, already dazed. His hair is a mess from your fingers, chest rising and falling quickly, that cheeky smile of his still on his face. He reaches for your jeans next, and you lift your hips to help him slide them off. The cool air of the room kisses your skin as he throws them somewhere in the room.
“You’re still too dressed,” you chuckle, left only in your underwear.
“You’re still too desperate,” he jokes, laughing when you gasp and slap his chest weakly. “Hmm. Harder next time, sweetheart.”
You probably shouldn’t have liked that as much as you did, but he seems satisfied with your silence. His hands go to the waistband of his joggers, barely grabbing the elastic when his hands suddenly stop. If you weren’t watching his face, you would've probably missed the way his confident smile faltered for a second.
“Are you okay?,” you ask, straightening up on the bed.
“Yes,” he says quickly, but his hands are still frozen on his hips. “Yeah, I am. I just–”
You notice the way he shifts as if to step away from you, but your body reacts before you can think. “Hey, wait–”
You hook your feet around his calves to stop him from pulling away, but your left foot feels something different than you expected. It’s not the familiar firmness of muscle, but the unmistakable sensation of metal where skin should be. You don’t really need to see it to know what it is.
His camo backpack and the vagueness of his answers suddenly click to you, but Jack is frozen in place, trying to read the expression on your face.
“I’m sorry,” he starts, you figure it’s the script he probably hates having to say but feels obligated to in situations like this. “I should’ve told you before we came up, it’s okay if you don’t want to–”
“Jack,” you cut him off, quickly standing up so you’re pressed against him, before he decides to step back again. You tilt your head back a little, pressing a hand to his chest. “You don’t owe me anything, okay? If I didn’t want this, you’d already be standing shirtless in the hallway,” you chuckle, trying to lighten the mood.
“You don’t…mind?” His hazel eyes scan your face, still trying to find the desertion you’re not giving him.
You can feel his heart racing under your palm, and it almost makes you laugh how the doctor in you wants to inject him with something to fix his tachycardia. Opting for a less aggressive approach, you slide your arms over his shoulders to play with the hair on the back of his neck.
“I don’t mind,” you say, as reassuring as you can. You liked him the second he shared his stupid cake. This? This just adds more to it. “But if you do, we can stop,” you add, slowly pulling away from him but he slides his arm behind your back.
“I don’t want to stop,” he rasps, pressing you tighter to him. The bulge digging against your skin agrees with him.
“Hmm. Then you better hurry, we’re running out of time…” you sing-song, grinding yourself against him.
He breathes out a laugh. Oh, how I love this girl. He halts the movement of your hips, his hands become sure and steady once again as they settle on your waist. He forgets about his pants for a moment, innstead, he decides to focus on you.
“Turn around,” he says, but you don’t move an inch, just blink at the sudden change in his voice. He chuckles, loosening his grip just a little. “Turn around, sweetheart.”
Now you’re the one who needs help stabilizing their heartbeat.
You nod, then do as he says, shifting so your back is to him. He closes the gap immediately, one arm around your shoulder to hold you while the other settles just above the hem of your panties, but he doesn’t slip inside. His hand drifts lower and lower, stopping right over the slick leaking through the fabric, making you gasp.
“There she is,” his pleased voice while he drags teasing circles around your clit–but not really there–makes a chill run down your body. “Thought I lost you for a second there.”
You let your head tip back onto his shoulder, prompting him to apply more pressure, or find the right spot, but he keeps you pinned right where he wants you. He keeps rubbing slowly, still over the fabric, still teasing, coaxing the smallest sounds from you.
“I know you said to hurry, but I gotta take care of you first,” he whispers right in your ear. “Think I can do it this way? Without really touching you?” He barely grazes the base of your clit, dragging his finger back down immediately just to hear you whine again.
“Jack I–fuck.”
He chuckles when the faintest additional pressure makes you squirm, but that's no issue to him, he easily shifts you into the angle he wants. His fingers finally skim higher, now properly rubbing your clit. A moan escapes your lips, the friction of the cotton against your most sensitive spot has you feeling embarrassingly needy, moving your hips to chase more.
“That’s it, right there,” he coos, encouraging you. “How does that feel?”
You make another sound that’s not even close to a word. He chuckles onto your hair, shaking his head but still moving his fingers quicker.
“Talk to me, sweetheart. Feeling good?”
“Yes,” you manage to say between ragged breaths. “Really good.”
“Yeah?” He helps you move just a bit more, pressing his whole palm over your clit, before letting you take over. You start grinding his hand, clinging to his arm for support. “That’s it, just like that. You’re doing great.”
The praise lands harder than it should. You’re used to being talked at, ordered around on chaotic shifts, and occasionally complimented for a good job…but this is different.
You feel the pressure building in your stomach quickly with every buck of your hips, but what makes you see stars is feeling the outline of his hard cock rubbing against your ass with every grind.
“Shitshitshit I’m gonna–” you cry out mid sentence.
“It’s okay, sweetheart let go,” he coaxes, moving his hand faster.
When you finally break in a strangled moan, he stays wrapped around you, his firm body braced behind you so you can learn all your weight back, holding you together while you fall apart. He places a kiss on your shoulder when you shake under his grip, whispering praises you can’t make out as you ride your orgasm out. Jack finally takes his hand away when your clit twitches violently under him, squeezing your ass playfully.
“Breathe,” he reminds you, immediately inhaling and exhaling louder to show you just how. You instinctively match him, effectively grounding yourself. “Good girl.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuck–
“Easy,” he says when he feels you tense again. “It’s okay, you were doing so well. Just breathe.”
Still panting, you tap his arm so he lets you turn around to face him. You meet those devilish eyes again, hazel overtaken by dark pupils, a smirk on his lips as he takes in your flustered appearance.
“You’re really…really bossy, you know that?” You chuckle despite yourself.
“I’ve been told,” he smiles, bringing you in for a peck on your lips. “And I’m about to get more bossy so why don’t you turn around for me again?”
There it is. That fucking tone again. Your mouth falls open, but you can’t bring yourself to say no. If anything, you turn around before he even tells you twice, slapping his arm behind you when you hear him mutter “eager.”
He stirs you toward the bed again, until your knees bump the mattress. You hear the shuffle of his joggers, but it doesn’t sound like he’s taking the leg off, instead letting the fabric fall and pool at his feet. You don’t turn to look, giving him the moment.
The whole thing only makes him feel more devastatingly real.
He leans closer to you, his palm traveling up your spine to gently bend you forward. You follow his guidance, hands sinking into the mattress, ass on full display. You feel his foot nudge your left leg, parting you open for him.
“There,” he says, giving you another playful slap.
Heat rushes to your face again, feeling completely exposed to him even if you’re still covered in your underwear. So, Jack takes this as his chance to finally drag your soaked panties down, slowly, and lets them sit at your feet just like his pants, leaving you just in your bra. He groans at the sight, your soft, glistening pussy dripping and ready just for him.
“God, look at you,” he mutters under his breath, more to himself than to you.
The next thing to land over his pants are his boxers, freeing his heavy, swollen cock into his hand. He lines himself up, dragging just the tip across your wet folds, his pre cum mixing with your slick as he drags it up and down. After more whimpers from you, he pushes only the tip in, and you let out another moan that makes him groan.
“Deep breath for me,” he says, and at this point, you’d do anything he wants.
He makes sure to move with you, timing himself to your inhale. The first roll of his hips makes his cock slowly stretch you open, inch by inch. You gasp, fingers clutching the silk bed sheets. He groans as he watches himself disappear inside you, gripping your ass to help you find the angle he knows will have you seeing stars.
“Fuck me,” he hisses, skin meeting skin when he bottoms out.
“Please…” is all you whisper, he’s thick, hard, buried deep, and the stretch burns in the best way.
And you can’t wait for him to fuck all the stress out of you.
“Shhh, pretty girl. You’re okay,” he coos, slowly dragging out.
You clench around him before he leaves you completely empty, and he curses again, his hips jerking forward as yours slam back to meet him. He huffs a strangled laugh, stopping you by digging his fingers on your waist to take back control.
“There you go. Let me do the work, sweet girl,” he rasps.
The rhythm finds itself, fast and deep, skin slapping against skin, your moans echoing off your hotel room walls. You’re still too sensitive from your previous orgasm, and you can’t stop moaning every time his hips snap against your ass. The bed creaks under you, and the sound of his cock dragging in and out is loud and filthy.
“Relax–fuck, sweetheart. You’re doing so well.”
You try to “relax.” You really do. But the angle, the rough rhythm he coaxes you into, the praises, are a lot. Your legs start to tremble, the effort of holding yourself up becomes a harder task with the pleasure building inside you.
He notices, of course he does. He tightens his grip to hold you better, barely slowing his pace. “Hey, hey, talk to me.”
“My legs…” you choke out in a breathless laugh.
“Yeah, I can see that,” he huffs out a chuckle. “Hold onto the bed, for me,” he instructs. You obey brainlessly, fingers fisting in the covers.
His hand wraps around your right leg first, just behind your knee to lift it, throwing away your panties in the process to make it easier. He places that leg up on the bed, then does the same with the other. The new position pulls another weak sound from you, both knees now on the bed, opening you up to him in a way that makes you miss him inside you. He presses you back into the mattress, not wasting time in pushing himself back in with a harsh thrust.
“There you go, that’s better,” he says, setting his rhythm again. The new angle is more comfortable for him as well, leaning his legs on the bed for support while he pounds into you.
You let the sounds spill out of you, choked off gasps and desperate little sighs. Every one of them seems to go straight to his cock. You can hear it in the quiet curses he mumbles, the way his hands find all the familiar places, your hips, your waist, slipping under your stomach to push down the fabric of your bra so he can watch your boobs bounce with every thrust.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he groans when you start pushing back, chasing more and more. “There you go. Take what you need, sweetheart.”
When your legs start to shake again, this time it’s not from strain, it’s from how fucking close you are.
“Jack–” You squeeze your eyes shut, fingers clawing the sheets, little sounds spilling out of you that you can’t control. It’s too much and not enough at the same time, and your body is about to snap.
“I know,” he says, quickly sensing your overwhelm. “Come here.”
You barely have time to think before his arm loops around your waist, pulling you up from your forearms. You gasp as he lifts you, slamming you back against his chest so you’re half kneeling, half suspended in his hold.
And then…his free hand comes up to cover your eyes. You gasp when your world goes pitch black, narrowing only to the sound of his voice and the feeling of his body behind yours.
“Shh,” he coos near your ear, placing delicate kisses all over your jaw. “Just feel, sweetheart. That’s all you have to do.”
Without sight, everything else slams into focus, the heat of his chest behind you, the roughness of his stubble on your neck, the tight grip of his arm keeping you upright. He starts thrusting again, chasing that sweet spot that makes your head go dizzy.
It’s more than enough now. It’s too much. You feel undone and held together all at once.
And to top it off, he decides now is the time to reach for the clasp of your bra, unhooking it with his free hand to hold you up by cupping your bare breasts. Your fingers reach back blindly, to his hair, his thigh, wherever you can reach. Jack just keeps his sweaty palm over your eyes, shielding you from everything but him.
“Fuck, you’re clenching,” he groans, knowing you’re almost there. “Let go for me, don’t think…just feel.”
You come with a shaky cry, your entire body shuddering in his hold. He keeps fucking you through every helpless little sound, feeling his own release building up.
After a few moments, when he considers your breathing has sort of stabilized, his hand finally slips away from your eyes, caressing the hair sticking to your face as he keeps pounding you from behind, still fast, still deep, but sloppier. You can tell he’s close by the way his cock twitches inside you.
“There you go,” he praises you, even if his breathing is ragged now. “That’s it. You did so good for me–shit–”
As your eyes adjust again, the post nut clarity hits you.
Your fucked out doctor brain freaks out. No protection, you’re very irresponsible, don’t let him. He seems to make the same calculation–pretty strange for a man–because he starts to pull back.
Fuck it.
Before he can deal with it himself, you wriggle out of his grasp to free yourself, and get off the bed. Your jelly legs barely hold you up before you sink to your knees in front of him. From there you get a clear view of all of him, the fact that the carpet does match the drapes, and even the leg he’d been hiding. He instinctively steps back, almost stumbling over the pants pooled over his feet.
“Hey, careful,” you coo, placing one hand on his thigh to nudge him forward, the other wraps around his glistening cock, making him curse. “Let me? Please?”
“Jesus,” he breathes. His hand holds the back of your head, managing a weak smile. “Atta girl, be good to me.”
Jack doesn’t have to tell you twice.
You don’t even have to do much, just a quick pump at the base of his length as you lean forward to place a teasing kiss on his leaking tip, almost sending him right over the edge. The sight alone makes him twitch, he was going to have to cover his own eyes if you kept looking at him like that with his cock on your mouth.
You wrap your lips fully around him with no warning, letting his cock stretch your mouth as you swallow every inch. Every strangled sound he makes encourages you to be as devoted to him as he was with you. Your head bobs up and down, guided by his firm grip on your hair.
“Fuck–you’re gonna kill me–” he chokes out, you take that as your cue to nod at him, mouth too full to tell him to let go. “Okay, that’s…I’m–”
He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because he’s already finishing inside you. He groans as he spills strings of hot cum on your tongue, fingers tangling in your hair a bit rougher, pushing his hips forward to fuck the last of his orgasm out. You choke just a little, holding onto his thighs, trying to swallow every drop he sends down your throat.
Jack pulls out with a groan when the adrenaline of it passes, dragging his thumb over your lips to wipe the remnants off.
“Pretty girl…” He praises, as you look up at him with swollen lips and glassy eyes.
“Atta boy, you did good for me,” you rasp, making him laugh.
“Come here.” He helps you get on your feet, then back to the bed.
“Thank you,” you mutter, tugging the duvet off to cover your body when you sit down.
He stays quiet as he hauls his joggers back up and finds his shirt somewhere by the door, until he can’t avoid looking at his watch anymore.
“Shit.”
“So…no cuddling?” You chuckle.
“Sorry,” he mutters, even though you both knew this is how your little hotel affair was going to end. He slings his backpack over one shoulder, and walks over to you.
He takes a moment to cup your cheeks, memorizing every feature, and you try to do the same. Your eyes trace every line of his face, the glint that never left his hazel eyes, the gray dust adorning his jaw.
God, he’s so handsome. How are you supposed to forget him?
Jack starts leaning forward, but you meet him halfway, closing the space between you. The goodbye kiss is not rushed like you expected, no, he still takes his time even if he’s gonna be late to wherever he’s headed. He pulls back with a smile, and a small, disbelieving huff of laughter as he licks his lips.
“What?” you ask.
“You taste like cake,” he says, clearly amused, then adds with a little tilt of his head, “and…something else I probably shouldn’t think about on my way out.”
“Oh, just go!” you laugh, shoving him away. “Before you’re late and whoever’s waiting for you files a missing persons report.”
“Yes, ma’am. They will,” he says, lifting his arms up innocently as he walks toward the door. “Good luck tomorrow with your…big day.”
“You too, with your…something,” you smile. God, you’re definitely going to need a good night's sleep after all of this.
He nods, and with a devilish wink, he’s finally gone.
You wake up feeling like you can take on the world.
With a pep on your step, you walk out of the hotel with clear scrubs and an even clearer conscience. Good sex? Check. Good sleep? Check. Daydreaming about the silver fox stranger you’ll never see again? Check check check.
You’re ready to kick ass and save lives.
Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center is just a short walk away, but it gives you enough time to self regulate your emotions before you walk through those doors. You get there early, greet everyone politely and exchange a few words with some nurses before your shift actually starts. For a moment, you almost forget you’re the new kid, and you feel like you’re right where you belong.
You make your way through triage, mentally rehearsing how you’re going to introduce yourself to your attending, when your sneaker slips on something. You don’t know if it’s saline, or water, or spit, all you know is that one second you were walking and the other you’re losing your balance. Your hands desperately find the wall with a smack, saving yourself from landing flat on your ass, but your forehead still hits the edge of a door frame with a sharp little crack.
You see stars for a second there, the same kind you saw yesterday.
“Whoa, hey! Are you okay?” Someone calls.
You groan, but straighten immediately, because what else are you going to do? Sit down and let the tears from your eyes spill? Absolutely not. Not on your first day. You swipe your fingers over your forehead, hissing at the sting, and when you look at your hand there’s the smallest smear of blood.
Perfect.
“I’m fine,” you say quickly. “I’m–”
“Absolutely not, come here.” A woman in black scrubs and a ponytail approaches you, holding your jaw to assess the wound. “I’m Dr. McKay, and you are?”
“I’m okay,” you say, trying to shrug her off. “Really, it was just a slip, it didn’t even hurt. I really need to go meet Dr. Robinavitch–”
“You slammed your head into a door frame, Robby can wait,” McKay says flatly.
You try to protest but she steers you toward one of the small triage rooms right off the ER entrance. You groan as she nudges you to sit on the bed. “I just need a band-aid, it’s just a scra–”
“A scratch, yeah, I heard you. You’ll get your band-aid after I make sure you’re not walking around with a concussion,” she says, then holds a finger up as if to say ‘wait’ and walks to the door, “Perfect learning opportunity, actually.”
Oh no.
“Hey! Santos, Whitaker, Javadi, come here,” she urges more people with scrubs. Great. “Consider this your first patient.”
You consider faking your own death.
All three of them clock your black scrubs and badge, and your bruised ego dies a little more when they realize you’re one of them. McKay just stands next to you like this is science class and you’re the classroom’s skeleton.
“We get all types of patients here. And today…” She pats your shoulder with the back of her hand. “It’s a colleague who discovered the floor is slippery on her very first day.”
Redacted.
“I’m fine,” you repeat. “Really. I just need a band-aid.”
“After we use you for educational purposes, now look up please,” she says, shining a light in your eyes to check your pupils. You resist the urge to slap her hand or lean away. “Headache?”
“No.”
“Any loss of consciousness?”
“You literally saw me since I hit my head,” you say, a little too aggressive, but McKay ignores your tone. “Sorry–no.”
“Nausea? Blurred vision?”
“No. I swear, I’m okay.”
“Alright. Whitaker, you’re up. What are your concerns when someone hits their head?”
“Um…we should ask what caused the fall?” He says, and McKay nods approvingly. He turns to you, “Did you feel dizzy before you slipped? Lightheaded?”
“No. There was just…something on the floor. I didn’t see it and unfortunately I slipped.”
“Good,” McKay says, more to them than to you. “No dizziness, no neuro complaints, no loss of consciousness, minor external injury that doesn’t need stitches.”
“And no reason for a CT,” one of the girls adds.
“Correct, Santos. So we’ll clean it, come on, you’re up.”
Your shoulders drop in the smallest relief. Now you have to survive the rest of the day after this humiliation, but adding unnecessary imaging on your first day would’ve ended you right there and then.
Mckay just smiles at you as Santos gloves on and prepares the stuff she’s gonna use. You look outside the door for a moment, trying to remember the confidence you’d walked in this morning, when a figure walking by catches your eye.
All you see is a flash of broad shoulders in a dark shirt, and a camo backpack slung over one arm. You make eye contact for a brief second as he glances inside casually, before doing a literal double take when he realizes who’s in there. He stops in his tracks, just as your heart stops inside your chest.
For a brief second you think you do need that CT, because there’s no way you’re not hallucinating talk-you-through-it Jack in front of you.
Here. In your ER. Wearing matching uniforms.
Jack, the man you let manhandle you last night–or afternoon?–whatever. The man who covered your eyes and told you to just feel. The man you sent you into orgasm oblivion and then kissed you goodbye tasting cake and himself on his tongue.
No. No way. Absolutely not.
You hiss when Santos presses something wet in your wound, and Jack decides that’s the best moment to step in and cause you a stroke on top of everything.
“Everything okay in here?” he asks casually, looking at you with the same glint in his eyes as yesterday.
You want to die.
“Abbot! Thought you were on your way out,” Mckay beams.
“I was, then I saw you tormenting the new blood. Didn’t want to miss the show,” he gives her a tired grin, shrugging, then looking around the room. “Morning, everyone.”
Javadi just smiles awkwardly, while Whitaker shifts on his feet and nods at him. At least Santos is having a blast enjoying the hell out of your tragic situation.
“Our colleague here decided to introduce her face to the wall,” she chuckles, shutting up when she realizes she only gets an unimpressed look from McKay.
“Hmm. Minor head trauma on the first day…that’s one way to make an entrance,” Jack jokes trying to lighten the mood, pulling on a fresh pair of gloves with a snap. “Mind if I take a look?” he asks you.
You hesitantly shake your head, and Santos barely steps back before he gets between your knees and you have to look up at him, and wow, that’s familiar. His fingers are gentle as he tilts your chin higher, focused on the small scrape by your hairline.
“It’s just a scratch,” you mumble under your breath.
He ignores it, and brings a penlight to your eyes, doing the same little routine Mckay did. Is this what your first day is supposed to be? A tortuous loop?
I might just fake a seizure right now.
“Any reason you might’ve tripped? Blurry vision? Sudden vertigo? Or…any specific memory that made you lose focus?”
It’s the way he drops his voice lower that makes you almost choke on your own spit. That exact same tone. That damn voice in your ear.
“We already asked those, Dr. Abbot. She said she slipped on a wet patch. No dizziness, no other symptoms,” Whitaker, bless his oblivious soul, chimes in.
Jack slowly turns his head to look at him, with an unimpressed stare that clearly says no one asked you to speak, white boy without using a single word.
Before anyone can torture you any further, a blue eyed doctor bursts in.
“McKay! We’re doing rounds.”
“Alright, meet us there once Dr. Abbot is done with you,” she says to you, ushering the others out. “Don’t forget to give her that band-aid she’s so desperate for.”
“I’ll take good care of her,” Jack replies, with an innocent smile.
The audience of your public execution finally leaves. And it’s great! Perfect. Exactly what you wanted: alone time. You don’t realize you’ve been holding onto the gurney for dear life until Jack–or should you call him Dr. Abbot now?–chuckles.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” He asks, amused.
“I don’t know, you’re the doctor here, apparently. So you tell me, how’s my head?” you snap, in a mix of nerves and residual embarrassment.
He grins. Oh he grins like fucking devil. “I don’t have any complaints.”
Heat rushes to your face instantly, and suddenly it’s like you’re back flirting in that bar again, sharing a chocolate cake. You shake those thoughts away, clearing your throat.
“So um…your flight was actually a night shift…in this hospital,” you say.
“Yeah. And your ‘big day’ was starting your first morning in this same ER. Nice upgrade from anonymous hotel guest, I guess.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny,” he chuckles, but you’re still looking at him skeptically. “Hey–it’s not that bad. People have done worse.”
“Worse than sleeping with an attending?” You say. “Like what–stealing medicine or secretly killing patients?”
“What? No–I hope no one’s doing that” he frowns.
This is the moment you start panicking for real.
“God, Dr. Robinavitch’s gonna kill me or worse,” you gasp. “He’s gonna fire me. Fuck–he’s gonna fire me and this is gonna be over before I even start my shift–“
“Okay, first of all, you need to sort out those priorities. Second, no one’s getting fired. You just need to get out there, and focus on your work. Alright? Can you do that for me?”
That. Fucking. Tone.
“Stop talking like that!” You whisper shout, knowing nurses could be nearby. “This is my first day, and I already have to convince everyone I’m not a complete disaster. So yes, I can do that for you. Happy? I’d like my band-aid now, please.”
“Okay, okay. You’ll get your band-aid,” he says calmly. “You just have to be more patient.”
You shoot him a glare, but he just smiles, still unbothered. He walks to a cabinet, pulling out a bright pink box of band-aids with a huge “My little pony” printed on it.
“What is that?”
“Best we have in triage,” he shrugs, amused. He looks back inside into the cabinet, before smirking at you. “We got Spongebob too.”
“…My little pony is fine,” you mutter.
“Alright,” he nods, invading your space again. “Look up for me.”
You’re grateful you’re not hooked to a heart monitor. You close your eyes, take a deep breath, and tilt your head up.
“Almost done, you’re doing great,” he drawls, smoothing the stupid band-aid over your life threatening injury with ridiculous care. “There,” Jack says, finally stepping back. “All done. You did so good for m–”
You snap upright from the bed so fast you almost cause yourself another injury by bumping into his big ass head.
“I have to go,” you blurt, already making your way to the door. “Thank you, Dr. Abbot. I hope we never see each other again.”
He peels off his gloves with a laugh, tossing them into the bin. This is the most entertaining thing that’s happened to him all week.
“No promises, doc,” he winks, “PTMC is not that big.”
You don’t give him the satisfaction of a response or even to see the panic on your face. You practically launch yourself into the hallway, and start speed walking toward the ED with a My little pony bandaid on your forehead.
Best sex of your life.
Worst coincidence of your career.
And yet…you can’t wait till you see him again.
Thank you so much for reading 🤍 feedback is always appreciated ✨
Description: New city, new hospital, new job. You give yourself one last day to be free before your first shift, and happy hour ends with a stranger on your bed. The real problem starts the next morning, when he shows up in the same ER answering to “Dr. Abbot.”
Tags/warnings: second year resident fem!reader, smut, sleeping with the boss (?), porn with plot, Jack talk ‘em through it Abbot, clit stim, oral m receiving, p in v, hotel sex. ER cameos, mentions of a minor head injury, and banter.
Note: New man who disss 🤭 This one’s dedicated to my dear @nexxen24, who got me into The Pitt, and also gave me the idea for this lol. Enjoy! 🤍
Masterlist
And I could see you being my addiction
You can see me as a secret mission
Jack Abbot needed something sweet.
That was the excuse he gave himself today, anyway. The truth was, he found himself at the hotel bar a few blocks from the hospital more often than not, because it was quite dark, even in daytime. Dark enough that he could sit at the corner of the long counter and just exist for a couple of hours.
Sometimes he came for a beer. Sometimes a sandwich. Sometimes just to swap stories with the bartender until it was time to go back to real life and drown himself in someone else’s blood.
Today, he came for a very specific thing: Chocolate cake. A slice of expensive, moist, and obscenely sweet cake. He was sure his imminent descent to madness was the root cause of these…cravings. Whatever.
He slid onto his usual stool at the far end of the bar, in a black shirt, and some joggers, badge and scrubs stuffed away in his backpack.
He looked up at the bartender, but it wasn’t his usual guy. Instead, a girl with the darkest hair in a ponytail, walked up to him with a tired expression. There was a small white pin that said ‘Lisa– TRAINEE’ clipped to her uniform.
“Evening, sir,” she greeted.
“Afternoon, and just Jack, please,” he corrected with a small smile, glancing at the fancy clock on the wall. 4:43 pm. He still had a few hours off duty.
“Oh yeah–sorry! I get a little lost in here sometimes. Ugh, the only thing getting me through this shift is knowing I’m off tomorrow for the PittFest,” she said, making him chuckle.
“Trust me, I get it. I’m also looking for something to help me get through mine,” he shrugged. “Festivals are not my thing, though. I’ll leave that to the ones with healthy knees.”
“Mm, that’s fair,” she said, chuckling back. “So what can I get for you, ‘just Jack’? Gin? Old fashioned?”
“No drinks, but can I get a slice of that infamous chocolate cake?”
The girl looked at him like she wasn’t necessarily expecting that, but you know what? Hell yes, old guy.
“Sure.”
She walked round the bar, to a discreet door that led toward the kitchen, and asked for the cake to be served before stepping back to the bar again.
“Thank you, Lisa,” Jack smiled, finally letting his shoulders loosen.
You needed a stress reliever.
You weren’t stressed now, but you knew that in less than 24 hours it would become your new normal…again. You are meant to start your first shift at PTMC as a second year resident tomorrow.
New city, new program, and still…no apartment. But at least your hotel room was nice and ready for you to make it an early night, slightly tipsy and relaxed for your last blissful hours of freedom. Which is why at four something, you decide you’re going to treat yourself to be first in line for the hotel’s happy hour like the responsible adult you are.
The hotel lounge is large and dimly lit. A couple takes one of the single couches, curled into each other with matching martinis. The rest of the space is almost empty, aside from–
Wait. That man is cute. Wait again. You have to do a double take.
An attractive–no, very attractive man is sitting at the far corner of the long bar, waiting for his order. Simple outfit, camo backpack resting by his feet. He looks a little worn to be honest, but then again, don’t we all?
Huh. Guess someone beat you to happy hour.
You take the opposite corner, leaving about six empty stools between you, when the bartender approaches you.
“Afternoon, Miss.”
“Hi, Lisa,” you smile. “I don’t really know what cocktail to get. Can I just get whatever your favorite is?”
“Oh–yeah I can do that,” she shrugs with a smile, turning back to her inner counter to mix the drink.
Your phone vibrates in your pocket so you pull it out, checking the payment notification from the guy who’s buying the festival tickets you’re selling. You text him to confirm he has to pick them up at the hospital tomorrow, hoping you get a spare minute to walk out the ER, when someone walks out a hidden kitchen door and slides a plate in front of you.
“Chocolate cake,” the guy announces politely, but before you could even say that’s not yours, he turned around and disappeared into the kitchen again. You shrug, turning to the bartender who’s handing a drink to the man you saw when you came in.
“I didn’t order this,” you both say at the same time.
His head snaps toward your voice, and your eyes meet across the row of empty stools. He sees the generous slice in front of you, and with a not so subtle up and down look at you, a smirk lifts the corner of his mouth. Something flutters in your chest, so you break eye contact first, dropping your gaze to your phone and pretending to read another message.
Come on, play it cool.
“No drinks for me, Lisa. Remember?” you hear him say playfully, turning back to the counter.
“Oh my god, I’m sorry,” she rushes out, reaching for the drink in front of him. “I’ll switch them right now, I–”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, stopping her by wrapping his hand around the glass. “I got it.”
Your thumbs froze over your phone. He got it?
From the corner of your eye, you see him stand up, and duck down to scoop up his backpack. Your heartbeat does something very stupid as you try very hard not to stare while he walks in your direction. Okay. Okay. This is fine. Silver fox is walking toward you. You are not freaking out. You are a doctor, you have seen actual organs on tables. You can handle an older guy with pretty eyes.
He slides easily onto the stool right next to you, setting the glass down with a soft clink. Fuck. Of course he smells good. You have no choice but to look at him properly this time, and up close, he’s even more handsome. Fluffy, wavy grey hair, with matching stubble (makes you wonder if the carpet matches too) and a glint of humor in his eyes that you know is trouble.
“I believe this is yours,” he says, nudging the cocktail close to where you’re still holding your phone for dear life.
“Then I believe this is yours,” you say, setting your phone with a smile and sliding the plate toward him.
He narrows his eyes playfully, looking between you and the cake. “Tell you what.” He leans in, and nudges it closer so it sits between the both of you. “I don’t mind sharing…do you?”
Oh. Okay. So that’s where this is going.
“I don’t mind a lot of things,” you tilt your head, leaning one elbow on the bar, deciding to match that dangerous glint in his eyes with your own. His smirk grows before turning to the bartender again.
“Can we get another spoon, please?”
“Oh, sure. Here,” she says, handing it over.
He takes it with a quiet ‘thank you’, then holds it up in front of you like an offering.
“I’m Jack, by the way. Don’t think I heard your name.”
You let out a small chuckle as you take the spoon, the tension in your shoulders loosening a little under his charming gaze. You tell him your name, his smile softening when he repeats it back to you.
“Nice to meet you, thanks for sharing my cake,” he says, finally digging his spoon into it.
“Thanks for bringing me my drink,” you reply, reaching for the glass. You definitely need some buzz if you intend to survive this interaction. “I guess we’re even now, Jack.”
“Not yet,” he says, getting the first bite of cake. He hums in delight, wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “But we’re getting there.”
You divert your gaze to your phone once again, heat blooming your cheeks. He smiles triumphantly at your reaction, deciding to push you a little more.
“Well, aren’t you going to try it?”
You bite back a smile, nodding as you dig your spoon into the cake. He watches your every move like a hawk as you lift it towards your mouth. You mirror his hum when you taste it, instinctively running your tongue over your lips to get the sugary remains off.
Jack shifts in his seat.
“Great, isn’t it?” He says, “tried it once and never was the same.”
“Would’ve never thought to try it, to be honest,” you chuckle.
“Me neither, guess I just needed something sweet today,” he shrugs, still too calm and too smug, still making your heart rate go crazy without even trying. “Looks like I came to the right place, though,” he winks, digging his spoon again for another bite.
Yeah, no. He’s definitely trying.
“So, what brings you here to the land of cake instead of…I don’t know, a whiskey?” You ask, playing with the straw of your drink.
“No drinks for me,” he shrugs.
“Designated driver?”
“Designated something, I have to leave at seven,” he glances at the clock again. You follow his gaze, and see it’s just after five.
“What, you gotta catch a flight or something?”
“Yeah, something like that,” he grins.
His answers are vague, intentionally so. You recognize it instantly because you use that tone too about your own job, when you don’t feel like opening that door with a stranger.
“What about you? Are you celebrating something?” He asks, and you swear with every question he shifts a little closer to you.
“I’m making it an early night, tomorrow’s a big day,” you nod with a smile.
“Oh yeah? Festival?” he asks, you can feel the genuine curiosity under the smug tone.
“I wish,” you shrug. “I got tickets but something important came up, so…here I am, first in line for happy hour instead. Making the most of that hotel lifestyle,” you lift your glass, he lifts his spoon with a chuckle.
“You’re staying here?”
“Mmhm. It’s actually pretty great. Nice room, silk bed sheets, the works.”
“Decent cake, too,” he adds mocking seriousness. “Too bad someone stole it.”
“Excuse me,” you protest playfully, “If it wasn’t for me you’d still be looking sad and lonely at the end of the bar.”
He laughs, catching the attention of Lisa who’s clearly not trying to eavesdrop. “Yeah. I’m glad I’m not, then,” he says quietly. “Company’s good.”
From there, the conversation just flows.
At some point, you realize you’ve barely touched your cocktail, or the cake between you. You can feel the tension building with every shared look. The way his gaze dips to your mouth when you bring the spoon to your lips. The way your knee kept drifting closer to his, the faintest brush when either of you shifts on your stool.
And that warm, electric buzz in your veins has very little to do with sugar or alcohol.
Your eyes flick instinctively toward the clock on the wall when you laugh about something he said, and see it’s a few minutes past six already.
This is the moment where you could let him go, say goodnight and head upstairs alone. But you feel like you haven’t gotten your fix yet. That good moment of pure bliss before you go back into charts and monitors and reminding yourself you love the career you chose.
Some people do drugs or caffeine, or apparently, sugar as a stress reliever. The poison you chose today was supposed to be alcohol, but maybe you have something better sitting right next to you.
Huh. Sometimes dick does the trick too.
You turn your gaze back to him, lashes half lowered and innocent, catching him watching you already.
“It’s getting late,” you say casually, “but I think you still have time to walk me to my room.”
For a split second, the words just hang in the air. Clear and irreversible. His expression doesn’t change much, because he’s already been giving you bedroom eyes this whole time, but you notice the way his jaw tightens slightly, before that unmistakable smirk reappears.
“Yeah, I think I do,” he rasps.
Cake be damned. He’s got a sweeter dessert right in front of him.
He straightens on his stool and lifts a hand, catching Lisa's attention with a small wave, then reaches for his wallet. You press the button to pay with your phone, but he puts his hand over yours to stop you.
“Don’t worry, I got it,” he says, sliding his card over the counter before you can protest.
You’re not sure what exactly made your heart almost jump out of your chest again, the gesture or his electric touch on your skin. Maybe both.
You distract yourself by looking at your glass, still more than half full.
“Thank you. I didn’t even finish it…”
“I don’t think we’re going to miss it,” he looks at it, then back at you amused.
Your face warms–again–at the implication.
The girl gives him the receipt, and the way his arm flexes on the counter when he signs it with a quiet ‘thank you’, makes your thighs rub in anticipation. He slips a final twenty over the receipt as a tip, before turning fully toward you. He stands up first, grabbing his backpack with one hand, and helping you out of your stool with the other. His hand finds its way to your lower back, settling there as you walk.
“Lead the way, sweetheart.”
By 6:10 pm the door of your room clicks shut.
Jack drops his backpack somewhere to the side, one hand finds your waist, the other cups the back of your head before he pins you against the wall, and his mouth finds yours in an instant.
You gasp into the kiss, immediately grabbing him by his white shirt, dragging him impossibly closer. His gray stubble scrapes your skin in the best possible way, burning along your jaw as he tilts his head, deepening the kiss. You slide one hand up to his hair, it’s softer than it looks, and he makes a low sound when you tug it just enough to angle his mouth where you want it.
His hands slip under the hem of your shirt, rough palms spreading over your back. You can’t keep your hands to yourself either when you get past his shirt, running them through firm muscle and chest hair. Your hands can’t help but wander around his strong back, nails scraping against his skin when he starts kissing down the line of your jaw, scraping his beard along your throat in a delicious burn.
“Jack…” you breathe, tightening your grip in his hair.
He smiles against your skin, dragging his lips and stubble slowly across your neck, sending sparks all the way down to between your legs. When he sucks a particularly sensitive spot, the sound that slips out of you is embarrassingly close to a whimper.
“I got you,” he whispers, pulling back just enough to tug the hem of your shirt. “Is this okay?”
You nod quickly, and soon enough both of your shirts end up somewhere on the floor. You’re left in your bra, chest rising and falling as you try to catch your breath, but it’s hard when his gaze drops to your chest and lingers there.
So you ogle him too.
He’s built like a brick wall. Solid, toned chest dusted with hair, and framed by broad shoulders. And those arms? Oof. God, you can’t wait to feel all that strength he hides under those tired eyes and easy smiles.
He nudges you away from the wall steering you backwards, mouth never leaving yours, until the back of your legs bumps into the base of the bed. He gently guides you to sit on the edge of the mattress. You look up at him, already dazed. His hair is a mess from your fingers, chest rising and falling quickly, that cheeky smile of his still on his face. He reaches for your jeans next, and you lift your hips to help him slide them off. The cool air of the room kisses your skin as he throws them somewhere in the room.
“You’re still too dressed,” you chuckle, left only in your underwear.
“You’re still too desperate,” he jokes, laughing when you gasp and slap his chest weakly. “Hmm. Harder next time, sweetheart.”
You probably shouldn’t have liked that as much as you did, but he seems satisfied with your silence. His hands go to the waistband of his joggers, barely grabbing the elastic when his hands suddenly stop. If you weren’t watching his face, you would've probably missed the way his confident smile faltered for a second.
“Are you okay?,” you ask, straightening up on the bed.
“Yes,” he says quickly, but his hands are still frozen on his hips. “Yeah, I am. I just–”
You notice the way he shifts as if to step away from you, but your body reacts before you can think. “Hey, wait–”
You hook your feet around his calves to stop him from pulling away, but your left foot feels something different than you expected. It’s not the familiar firmness of muscle, but the unmistakable sensation of metal where skin should be. You don’t really need to see it to know what it is.
His camo backpack and the vagueness of his answers suddenly click to you, but Jack is frozen in place, trying to read the expression on your face.
“I’m sorry,” he starts, you figure it’s the script he probably hates having to say but feels obligated to in situations like this. “I should’ve told you before we came up, it’s okay if you don’t want to–”
“Jack,” you cut him off, quickly standing up so you’re pressed against him, before he decides to step back again. You tilt your head back a little, pressing a hand to his chest. “You don’t owe me anything, okay? If I didn’t want this, you’d already be standing shirtless in the hallway,” you chuckle, trying to lighten the mood.
“You don’t…mind?” His hazel eyes scan your face, still trying to find the desertion you’re not giving him.
You can feel his heart racing under your palm, and it almost makes you laugh how the doctor in you wants to inject him with something to fix his tachycardia. Opting for a less aggressive approach, you slide your arms over his shoulders to play with the hair on the back of his neck.
“I don’t mind,” you say, as reassuring as you can. You liked him the second he shared his stupid cake. This? This just adds more to it. “But if you do, we can stop,” you add, slowly pulling away from him but he slides his arm behind your back.
“I don’t want to stop,” he rasps, pressing you tighter to him. The bulge digging against your skin agrees with him.
“Hmm. Then you better hurry, we’re running out of time…” you sing-song, grinding yourself against him.
He breathes out a laugh. Oh, how I love this girl. He halts the movement of your hips, his hands become sure and steady once again as they settle on your waist. He forgets about his pants for a moment, innstead, he decides to focus on you.
“Turn around,” he says, but you don’t move an inch, just blink at the sudden change in his voice. He chuckles, loosening his grip just a little. “Turn around, sweetheart.”
Now you’re the one who needs help stabilizing their heartbeat.
You nod, then do as he says, shifting so your back is to him. He closes the gap immediately, one arm around your shoulder to hold you while the other settles just above the hem of your panties, but he doesn’t slip inside. His hand drifts lower and lower, stopping right over the slick leaking through the fabric, making you gasp.
“There she is,” his pleased voice while he drags teasing circles around your clit–but not really there–makes a chill run down your body. “Thought I lost you for a second there.”
You let your head tip back onto his shoulder, prompting him to apply more pressure, or find the right spot, but he keeps you pinned right where he wants you. He keeps rubbing slowly, still over the fabric, still teasing, coaxing the smallest sounds from you.
“I know you said to hurry, but I gotta take care of you first,” he whispers right in your ear. “Think I can do it this way? Without really touching you?” He barely grazes the base of your clit, dragging his finger back down immediately just to hear you whine again.
“Jack I–fuck.”
He chuckles when the faintest additional pressure makes you squirm, but that's no issue to him, he easily shifts you into the angle he wants. His fingers finally skim higher, now properly rubbing your clit. A moan escapes your lips, the friction of the cotton against your most sensitive spot has you feeling embarrassingly needy, moving your hips to chase more.
“That’s it, right there,” he coos, encouraging you. “How does that feel?”
You make another sound that’s not even close to a word. He chuckles onto your hair, shaking his head but still moving his fingers quicker.
“Talk to me, sweetheart. Feeling good?”
“Yes,” you manage to say between ragged breaths. “Really good.”
“Yeah?” He helps you move just a bit more, pressing his whole palm over your clit, before letting you take over. You start grinding his hand, clinging to his arm for support. “That’s it, just like that. You’re doing great.”
The praise lands harder than it should. You’re used to being talked at, ordered around on chaotic shifts, and occasionally complimented for a good job…but this is different.
You feel the pressure building in your stomach quickly with every buck of your hips, but what makes you see stars is feeling the outline of his hard cock rubbing against your ass with every grind.
“Shitshitshit I’m gonna–” you cry out mid sentence.
“It’s okay, sweetheart let go,” he coaxes, moving his hand faster.
When you finally break in a strangled moan, he stays wrapped around you, his firm body braced behind you so you can learn all your weight back, holding you together while you fall apart. He places a kiss on your shoulder when you shake under his grip, whispering praises you can’t make out as you ride your orgasm out. Jack finally takes his hand away when your clit twitches violently under him, squeezing your ass playfully.
“Breathe,” he reminds you, immediately inhaling and exhaling louder to show you just how. You instinctively match him, effectively grounding yourself. “Good girl.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuck–
“Easy,” he says when he feels you tense again. “It’s okay, you were doing so well. Just breathe.”
Still panting, you tap his arm so he lets you turn around to face him. You meet those devilish eyes again, hazel overtaken by dark pupils, a smirk on his lips as he takes in your flustered appearance.
“You’re really…really bossy, you know that?” You chuckle despite yourself.
“I’ve been told,” he smiles, bringing you in for a peck on your lips. “And I’m about to get more bossy so why don’t you turn around for me again?”
There it is. That fucking tone again. Your mouth falls open, but you can’t bring yourself to say no. If anything, you turn around before he even tells you twice, slapping his arm behind you when you hear him mutter “eager.”
He stirs you toward the bed again, until your knees bump the mattress. You hear the shuffle of his joggers, but it doesn’t sound like he’s taking the leg off, instead letting the fabric fall and pool at his feet. You don’t turn to look, giving him the moment.
The whole thing only makes him feel more devastatingly real.
He leans closer to you, his palm traveling up your spine to gently bend you forward. You follow his guidance, hands sinking into the mattress, ass on full display. You feel his foot nudge your left leg, parting you open for him.
“There,” he says, giving you another playful slap.
Heat rushes to your face again, feeling completely exposed to him even if you’re still covered in your underwear. So, Jack takes this as his chance to finally drag your soaked panties down, slowly, and lets them sit at your feet just like his pants, leaving you just in your bra. He groans at the sight, your soft, glistening pussy dripping and ready just for him.
“God, look at you,” he mutters under his breath, more to himself than to you.
The next thing to land over his pants are his boxers, freeing his heavy, swollen cock into his hand. He lines himself up, dragging just the tip across your wet folds, his pre cum mixing with your slick as he drags it up and down. After more whimpers from you, he pushes only the tip in, and you let out another moan that makes him groan.
“Deep breath for me,” he says, and at this point, you’d do anything he wants.
He makes sure to move with you, timing himself to your inhale. The first roll of his hips makes his cock slowly stretch you open, inch by inch. You gasp, fingers clutching the silk bed sheets. He groans as he watches himself disappear inside you, gripping your ass to help you find the angle he knows will have you seeing stars.
“Fuck me,” he hisses, skin meeting skin when he bottoms out.
“Please…” is all you whisper, he’s thick, hard, buried deep, and the stretch burns in the best way.
And you can’t wait for him to fuck all the stress out of you.
“Shhh, pretty girl. You’re okay,” he coos, slowly dragging out.
You clench around him before he leaves you completely empty, and he curses again, his hips jerking forward as yours slam back to meet him. He huffs a strangled laugh, stopping you by digging his fingers on your waist to take back control.
“There you go. Let me do the work, sweet girl,” he rasps.
The rhythm finds itself, fast and deep, skin slapping against skin, your moans echoing off your hotel room walls. You’re still too sensitive from your previous orgasm, and you can’t stop moaning every time his hips snap against your ass. The bed creaks under you, and the sound of his cock dragging in and out is loud and filthy.
“Relax–fuck, sweetheart. You’re doing so well.”
You try to “relax.” You really do. But the angle, the rough rhythm he coaxes you into, the praises, are a lot. Your legs start to tremble, the effort of holding yourself up becomes a harder task with the pleasure building inside you.
He notices, of course he does. He tightens his grip to hold you better, barely slowing his pace. “Hey, hey, talk to me.”
“My legs…” you choke out in a breathless laugh.
“Yeah, I can see that,” he huffs out a chuckle. “Hold onto the bed, for me,” he instructs. You obey brainlessly, fingers fisting in the covers.
His hand wraps around your right leg first, just behind your knee to lift it, throwing away your panties in the process to make it easier. He places that leg up on the bed, then does the same with the other. The new position pulls another weak sound from you, both knees now on the bed, opening you up to him in a way that makes you miss him inside you. He presses you back into the mattress, not wasting time in pushing himself back in with a harsh thrust.
“There you go, that’s better,” he says, setting his rhythm again. The new angle is more comfortable for him as well, leaning his legs on the bed for support while he pounds into you.
You let the sounds spill out of you, choked off gasps and desperate little sighs. Every one of them seems to go straight to his cock. You can hear it in the quiet curses he mumbles, the way his hands find all the familiar places, your hips, your waist, slipping under your stomach to push down the fabric of your bra so he can watch your boobs bounce with every thrust.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he groans when you start pushing back, chasing more and more. “There you go. Take what you need, sweetheart.”
When your legs start to shake again, this time it’s not from strain, it’s from how fucking close you are.
“Jack–” You squeeze your eyes shut, fingers clawing the sheets, little sounds spilling out of you that you can’t control. It’s too much and not enough at the same time, and your body is about to snap.
“I know,” he says, quickly sensing your overwhelm. “Come here.”
You barely have time to think before his arm loops around your waist, pulling you up from your forearms. You gasp as he lifts you, slamming you back against his chest so you’re half kneeling, half suspended in his hold.
And then…his free hand comes up to cover your eyes. You gasp when your world goes pitch black, narrowing only to the sound of his voice and the feeling of his body behind yours.
“Shh,” he coos near your ear, placing delicate kisses all over your jaw. “Just feel, sweetheart. That’s all you have to do.”
Without sight, everything else slams into focus, the heat of his chest behind you, the roughness of his stubble on your neck, the tight grip of his arm keeping you upright. He starts thrusting again, chasing that sweet spot that makes your head go dizzy.
It’s more than enough now. It’s too much. You feel undone and held together all at once.
And to top it off, he decides now is the time to reach for the clasp of your bra, unhooking it with his free hand to hold you up by cupping your bare breasts. Your fingers reach back blindly, to his hair, his thigh, wherever you can reach. Jack just keeps his sweaty palm over your eyes, shielding you from everything but him.
“Fuck, you’re clenching,” he groans, knowing you’re almost there. “Let go for me, don’t think…just feel.”
You come with a shaky cry, your entire body shuddering in his hold. He keeps fucking you through every helpless little sound, feeling his own release building up.
After a few moments, when he considers your breathing has sort of stabilized, his hand finally slips away from your eyes, caressing the hair sticking to your face as he keeps pounding you from behind, still fast, still deep, but sloppier. You can tell he’s close by the way his cock twitches inside you.
“There you go,” he praises you, even if his breathing is ragged now. “That’s it. You did so good for me–shit–”
As your eyes adjust again, the post nut clarity hits you.
Your fucked out doctor brain freaks out. No protection, you’re very irresponsible, don’t let him. He seems to make the same calculation–pretty strange for a man–because he starts to pull back.
Fuck it.
Before he can deal with it himself, you wriggle out of his grasp to free yourself, and get off the bed. Your jelly legs barely hold you up before you sink to your knees in front of him. From there you get a clear view of all of him, the fact that the carpet does match the drapes, and even the leg he’d been hiding. He instinctively steps back, almost stumbling over the pants pooled over his feet.
“Hey, careful,” you coo, placing one hand on his thigh to nudge him forward, the other wraps around his glistening cock, making him curse. “Let me? Please?”
“Jesus,” he breathes. His hand holds the back of your head, managing a weak smile. “Atta girl, be good to me.”
Jack doesn’t have to tell you twice.
You don’t even have to do much, just a quick pump at the base of his length as you lean forward to place a teasing kiss on his leaking tip, almost sending him right over the edge. The sight alone makes him twitch, he was going to have to cover his own eyes if you kept looking at him like that with his cock on your mouth.
You wrap your lips fully around him with no warning, letting his cock stretch your mouth as you swallow every inch. Every strangled sound he makes encourages you to be as devoted to him as he was with you. Your head bobs up and down, guided by his firm grip on your hair.
“Fuck–you’re gonna kill me–” he chokes out, you take that as your cue to nod at him, mouth too full to tell him to let go. “Okay, that’s…I’m–”
He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because he’s already finishing inside you. He groans as he spills strings of hot cum on your tongue, fingers tangling in your hair a bit rougher, pushing his hips forward to fuck the last of his orgasm out. You choke just a little, holding onto his thighs, trying to swallow every drop he sends down your throat.
Jack pulls out with a groan when the adrenaline of it passes, dragging his thumb over your lips to wipe the remnants off.
“Pretty girl…” He praises, as you look up at him with swollen lips and glassy eyes.
“Atta boy, you did good for me,” you rasp, making him laugh.
“Come here.” He helps you get on your feet, then back to the bed.
“Thank you,” you mutter, tugging the duvet off to cover your body when you sit down.
He stays quiet as he hauls his joggers back up and finds his shirt somewhere by the door, until he can’t avoid looking at his watch anymore.
“Shit.”
“So…no cuddling?” You chuckle.
“Sorry,” he mutters, even though you both knew this is how your little hotel affair was going to end. He slings his backpack over one shoulder, and walks over to you.
He takes a moment to cup your cheeks, memorizing every feature, and you try to do the same. Your eyes trace every line of his face, the glint that never left his hazel eyes, the gray dust adorning his jaw.
God, he’s so handsome. How are you supposed to forget him?
Jack starts leaning forward, but you meet him halfway, closing the space between you. The goodbye kiss is not rushed like you expected, no, he still takes his time even if he’s gonna be late to wherever he’s headed. He pulls back with a smile, and a small, disbelieving huff of laughter as he licks his lips.
“What?” you ask.
“You taste like cake,” he says, clearly amused, then adds with a little tilt of his head, “and…something else I probably shouldn’t think about on my way out.”
“Oh, just go!” you laugh, shoving him away. “Before you’re late and whoever’s waiting for you files a missing persons report.”
“Yes, ma’am. They will,” he says, lifting his arms up innocently as he walks toward the door. “Good luck tomorrow with your…big day.”
“You too, with your…something,” you smile. God, you’re definitely going to need a good night's sleep after all of this.
He nods, and with a devilish wink, he’s finally gone.
You wake up feeling like you can take on the world.
With a pep on your step, you walk out of the hotel with clear scrubs and an even clearer conscience. Good sex? Check. Good sleep? Check. Daydreaming about the silver fox stranger you’ll never see again? Check check check.
You’re ready to kick ass and save lives.
Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center is just a short walk away, but it gives you enough time to self regulate your emotions before you walk through those doors. You get there early, greet everyone politely and exchange a few words with some nurses before your shift actually starts. For a moment, you almost forget you’re the new kid, and you feel like you’re right where you belong.
You make your way through triage, mentally rehearsing how you’re going to introduce yourself to your attending, when your sneaker slips on something. You don’t know if it’s saline, or water, or spit, all you know is that one second you were walking and the other you’re losing your balance. Your hands desperately find the wall with a smack, saving yourself from landing flat on your ass, but your forehead still hits the edge of a door frame with a sharp little crack.
You see stars for a second there, the same kind you saw yesterday.
“Whoa, hey! Are you okay?” Someone calls.
You groan, but straighten immediately, because what else are you going to do? Sit down and let the tears from your eyes spill? Absolutely not. Not on your first day. You swipe your fingers over your forehead, hissing at the sting, and when you look at your hand there’s the smallest smear of blood.
Perfect.
“I’m fine,” you say quickly. “I’m–”
“Absolutely not, come here.” A woman in black scrubs and a ponytail approaches you, holding your jaw to assess the wound. “I’m Dr. McKay, and you are?”
“I’m okay,” you say, trying to shrug her off. “Really, it was just a slip, it didn’t even hurt. I really need to go meet Dr. Robinavitch–”
“You slammed your head into a door frame, Robby can wait,” McKay says flatly.
You try to protest but she steers you toward one of the small triage rooms right off the ER entrance. You groan as she nudges you to sit on the bed. “I just need a band-aid, it’s just a scra–”
“A scratch, yeah, I heard you. You’ll get your band-aid after I make sure you’re not walking around with a concussion,” she says, then holds a finger up as if to say ‘wait’ and walks to the door, “Perfect learning opportunity, actually.”
Oh no.
“Hey! Santos, Whitaker, Javadi, come here,” she urges more people with scrubs. Great. “Consider this your first patient.”
You consider faking your own death.
All three of them clock your black scrubs and badge, and your bruised ego dies a little more when they realize you’re one of them. McKay just stands next to you like this is science class and you’re the classroom’s skeleton.
“We get all types of patients here. And today…” She pats your shoulder with the back of her hand. “It’s a colleague who discovered the floor is slippery on her very first day.”
Redacted.
“I’m fine,” you repeat. “Really. I just need a band-aid.”
“After we use you for educational purposes, now look up please,” she says, shining a light in your eyes to check your pupils. You resist the urge to slap her hand or lean away. “Headache?”
“No.”
“Any loss of consciousness?”
“You literally saw me since I hit my head,” you say, a little too aggressive, but McKay ignores your tone. “Sorry–no.”
“Nausea? Blurred vision?”
“No. I swear, I’m okay.”
“Alright. Whitaker, you’re up. What are your concerns when someone hits their head?”
“Um…we should ask what caused the fall?” He says, and McKay nods approvingly. He turns to you, “Did you feel dizzy before you slipped? Lightheaded?”
“No. There was just…something on the floor. I didn’t see it and unfortunately I slipped.”
“Good,” McKay says, more to them than to you. “No dizziness, no neuro complaints, no loss of consciousness, minor external injury that doesn’t need stitches.”
“And no reason for a CT,” one of the girls adds.
“Correct, Santos. So we’ll clean it, come on, you’re up.”
Your shoulders drop in the smallest relief. Now you have to survive the rest of the day after this humiliation, but adding unnecessary imaging on your first day would’ve ended you right there and then.
Mckay just smiles at you as Santos gloves on and prepares the stuff she’s gonna use. You look outside the door for a moment, trying to remember the confidence you’d walked in this morning, when a figure walking by catches your eye.
All you see is a flash of broad shoulders in a dark shirt, and a camo backpack slung over one arm. You make eye contact for a brief second as he glances inside casually, before doing a literal double take when he realizes who’s in there. He stops in his tracks, just as your heart stops inside your chest.
For a brief second you think you do need that CT, because there’s no way you’re not hallucinating talk-you-through-it Jack in front of you.
Here. In your ER. Wearing matching uniforms.
Jack, the man you let manhandle you last night–or afternoon?–whatever. The man who covered your eyes and told you to just feel. The man you sent you into orgasm oblivion and then kissed you goodbye tasting cake and himself on his tongue.
No. No way. Absolutely not.
You hiss when Santos presses something wet in your wound, and Jack decides that’s the best moment to step in and cause you a stroke on top of everything.
“Everything okay in here?” he asks casually, looking at you with the same glint in his eyes as yesterday.
You want to die.
“Abbot! Thought you were on your way out,” Mckay beams.
“I was, then I saw you tormenting the new blood. Didn’t want to miss the show,” he gives her a tired grin, shrugging, then looking around the room. “Morning, everyone.”
Javadi just smiles awkwardly, while Whitaker shifts on his feet and nods at him. At least Santos is having a blast enjoying the hell out of your tragic situation.
“Our colleague here decided to introduce her face to the wall,” she chuckles, shutting up when she realizes she only gets an unimpressed look from McKay.
“Hmm. Minor head trauma on the first day…that’s one way to make an entrance,” Jack jokes trying to lighten the mood, pulling on a fresh pair of gloves with a snap. “Mind if I take a look?” he asks you.
You hesitantly shake your head, and Santos barely steps back before he gets between your knees and you have to look up at him, and wow, that’s familiar. His fingers are gentle as he tilts your chin higher, focused on the small scrape by your hairline.
“It’s just a scratch,” you mumble under your breath.
He ignores it, and brings a penlight to your eyes, doing the same little routine Mckay did. Is this what your first day is supposed to be? A tortuous loop?
I might just fake a seizure right now.
“Any reason you might’ve tripped? Blurry vision? Sudden vertigo? Or…any specific memory that made you lose focus?”
It’s the way he drops his voice lower that makes you almost choke on your own spit. That exact same tone. That damn voice in your ear.
“We already asked those, Dr. Abbot. She said she slipped on a wet patch. No dizziness, no other symptoms,” Whitaker, bless his oblivious soul, chimes in.
Jack slowly turns his head to look at him, with an unimpressed stare that clearly says no one asked you to speak, white boy without using a single word.
Before anyone can torture you any further, a blue eyed doctor bursts in.
“McKay! We’re doing rounds.”
“Alright, meet us there once Dr. Abbot is done with you,” she says to you, ushering the others out. “Don’t forget to give her that band-aid she’s so desperate for.”
“I’ll take good care of her,” Jack replies, with an innocent smile.
The audience of your public execution finally leaves. And it’s great! Perfect. Exactly what you wanted: alone time. You don’t realize you’ve been holding onto the gurney for dear life until Jack–or should you call him Dr. Abbot now?–chuckles.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” He asks, amused.
“I don’t know, you’re the doctor here, apparently. So you tell me, how’s my head?” you snap, in a mix of nerves and residual embarrassment.
He grins. Oh he grins like fucking devil. “I don’t have any complaints.”
Heat rushes to your face instantly, and suddenly it’s like you’re back flirting in that bar again, sharing a chocolate cake. You shake those thoughts away, clearing your throat.
“So um…your flight was actually a night shift…in this hospital,” you say.
“Yeah. And your ‘big day’ was starting your first morning in this same ER. Nice upgrade from anonymous hotel guest, I guess.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny,” he chuckles, but you’re still looking at him skeptically. “Hey–it’s not that bad. People have done worse.”
“Worse than sleeping with an attending?” You say. “Like what–stealing medicine or secretly killing patients?”
“What? No–I hope no one’s doing that” he frowns.
This is the moment you start panicking for real.
“God, Dr. Robinavitch’s gonna kill me or worse,” you gasp. “He’s gonna fire me. Fuck–he’s gonna fire me and this is gonna be over before I even start my shift–“
“Okay, first of all, you need to sort out those priorities. Second, no one’s getting fired. You just need to get out there, and focus on your work. Alright? Can you do that for me?”
That. Fucking. Tone.
“Stop talking like that!” You whisper shout, knowing nurses could be nearby. “This is my first day, and I already have to convince everyone I’m not a complete disaster. So yes, I can do that for you. Happy? I’d like my band-aid now, please.”
“Okay, okay. You’ll get your band-aid,” he says calmly. “You just have to be more patient.”
You shoot him a glare, but he just smiles, still unbothered. He walks to a cabinet, pulling out a bright pink box of band-aids with a huge “My little pony” printed on it.
“What is that?”
“Best we have in triage,” he shrugs, amused. He looks back inside into the cabinet, before smirking at you. “We got Spongebob too.”
“…My little pony is fine,” you mutter.
“Alright,” he nods, invading your space again. “Look up for me.”
You’re grateful you’re not hooked to a heart monitor. You close your eyes, take a deep breath, and tilt your head up.
“Almost done, you’re doing great,” he drawls, smoothing the stupid band-aid over your life threatening injury with ridiculous care. “There,” Jack says, finally stepping back. “All done. You did so good for m–”
You snap upright from the bed so fast you almost cause yourself another injury by bumping into his big ass head.
“I have to go,” you blurt, already making your way to the door. “Thank you, Dr. Abbot. I hope we never see each other again.”
He peels off his gloves with a laugh, tossing them into the bin. This is the most entertaining thing that’s happened to him all week.
“No promises, doc,” he winks, “PTMC is not that big.”
You don’t give him the satisfaction of a response or even to see the panic on your face. You practically launch yourself into the hallway, and start speed walking toward the ED with a My little pony bandaid on your forehead.
Best sex of your life.
Worst coincidence of your career.
And yet…you can’t wait till you see him again.
Thank you so much for reading 🤍 feedback is always appreciated ✨
summary: no one at the pitt knows you and jack are separated when you show up to the emergency room during a particularly chaotic shift, with a number of dubious symptoms that force you and jack to reconcile. (4k)
characters: jack abbot / wife!reader, jack abbot, dana evans, the pittlings
contents: established relationship, grumpy!jack, protective!jack, angst, hurt/comfort, not proofread cw for mentions of divorce, medical procedures, and pregnancy
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
You make a reluctant trip to the PTMC with a two-week-old headache and the remnants of last night’s argument with Jack.
You don’t see the man when you first walk in, which you’re slightly grateful for, even though you know that a crowded E.R. is hardly ever a good sign. You feel the swelling noise and bustling bodies pressing hard on either side of you as you freeze in place by the entrance, trapped within a sea of rushing doctors and transporting patients. Dana, who had spotted you the second you walked in, rushes to your side to keep you from drowning in it entirely.
“Hey, hun,” the older woman greets in her usual gritty deadpan, wearing the weight of the long day all over her face as she rounds the work station to meet you.
“Hey, D— Lupe sent me through,” you murmur, just barely audible over the noisy emergency department. You point behind you to the double doors towards the waiting room, but don’t take your eyes off the surrounding chaos as Dana ushers you the short distance to the front desk. “Jeez, you guys are busy today, huh?”
“You don’t know the half of it, honey,” Santos huffs distantly, from where she stands before the overhead monitor with a few other residents. It takes her a second too long to realize her slip-up, and her half-up ponytail sways behind her as she flashes you an apologetic grimace. “Shit. Sorry. I just— I hear Jack calling you that all the time, and it just slipped.”
You burn at the mention of his name. You hope it doesn’t show on your face.
“It’s okay,” you assure her with a dismissive wave of your hand. “Trust me— I’m used to it.”
“We’re never too busy for you, hun. C’mon. Let’s find you a room,” Dana assures with a gentle pat on your arm. She cranes her neck and shouts across the work station, “We got anything open, Princess?”
The woman bends at the waist to check her computer, then calls over her shoulder, “Psych 1 should be.”
“One of you find Abbot, will ya?” Dana asks the younger residents, peering at them over the top of the glasses sitting low on her nose as she escorts you down the hall. “Tell him his wife is here.”
You tense instinctively under her touch at the turn of phrase — a bitter reminder of the stack of divorce papers on the coffee table back home, which says that pretty soon you won’t be Jack’s wife anymore, or his honey. You dread telling his coworkers almost as much as you dread signing the wretched thing.
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” you assure her with a wavering grin. “It’s nothing, D, really.”
“That’s what they all say, hun,” the woman rolls her eyes.
The remaining residents share weary looks once the two of you have disappeared into the crowd — because telling Abbot his wife is in is one thing, but telling him in the middle of the unforgiving chaos of a rather brutal shift is entirely another.
“Well, I have a patient to check on, so…” Santos trails off, ambling backward with her thumb cocked over her shoulder. She spins on her sneaker and dismisses herself with a curt wave. “Later, losers.”
“Look at this place, we all have patients to check on,” Whitaker scoffs, then cowers at the expectant looks he gets from the two women at his side. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing. “But, yeah, I… I have to go, too…”
Samira laughs as she watches the blonde scurry off behind Santos.
“What’s his deal?” she scoffs and turns over her shoulder to look at Mel. Her dark brows furrow when she finds the girl backing slowly away. “Dr. King?”
“Oh, I’ve already completed all my rounds, I just… don’t wanna do it,” Mel confesses, forgetting to lie. She grimaces and turns away. “Sorry…”
Samira watches them go with a confused look twisting her features. She doesn’t understand their apprehension, or their subtle looks of sympathy — as if she’d just gotten stuck diffusing a ticking time bomb.
“O-kay, I guess I’ll do it then…” she mumbles under her breath and turns on the heel of her sneaker, starting the hunt for Dr. Abbot.
Dana stashes you in a small room on the farthest end of the E.R., away from all the chaos on the opposite side, which has since been reduced to a muted droning behind the shut door. She leaves the curtains drawn and the lights dim to ease the unwavering migraine she knows you’ve been sporting for some days now — which inevitably means it’s been plaguing you for at least a week or more before you told anyone about it.
You lie back against the angled exam table with your knees bent and your arms crossed over your eyes, feeling the pounding in your skull down into your bones. You struggle to even out your breathing and harder to relax — you tense on instinct when the door clicks open, and not just because every noise feels like a knife right to your temple.
Your stomach twists with the anticipation of seeing Jack, a sick sort of feeling at potentially having to confront the night before and the uncertain future ahead. You exhale a breath of relief when Robby slides in instead, letting in a sliver of white-blue light and a trickle of noise.
“Dana told me you were in,” he says in lieu of any real greeting, shutting the door behind him with his elbow as he reaches for the hand sanitizer on the wall at his side. He rubs it between his palms and wonders aloud, “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” you assure him despite the faint grimace that twists your features when you struggle to sit up straighter on the bed. “Don’t worry about me— What the hell’s going on out there?”
Robby exhales hard through his mouth, bearded cheeks puffing. “Huge wreck, right off the highway— You didn’t see it on the way here?”
“No,” you shake your head.
“Good…” he nods. “I damn near had a heart attack when Dana told me you were in— I’m sure Abbot’s head is gonna cave in when he finds out.”
He exhales a quiet laugh and waits for you to make another stupid joke in response, just like you always do. But you avert your gaze instead and shift uncomfortably on the thin mattress, like the mention of Jack’s name is enough to make you nervous.
“What’s going on?” the man wonders with furrowed brows. You give him a shocked sort of look in response, half-confused that he’d even know you and Jack were on the outs in the first place. He elaborates soon after, “Dana said you’ve been having headaches for a while now— so that means it’s been a week, at most.”
“You guys know me so well…” you deadpan with a pair of squinted eyes. “It’s nothing, Robby. Really. I just… Had another fainting spell. And usually I wouldn’t even come in for them, but Jack said if it happened again that he’d drag me down here himself, so… I figured I’d save him the trip.”
Robby’s dark eyes narrow at the cynical smile you give him.
“Well, I’m gonna save you the lecture about waiting this long to come in… Since I’m pretty sure you’re gonna hear it from Abbot anyway, so…”
“Thank you,” you sigh.
“You sure you don’t want me to tell him you’re in?” Robby presses tentatively. “He’s with another patient right now, but he’d drop it in a second if you—”
“No,” you shake your heavy head almost instantly, ‘cause you’re not so sure how true that is anymore — Jack hasn’t exactly been too keen on dropping his work these days, which is essentially the entire reason you’re in this mess to begin with. “I don’t wanna… worry him over nothing, you know?”
Robby has a sneaking suspicion that this isn’t nothing, and that there’s something you and Abbot aren’t exactly telling him, but he doesn’t press the issue now.
“Yes, ma’am…” he nods with a huff and drops down in the cushioned stool at your bedside, silently preparing himself for the hell Abbot’s gonna raise when he inevitably finds out you’re here.
Samira finds Dr. Abbot in Trauma 2, performing an emergency surgery on a patient whose pelvis was crushed in the crash, with Dr. Garcia and a crowd of other residents at his side. The younger girl slinks through the glass door into the windowless room, and doesn’t flinch at the overwhelming scent of blood and bitter antiseptic heavying the air inside.
She plucks a surgical mask from the dispenser beside the door and holds it over her mouth as she calls out a hesitant, “Dr. Abbot?”
“Little busy here, Mohan,” Jack answers without looking at her, elbows deep in the unconscious man’s open pelvis as he readjusts the metal clamps there. Bright crimson blood stains his gloves and the stomach of his blue PPE gown as he works with expert hands.
“It’s sort of important, sir…”
Jack says nothing in response; just gives the girl a silent, expectant look from behind the safety glasses sitting low on his nose.
“Your wife is here,” she tells him, dark eyes wild from behind the mask she holds over her mouth. “She’s totally fine, she’s in psych 1 with Dana, but she—”
“Since when?” Jack snaps before she can properly get the words out, flaring red-hot with an immediate worry and a suffocating tinge of regret despite Samira’s reassurances.
Flashes of the crash plague his anxious mind. He can’t help but picture you lying as limp and as bloody as the man before him now. The brutal image hits him as hard as the memory of the last thing he said to you the night before, right before you slept in separate bedrooms.
“Well, if my work schedule makes you so damn miserable, then why don’t you just sign the goddamn papers—?”
“Um… I’m not sure,” Samira answers with a waver in her voice. “About ten minutes ago, I think? I did a few rounds before I came in here, so—”
Jack stills suddenly in place. His head snaps in the younger girl’s direction, and Samira cowers at the hardened glare in his eyes.
“Is there a reason you didn’t come to me directly?”
Samira flinches at his unusually harsh tone. Her wide eyes flit between his stern ones and the anxious looks from the residents just behind him. “Well, she said not to… But then Dana said that I should, so I wasn’t exactly sure who to listen to—”
“Me,” Jack snaps. “You listen to the attending, who told everyone to come get him if his wife came in—”
He doesn’t have time to notice his slip-up, or otherwise correct it, when Garcia steps in.
“I’ll take over here,” the older woman says in her usual deadpan. “If you guys wanna argue like children somewhere else.”
Jack doesn’t argue as he steps back from the patient, peeling off his bloodied gown and gloves with suddenly anxious hands. He chucks the PPE in the biohazard bin with an obvious fire in his touch. The sudden shift in his usually calm disposition makes Samira’s chest ache, while Garcia grins behind her mask.
“Tell your wife I said hi, Dr. Rabbit,” the woman croons with a teasing lilt and a mischievous look behind her glasses.
“She’s still not interested, Garcia,” Abbot calls over his shoulder as he storms towards the door.
“Dammit…”
Samira cowers when Jack slides past her in the doorway, not looking at her once, like he barely recognizes that she’s there at all. She watches through the glass door as he disappears into the bustling crowd outside, hands balled into trembling fists at his sides.
“Don’t worry about him, kid,” Garcia sighs, half-distracted, as she fishes her bloodied hands in the unconscious man’s open pelvis. “He’s been on his period for about a week now, and we’re all paying the price for it…”
Samira’s chest deflates with a huff. “So, that’s why no one else wanted to do it…”
The two-minute trek across the E.R. feels nothing short of two years.
The entire walk there, Jack’s anxious mind struggles to discern what Mohan could’ve meant by totally fine. Were you just a little scraped up? Were you terribly injured, but at the very least alive? Was Samira trying to soften the blow, or did she truly mean totally fine?
Jack can’t help but picture the worst-case scenario, and he expects to find you hurt.
“No, I just kinda have this headache that comes and goes, you know?” he hears you say, right before he storms inside.
“Oh— And there it is,” Jack jokes when Abbot appears suddenly in the doorway, bringing in a wave of light and noise and unadulterated panic in with him.
Jack’s tight chest relaxes slightly when he finds you totally fine — lounging in a dim room with Robby at your side, laughing at his stupid joke as he draws dark red blood from the inside of your arm.
He’s relieved that you’re okay, of course, but the sight of you smiling — when Jack hasn’t quite been able to keep food down for days with the worry that you might be leaving him — hurts him in a completely different (and only slightly jealous) way.
“Oh, fuck…” you hear yourself say when Jack storms in like a white-hot flame. Because, sure, you’ve sort of made it a point to avoid the man at every turn, but you didn’t want him finding you like this.
You know what this looks like. You know it looks like you’re going behind his back and purposefully taunting him by going to his friends instead of straight to him. You know it hurts his feelings. And you may not like him so much right now, but you never want to see him sad.
“Yeah, 'oh fuck' is right,” Jack nods as he closes the door behind him, muffling the noise as the room goes dim again.
Robby inhales sharply through his nose. He can feel the sudden tension between the two of you pressing hard on either side of him. “Little pinch,” he murmurs to you, right before sliding the needle from your vein.
“Why didn’t you come get me?” Jack asks.
“Because you were busy,” you sigh, then mumble more quietly under your breath. “Go figure…”
“Why didn’t you call before you came—”
You fight the urge to rehash the fight from the night before and roll your eyes instead. “Because it’s not a big deal, Jack—”
“Yeah, I think I’ll be the judge of that,” the man concludes with narrowed eyes and biceps that strain against his scrubs when he crosses his arms over his chest.
Robby’s dark eyes flit between the two of you behind the glasses perched on his broad nose. When he’s sure the arguing has ceased, he looks over his shoulder at Abbot and begins to explain. “I’m doing an electrolyte panel to check for any imbalances— It’ll also help us rule out anemia and hypoglycemia.”
Jack nods, brows lowered in concentration. “Okay… What about—?”
“I was gonna do an ECG when the results came back,” Robby finishes for him. “Her heart sounds fine, but I’ll have to wait for a room to open up if the bloodwork comes back abnormal, and… Who knows how long that’s gonna be?”
“Alright,” Jack nods again. “Sounds good.”
Robby turns to you, brows raised expectantly. “Sound good?”
“You’re the boss, Robinavitch,” you shrug.
“Hear that, brother?” Robby scoffs as he rises from his stool, taking the vials of blood work with him as he heads for the door. He elbows Jack on the arm when he walks by and flashes the frowning man a smug grin. “I’m the boss.”
Robby opens and shuts the door behind him, and all the playful energy leaves with him. The subsequent silence feels borderline suffocating. You and Jack, barely breathing, try to break it at the same time.
“I’m fine, Jack—”
“I can’t believe this—”
You huff and tip your aching head back. “I’m fine. So you can go back and do whatever it is you were doing before. I’m sure it’s more important.”
Jack’s light eyes narrow into thin slits. His firm stature never wavers — arms crossed tight, sneakers spread shoulder-length apart — like he’s interrogating an enemy on the battlefield.
“What happened? Did you faint again?”
“Yeah…” you answer suddenly sheepishly, averting your gaze to a faded stain on the knee of your jeans. “It was in your shower chair this time. I think I had the water too hot.”
“I told you about the hot water—”
“I know,” you huff like a stubborn child. “And you also told me that if I passed out again that I needed to come in so… I came in.”
“I still wish you would’ve called me first,” he tells you — not angry this time, not truly, but still obviously hurt. “When Mohan told me you were here, I thought something bad happened to you.”
“Well, considering you told me to leave last night, I honestly didn’t think you really gave a shit anymore, Jack...” you confess with a smile you hardly mean.
“I told you to leave because you said you wanted to,” Jack argues through gritted teeth. “You act like I pulled that shit out of thin air— Like you haven’t been looking for an out for weeks.”
“An out?” you echo, a little louder than you mean to, as your face screws in offense. “You’re the one who’s never home, Jack. So if anyone’s been looking for a fucking out, it’s you— Fuck…”
You whimper when a white-hot flare surges suddenly across your skull, from temple to temple and down the base of your neck. You wince and close your eyes, tentatively tipping your head back against the bed once more.
Jack forgets to be angry in an instant. His chest stings at the pained look that etches across your features. His legs carry him to you before his brain has decided whether or not he should.
“What?” he presses, eyes wild. “What’s wrong?”
“My head…” you squeak out.
Jack huffs. “Here…”
You know he’s towering over you without having to open your eyes. You can feel him there, warm like a heater, and smelling of cologne and a long shift at the E.R. He braces himself with one hand on the mattress beside your head and covers your eyes with his free one. You don’t flinch when his gently calloused palm splays suddenly over the length of your forehead, pinky curving in the bend of your closed eyelids.
He couldn’t possibly count the number of times he’s done this over the years — hundreds, at least. It’s the only way he knew how to soothe your headaches when the medicine was taking its sweet time kicking in. It’s the pressure that helps, though you’ve always argued that Jack must have some secret healing superpowers that he isn’t telling you about.
You’re only able take your first good breath in two weeks when he’s finally touching you so gently.
“Better?” he wonders, half-detached but still strikingly soft.
You nod once beneath his palm and fight back the urge to cry when his thumb rubs softly over your temple.
“Contrary to popular belief, honey,” the older man murmurs. “I didn’t come in here to fight with you.”
“It always ends in a fight with us, Jack,” you sigh. “You know that.”
“I thought you were hurt,” he confesses, in a voice so soft it makes you feel like crying. “Bad hurt. When Mohan came and got me, I thought for sure you were involved with all the shit going on out there.”
“Well, I’m not… So you can go now…” you tell him in a trembling voice, which you’d rather blame on the lingering ache in your skull and not the fact that you don’t truly want him to leave — that you never really wanted him to leave.
You miss the quiet smile Jack gives you in response, because he can see right through you.
“Yeah, I’m not going anywhere, honey…” he says on a gentle exhale. “And I’m not signing those stupid papers.”
Your heart drops at the mention of them, at the bitter reminder of their existence, even though it’s been plaguing your every waking thought for some weeks now.
Your trembling hands reach for the one he holds over your eyes. You wrap your fingers around his wrist and knuckles, peeling his palm away to peer up at him with a glassy gaze.
“What do you mean?” you ask on bated breath.
Jack meets your weary look with a softer, sadder smile.
“Well, I just got about a… three-minute glimpse of what my life was gonna look like without you,” Jack sighs, in lieu of confessing all the gory worst-case scenarios he couldn’t quite get out of his head. “And, turns out, I’m not strong enough for that, so… I’m officially declining your divorce, honey.”
“Jack…” you protest feebly, features crumpling at his poor excuse for a joke, while his calloused palm slips from your forehead and cups gently over your warm cheek.
He ducks down to meet your gaze when you try to turn away, bending slightly at the waist and bracing himself with his free hand curled around the top of the mattress. His nose is mere inches from yours — you can feel each of his exhales fan across your chin. You couldn’t shy away from him if you tried.
“I’m serious, honey,” he says with a stern but no less sincere look swimming in his light eyes. “You were right— I’m working too much—”
“No, don’t…” you protest with a shake of your head, because the affirmation doesn’t feel as rewarding as you’d expected it to. Instead, it makes you feel a little sick. Your gaze falls to the dog tags slipping from the inside of his scrubs, glimmering in the darkness as they sway just ahead of you. Your fingers reach to fidget with the chain on muscle memory. “It’s your job, Jack. I shouldn’t dictate how much you work—”
“You’re my wife, honey. You shouldn’t feel second to my job, because you’re not,” he tells you, brows raised to his hairline. “So, I’ll— cut down on my hours, I’ll stop picking up so many shifts, I’ll… I’ll do whatever the hell you want me to do, baby, ‘cause I’m not going anywhere, alright?”
You feel his words physically, like a white-hot knife lodged in the center of your sternum and twisting.
You struggle to find the words to respond, just as you struggle to find the air in the room to breathe. Because you’ve spent weeks thinking you’d failed at your marriage, and now you’ve failed at failing your marriage. It’s a stupid tug of war that makes you hate yourself all the more.
“Well, maybe we should wait for Robby to get back…” you murmur quietly, shifting on the mattress beneath him. “You know, before we have this conversation or whatever…”
Jack ducks his head to chase your averted gaze, brows furrowing in confusion. “What the hell does Robby have to do with this?”
“I don’t know,” you shrug. “I might have, like, a super rare blood cancer or something—”
“Jesus,” Jack grimaces before you can properly get the words out, flinching away from you when you shatter the sincere moment. “Why would you say something like that?”
“I might only have a week left to live or something,” you retort with wide eyes, only partially playful. “So we might not even have to worry about any of this, you know? …Who knows?”
Jack meets your sparkling, half-crazed look with a firm scowl. “You’re real morbid, honey. You know that?”
“Well, what can I say?” you shrug and fight the urge to smile. “Your cynicism’s rubbing off on me, Abbot.”
Robby returns about a half hour later, to a room considerably less tense than it was when he left. He forgets to comment or otherwise pry about it when he slips inside, gaze averted to the glowing iPad resting on his palm. His free hand scratches at the grey patch in his beard — an anxious tic you’ve come to know well.
“Hey, uh—” he clears his throat behind his fist when the words get stuck there.
“Oh, shit…” you waver when the door clicks shuts behind him. “I was just kidding about the whole blood cancer thing, I swear—”
Robby’s brows lower in confusion. “…What?”
“Don’t listen to her,” Jack huffs, rising from the stool at your side for the first time in thirty minutes as he rushes to Robby in long strides — ‘cause he can feel the man’s trepidation like heat off a bonfire. “What did the blood work say?”
Robby inhales sharply through his nose as he passes the man the tablet. He crosses his arms over his chest and splays his right hand over the lower half of his bearded face. His wide eyes dart between the lit-up iPad and the edge of Jack’s profile, eagerly awaiting the man’s reaction.
You watch with your heart in your throat as Jack’s eyes flit wildly back and forth across the screen. His scruffy jaw slackens slightly in shock, and Robby nods slowly in a quiet concurrence.
“Okay, what the hell?” You shatter the heavy silence. “Are you guys just gonna communicate telepathically the whole time, or is someone gonna tell me what’s going on with me?”
“You’re fine— You’re totally fine,” Robby reassures you, gesturing wildly with his right hand. “Your bloodwork came back normal, but… There’s a high level of hCG in your bloodstream. And I think that’s what’s been causing your dizziness and fainting spells.”
“HCG?” you echo, eyes darting wildly between the two men in front of you. “What the hell is hCG?”
“Human chorionic gonadotropin,” Jack answers on instinct, half-strangled, and never once taking his eyes off the screen in his hands. “Means you’re pregnant, honey…”
You feel the world fall out from under you for the second or third or hundredth time that day. You hide your crumpling features behind your hands as your head falls back against the exam table. Your following words come out muffled.
summary: you and dennis get interrupted while you're...messing around in a call room.
pairings: dennis whitaker x RT!reader (respiratory therapist)
cw/tags: no use of y/n, established relationship, smut (mdni) with afab!reader, fingering, unprotected piv, hickeys, bruising (obviously), biting, typical pitt warnings (depiction of car crash victims and their treatment, involving needle decomps, intubations, medications, compressions, etc etc), inappropriate workplace conduct (fucking in a call room, teasing from your coworkers during an ongoing trauma AND after, sexually suggestive remarks, flirting), dennis' muscles being hot and distracting, you have hair long enough to be tied back in a nondescript way, mentions of you having cleavage and nipples and you’re given visible hickeys. the colour of said hickeys is NOT described so you can picture whatever shade they would be on your skin! other than that no descriptions of you!! swearing. also idk if dennis' chain is a cross but...i made it one in this....so if you would find biting religious paraphernalia offensive then do not read this...
word count: 4k
dennis x RT!reader masterlist
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inspired by this ask from my lovely lotus flower 🪷 anon, @libbyqypu and 2 hands by tate mcrae, particularly the line 'cause I want them all to see, you look good on top of me' because he looks exceptional on top of you your honour
Today’s shift has been brutal.
Dennis has barely gotten a second to breathe all day, let alone chart or just sit down. Seven o’clock doesn’t come with the relief of finally getting to go home, no—it comes with the dread that he’ll be spending at least the next two hours catching up on notes, and he isn’t the only one. Trinity, Mel, and Frank are all scattered around at various computers, eyes half-closed and voices quiet as they dictate. Robby’s doing the same, minus the dictating—since he refuses to chart out loud for whatever reason.
You come downstairs, hoodie on over your scrubs and backpack on your shoulders, swinging your hospital-issued lanyard around your hand. Your eyes pick over the central hub until you find him, approaching quietly, not wanting to interrupt the sentence he’s in the middle of. He gives you a quick smile as he finishes up, then sets the device on the desk.
“Hey, you got my text, right?” He asks, pushing off his chair, standing up.
“Mhm,” You hum, thrusting an iced coffee in his direction, one you had run out to get when he told you he’d be staying late. “Thought this might help.”
His eyes light up, more than they already had at the sight of you, taking it and setting it on his workstation.
“It definitely will, thanks,” He says. “I’ll go grab the keys-”
“I’ll just hangout upstairs until you’re done,” You interrupt. “I already found a call room.”
He frowns. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” You insist. “Any chance you can spare fifteen minutes? I got dinner.”
Robby answers for him, sensing the way he’s about to decline and push through, even though he’s on his last legs.
“Go have dinner with your girlfriend, we’ll be here when you get back,” He says. You raise your eyebrows at Dennis expectantly, gesturing in Robby’s direction.
“Boss says it’s okay,” You add.
Dennis smiles, nodding. “Yeah, let’s go.”
He follows you upstairs, coffee in hand, rubbing his eyes a few times, trying to wake himself up. You push the call room door open, dropping your backpack on the desk, unzipping it and pulling out a few containers. It’s nothing too fancy, just some decent things from the cafeteria, but neither of you mind. You lay everything out while Dennis watches, eyes fond and chest warm.
Your hands grab the bottom of your hoodie, pulling it over your head, revealing the black long-sleeve underneath. You don’t think twice as you toss it onto the bed, still focused on setting things up. Meanwhile, Dennis’ eyes fall, landing on the sliver of your waist that’s exposed between your waistband and shirt. He swallows, blinking quickly, already feeling heat spreading over his neck and cheeks.
He’s almost gotten himself together by the time you’re done, but then you turn around.
The long-sleeve is a v-neck, one that would be wildly inappropriate if you hadn’t been wearing a scrub shirt on top for your shift. Your necklace, the one he had saved so hard to get for your first birthday after you started dating, glints against your skin. Your chest is exposed, curves of your cleavage on display. Your pants hang low on your hips, and he knows every inch of you so well by now that he can practically see them through the fabric.
“I didn’t have much to work with,” You admit. “Figured it was better than nothing.”
Dennis nods, stepping towards you. “Yeah, no, this is really sweet, angel.”
You smile when he grabs your waist, pulling you close, kissing you quickly.
“How mad would you be if I didn’t eat any of it?” He asks, voice just above a whisper, forehead resting against yours. You frown, face shifting with confusion, about to ask what’s wrong, he’s sure. He doesn’t let you.
“There are…other things I’d rather do with my time,” He adds, tightening his grip on you, both thumbs dipping under your waistband. “But it’s completely fine if you don’t want-”
You take a second to recover, the proposition shocking, but then you’re all in, cutting him off.
“Fuck the food,” You say lowly, looking over his shoulder towards the bed, the thrum of desire already settling in your stomach. He exhales, mouth tugging up into a small smile. He stares at you for a few seconds, then his lips are on yours again. It starts soft, but it spirals fast, your arms wrapping around his neck, lips locked. He slides his hands under your shirt, cold fingertips digging into your sides, sending a shiver down your spine.
He pulls back for a moment, lifting your shirt over your head, tossing it off to the side. Your heart pumps against your sternum, blood rushing to your chest as you reconnect. You grab either side of his face, trying to get impossibly close, lips haphazard and frantic. Dennis’ movements aren’t any more precise, guiding you away from the table until you feel the wall against your back, both of you almost tripping over your own feet. He reaches towards your spine, unclasping your bra, letting it fall to the floor.
He ducks his head down towards your chest, lips closing around your skin, nipping softly. You gasp, fingers threading through his hair as he leaves small bruises, barely leaving any skin unaffected. He eventually takes your nipple in his mouth, sucking hard.
“Ah, Den,” You sigh, tilting your head back, eyes closing. He unties your scrub pants, shuffling them down your thighs along with your thong. He comes back up, kissing you again, chest heaving. You whimper against him when he drops a hand down, pushing two fingers inside of you.
He doesn’t break the kiss as he pumps them up and down, feeling how you tighten momentarily, thighs clenching and legs already starting to quiver. You rock your hips in time with his fingers, needing more.
“What do you want from me, angel?” He asks, the question murmured against your lips.
You shake your head. “Anything you want.”
He lets out a breathy laugh, licking his lips. “Yeah, okay.”
You can still remember when you first started dating, when he would’ve asked if you were sure. Now he knows that you’re more than sure.
He pulls his scrub top off, along with the t-shirt he was wearing underneath. You watch his chain fall back against his chest, his muscles rippling as he throws his clothes aside. His collarbones catch your eye, and you kiss the left one, then the right. You nip at the bone, knowing how sensitive he is there, then you give him a bruise to match the myriad he’s given you. It throws his focus for a second, his breath catching with a soft groan.
He grabs the back of your thighs, setting you on the bed, climbing on top of you. He puts his lips back on you, starting just below your ribcage, leaving bruises and kisses all over your stomach. He continues down to your thighs, occasionally biting into your skin. You admire the gradient of hickeys he’s left, the ones on your chest already dark. You bite back a comment about him ‘marking his territory.’
He lifts his head, panting, one hand holding himself up on the mattress while he raises the other, turning his watch towards his face. The action is so unreasonably hot you have to bite the inside of your cheek to avoid moaning.
“Eight minutes,” He comments, looking at you. His eyes are dark, matching your own. “I can get you off-”
“Don’t worry about me,” You breathe, eyes flicking between his face and his chain, which is hanging off his neck, swinging back and forth lightly. “Just fuck me, please.”
He raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t object, especially when you reach out, fingers curling around the silver necklace. You tug on it, pulling him close. He fumbles with his own scrub pants, untying them and pushing them down, keeping them around his thighs. His muscles press against the elastic waistband, visibly flexing.
“Jesus fuck,” You say, making him look at you, eyes wide.
“Something wrong?” He asks, concern flashing on his features.
“No, no, fuck, you’re just-” You pause, his thigh muscles still commanding your attention. “I love you so much, and you’re so hot.”
He smiles, all worry washing away. “I love you too, baby.”
You gesture to his watch. “Eight minutes, Denny.”
“Right, right,” He says, shifting so he’s in line with you. You arch your back as he slides a hand underneath you, bracing your pelvis as he slowly pushes in. The lack of foreplay makes it hurts a bit more than usual, your face scrunching up, grip on his chain tightening. He watches you closely as he moves, making sure he’s not going too fast.
You wince at one point, and he freezes.
“You want me to stop?” He asks.
“No, please don’t,” You say, visibly relaxing a touch. “Keep going.”
Your eyes rolls back once he’s in, reaching for him. He lowers himself onto his elbow beside your head, his other hand coming up to your cheek. The feeling of cold metal on your chest makes you flinch, looking down to see where the bottom of the cross grazes your bruised skin.
“Jesus,” He murmurs, hitting your cervix easily. The cross moves with each thrust, occasionally hitting your jaw. “You feel amazing, angel.”
You moan in response.
“Shh, don’t want anyone hearing you,” He murmurs, adjusting so the pendant hangs above your mouth. You take it between your teeth.
He rolls his hips again, making your eyes flutter closed as you whine. Dennis looks you up and down, realizing that you’ll definitely be sensitive for the next few days while your bruises heal. He’s about to speak again when there’s a knock on the door.
You both go still, listening closely, not entirely sure if it was really a knock or just someone out in the hallway. Dennis turns his head towards the door, squinting.
“Was that-”
There’s another knock followed by his last name, then yours. It’s Lena, undoubtedly. Dennis is off you in a second, already pulling his pants back up. He scoops his t-shirt off the floor, yanking it over his torso while you do the same with your long-sleeve, pulling the thin blanket at the end of the bed over your exposed legs after. You reach your arms up, acting as though you’re tying your hair back when he turns around, making sure you’re decent before opening the door.
“Hey, Lena,” He greets. “Everything okay?”
“We’ve got a pileup,” She explains. “Four victims, five minutes out. We need all hands on deck.”
“Shit, okay,” Dennis says. “Yeah, we’ll be right down.”
She gives him an apologetic smile, looking past him towards you. “Sorry to interrupt.”
“Oh, uhm, you didn’t,” He says, stuttering, face heating up quickly. “We weren’t-”
“See you downstairs!” She calls, walking away from the door. Dennis let’s it close, leaning against it when he faces you again.
“You think she knew?” He asks. You laugh, swinging your legs out from under the blanket and standing up, stepping into your pants and shimmeying into them. You press a quick kiss to his lips and pass him his scrub top.
“I think she definitely assumed,” You say, pulling your own scrub top out of your hoodie and back on. “You played it off nicely, though.”
“Really?” He questions, voice slightly muffled from behind his shirt, his head poking out the top a second later.
You grin, patting his shoulder as you step into the hallway.
“No, not at all.”
He huffs, following you out. You take the stairs down, stopping at the bottom, moments away from shouldering the door open. You stop, reaching out for him. He takes your hand in his, bringing it up, lips grazing your knuckles.
“Ready?” He asks.
“Lets do it.”
Jack spots you immediately, calling your last name.
“Need you in here,” He says. “Whitaker, help Ellis in trauma three.”
“On it,” Dennis says, dropping your hand as you go your separate ways, both already focused on the task at hand.
You follow Jack into the trauma room, the number of people half what you’re used to. You aren’t sure how many dayshift doctors are still around, but Mel’s already there when you walk in. The patient is tugging against restraints, ones EMS must’ve put on, as she tries to finish up her primary exam.
“Ready for RSI,” Bridget says. Jack nods.
“On her,” He says, nodding his head towards you. “Findings, Mel?”
“GCS nine, confused, unresponsive to questions or commands,” She explains. “Decreased breath sounds on the left, gurgling. GCS is right on the brink, but I think we should intubate.”
“Do it,” He says, already halfway out the door. “Come to trauma three when you’re finished!”
“Wait, where are you going?” Mel asks, worry edging into her tone.
Jack pauses, watching as you move to the head of the bed. “You’re good, she’s got you.”
The door closes behind him, and she looks at you. You give her a reassuring nod.
“We’ve got this, Dr. King,” You say. “Let’s push paralytics?”
She nods. “Yes, please.”
Bridget administers the meds, and you open the patient’s mouth, positioning the blade correctly and turning the light on.
“Do you, uhm, do you want the monitor?” Mel asks.
“Nah,” You say. “Seven-five.”
You’re finished in under thirty seconds.
The patient’s sats come up, but they plateau in the high-eighties. Mel listens to the chest again, frowning.
“eFAST,” She says, lifting his shirt up and placing the tool against his chest. “No lung sliding on the left.”
“Tension pneumo,” You agree, also looking at the screen.
“Decompression needle,” She orders, putting the wand back and pushing the screen off to the side. She takes the needle in her hand, positioning it above the correct intercostal space. You’re squeezing the bag attached to the patient’s tube, watching as she inserts it, hearing the telltale rush of air escape.
“Sats improving,” You say, seeing them climb into the mid-nineties. “Nice work, Dr. King.”
Someone yelling your last name makes you look away from the monitor, passing the bag off to Bridget and running out of the room. You pull your gloves off, throwing them out, seeing Parker standing in the doorway of trauma three.
“What’s going on?” You ask, skidding past her. She takes her place beside the bed again, where Dennis is already doing compressions, each push showing up as a wave on the screen. “Shit.”
“We need an airway, now,” She says, despite it being obvious.
You grab new gloves. “Mac blade with video scope.”
“Rhythm check,” Parker says, making Dennis stop, raising his hands. The line flattens, the hallmark ‘beep’ ringing out. He leans back over the patient, one knee resting on the edge of the bed, not noticing when his shirt gets caught underneath.
“Do you want a pause?” Parker asks, looking at you, rolling her sleeves up in preparation to take over compressions if needed. You shoot her a glare, one that makes her smirk.
“Need me to teach you how to intubate through compressions, Dr. Ellis?” You counter, already visualizing the chords on the screen. “Don’t stop, Whitaker.”
He doesn’t, but his mind drifts for a moment, seeing countless times you’ve said those two words to him in a vastly different context. The door swings open, revealing Trinity and Robby.
“How long has she been down?” Robby asks.
“Four minutes,” Parker says. “Rhythm check.”
Dennis leans back again, his knee still up, pulling his shirt down even farther. He’s panting, and he takes the opportunity to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand.
“Push another epi,” Parker directs, looking up at Dennis, her eyes landing right on his collarbone, where a dark bruise is forming. “Uh, compression swap.”
He steps back, his shirt springing back into place as someone else takes over, but it’s far too late. Robby’s obviously averting his eyes, Trinity is nodding, swallowing whatever comment she wants to make, and Parker’s trying to stay professional.
You place the tube, letting one of the nurses put the bag on. Parker slips her stethoscope in, placing it against the patient’s chest, nodding.
“Good breath sounds,” She says.
“Want some ice for that bruise, Huckleberry?” Trinity asks, tone completely serious.
Robby closes his eyes, shaking his head.
“What?” Dennis asks, confusion obvious, but you know exactly what she’s referring to. You take over compressions, desperate to be doing something in this moment, knowing that the two of you will never live this down.
“On your collarbone,” She says. “Looks painful.”
You can’t see his face, but you can picture how red he is as he starts to stutter.
“I, uh, no, I’m fine-”
He stops, not wanting to dig himself any deeper.
“Rhythm,” Parker says. “Keep it together, everyone.”
You lift up, identifying the waves quickly, placing two fingers against the patient’s carotid. “Pulseless.”
“PVT, let’s charge to two-hundred,” Parker says, taking the defibrillator pads in her hands. “Clear.”
You’re back on the chest the second you realize that she hasn’t gone back into sinus, sweat starting to drip down your neck from the exertion.
“Walk me through reversible causes,” Robby says.
“Uh, hypovolemia, but her BP’s okay and we’ve already given two units,” Dennis starts. “Hypoxia, but her sats have come up. Acidosis?”
“I can grab an ABG if someone can switch,” You say, breathless.
“I’ve got it,” Santos says, stepping up beside you, taking your place once you come off.
“Keep going, Whitaker,” Robby instructs.
“Pneumothorax, good breath sounds though,” He adds. “Tamponade.”
You’ve moved towards the patient’s thigh, heparinized syringe in hand, palpating before inserting it. The tube fills slowly with blood, the colour deep red, a result of her low perfusion. You cap the tube, passing it off to a nurse, then you return your focus to the airway. You set your own stethoscope to the patient’s chest. Air is moving, but it’s not sufficient.
“I’m adding a PEEP valve,” You say, grabbing the piece from the drawer, attaching it to the exhalation port, setting it correctly.
Trinity takes her hands off the patient.
“Charge again, two hundred,” Parker says. “Clear.”
The phone rings, and you rip a glove off, grabbing it off the wall, saying your last name once it’s against your ear. Robby and Dennis wait for you to say something, ready to take action based on whatever the lab says.
“Potassium seven-point-three,” You say. “pH is the same.”
“What next?” Robby asks.
“Calcium glutonate, three gram IV push over two minutes,” Trinity says, letting someone else take over compressions. “Ten of insulin, one amp D50.”
There’s only two nurses in there, and both of them already have their hands full, so you step in.
“I can do calcium,” You say, grabbing three syringes and three bottles. You draw the medication up, setting each down on the tray beside you. “Going in.”
You push each syringe over fourty seconds while the insulin and dextrose are set up, everyone moving in sync, compressions still ongoing under Parker’s lead. The third shock finally gives sinus rhythm, and you sigh in relief, tossing the used syringes and vials into the correct bins, then adjust the vent settings to avoid hyperventilation.
“ET looks good, fourty-two,” You say.
“Whitaker, place an arterial line,” Parker instructs. “Let’s give norepi.”
“Got any beds upstairs?” Robby asks, and you laugh.
“For you? I’ll make it work,” You say. “Give ‘em a call once she’s back from CT, tell them I’ll bring coffee on Monday.”
You walk out of the room, stretching your arms above your head, tilting to one side to try and ease the ache that’s starting in your muscles.
“Jesus, what happened to you?” Jack asks, stopping mid-stride, looking down at your slightly exposed stomach. You drop your arms once he gets closer, but he’s already seen enough, one eyebrow raised as he gives you a stern look. “I’m gonna’ kill him.”
“What?” You ask, laughing through the word. “Relax, I was a willing participant.”
“Oh my god, I did not need to hear that,” He mumbles, reaching out towards your shirt, patting it down.
He sighs, closing his eyes. “Those things can give you a stroke, you know.”
“They’re not on my carotid, Jack.”
“Doesn’t matter,” He counters. “You should ice them.”
You roll your eyes as you walk away, wanting to get your charting over with so you can go home.
Back in the trauma room things have settled down. Dennis finishes with the arterial line, repeat labs are drawn, and the patient is taken up to CT. Trinity reaches towards his shirt, tugging the collar down, exposing the bruise again. He swats her hand away, yanking it back up, cheeks burning again.
“Had some fun in that call room, hey?” She asks.
Dennis shrugs, knowing he can’t defend himself. “Maybe. Whatever.”
“I knew I was interrupting,” Lena adds, holding the door as people start to file out. Trinity calls your name, pointing to his collarbone with her thumb.
“You trying to kill him or something?”
You glance over, shrugging. “He bruises easily.”
“Hang on, he has them too?” Jack asks. “This is a hospital, people.”
“Too?” Trinity echoes. “Oh my god, this is the best day of my life.”
“Leave them alone,” Parker says. “If my girlfriend looked like her I’d be marking her up all the time.”
Dennis’ face scrunches up. Robby pats him on the shoulder.
“You good?” He asks, genuinely curious, not trying to embarrass him any further.
“Uh, yeah, all good,” He says. “You wanna’ finish the charts at home?”
You’re already turning the computer off. “Yes, definitely.”
“Need to finish what you started?” Trinity asks, but Dennis is half-way to the locker room.
“It'll help him get the charting done,” You say, face completely blank. "Positive reinforcement, or whatever."
Trinity’s jaw drops, Robby rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, Parker loses it. Jack raises his arms, walking away from the hub, calling over his shoulder.
“I expect no errors in those charts!”
“You know I’m very thorough!” You call back, not able to stop yourself from smiling when he groans from across the department. Trinity’s typing quickly on her computer, too fast to be updating a chart. Parker snorts from where she’s working, and you determine that they’re almost certainly sending messages back and forth.
Dennis comes back down a few minutes later with your belongings, having gone upstairs to grab them while everyone was distracted. He passes you your hoodie, and you tug it over your head. You bid them goodnight, getting some waves and ‘night’s in response, along with a very pointed look from Trinity. Dennis’ hand hovers over your lower back as you leave the department.
You wait until you’re in the car to bring it up.
“Sorry, baby,” You say, tugging his shirt down, exposing the injury. “I didn’t mean to do it so hard. Does it hurt?”
“No, no, it’s fine,” He promises, laughing a bit. “That was…something.”
“That’s what they get for interrupting,” You say, softly running your thumb over it. “You do bruise easily, hey?”
He jokingly pushes your hand away. “I’m…pale!”
“Right,” You say, smiling. “Seriously, we should ice it when we get home. Might as well ice your arms while we’re at it.”
“Why would you ice my arms?” He asks, face showing that he knows your answer is going to be far from serious.
You shrug, leaning over to him, rolling his sleeve up a few centimetres. Then, you bite his fucking bicep, just for a second. It’s light, but Dennis still flinches, despite the fact that you do this constantly.
“Every time,” He murmurs. You kiss his arm after, laughing when he flexes it, kissing it again.
“Let’s go home,” You say, tilting your chin up. He looks at you for a moment, face soft and eyes loving in the way that makes your stomach fill with butterflies.
tags: +18, established relationship, domestic life, pet names, banter, kitchen sex, dirty talk, wedding ring kink, clit stim, fingering, grinding, aftercare
summary: In which Jack shares a rare morning with you after a night shift. You say you're in a hurry. Too bad he's a pleaser.
ao3 | masterlist (coming soon)
Your Doctor Jack Abbot arrives home from his night shift at exactly 8:15 a.m. He drops his bag heavily onto the floor and unties his boots as part of a familiar routine, greeted by Scout - your nine-year-old, three-legged German Shepherd and his adopted son - who pants loudly as he’s on the receiving end of rough scratches along his back.
You listen as he talks softly to the dog, but you don’t greet Jack by the door unless it’s the weekend because the two of you work opposite schedules during most weekdays. It’s a Friday morning, which means that you either pass each other on your way out or share a quick breakfast if you’re lucky. Today, it’s the latter.
As you’re pouring egg mixture into a buttered pan, Jack enters the kitchen with Scout, who is huffing with glee at both of his parents being home simultaneously, following closely behind. Scout drops to the floor like a fluffy pancake with newfound satisfaction, heaving a sigh as he settles to watch.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he greets, and his voice is already raspy from the tiredness that always hits the second he steps over the threshold of your home. You smile to yourself as you can sense the warmth of his body before he even touches you, the heat of it teasing you before you even get the satisfaction of his arms wrapping around your waist from behind.
“Good morning, baby,” you respond warmly and lean back into the soft kiss that he plants on your neck. He runs the tip of his nose along the pulse point there, inhaling the perfume that you applied half an hour ago. He makes a sound in the back of his throat.
“Yeah, mhm, good morning to me indeed; you smell fucking fantastic,” he murmurs into another kiss there, nibbling just a bit afterwards before staring over your shoulder down at the pan, “You making breakfast for me too, boss?”
“Yeah, this whole wife gig is pretty easy. I dunno why I didn’t marry you sooner,” you joke as you stir the eggs exaggeratedly for show, “I hope you like your eggs scrambled, I’m in a bit of a hurry this morning. Work at nine-thirty.”
“Looks good,” he comments, but there’s no clear evidence that he’s actually looking at the food anymore because his mouth is peppering your neck and shoulder with kisses. He caresses your stomach with the broadness of his palm, a smile evident from the tone of his voice. He gives you another kiss as if the first ten haven’t made your belly do somersaults, “You know me, though. I prefer your eggs fertilized.”
The familiar sound of Scout’s pants comes to a halt at that, and the two of you raise your heads in the way one does when you first notice a noise when it stops. Jack turns his head towards him, squeezing you tighter when you try to do the same, as if he’s scared that you’ll slip away.
“This is happening whether you are here or not,” he announces to the dog. He holds his gaze like a cowboy squaring up in the beginning of a duel in the town square. Scout gives him the canine equivalent of crinkling one’s nose in disgust, gets up from the tiled floor, and leaves, as if the two of you having a sex life is a personal insult to his existence.
“Big baby,” Jack adds when he’s gone.
“Doctor Abbot, he has more sense than you. You know, I don’t have time for this,” you remind him, speaking as though this is a conversation about the weather, but you still absentmindedly turn down the heat of the burner. You stir again.
“Got it, boss, I’ll stop,” he hums in agreement, but there’s no follow-through at all. In fact, you feel the previously mentioned palm slip down until it is joined by his other hand.
You laugh his name in surprise and divert your hips from his grasp when both his hands start fiddling with the button and zipper on your jeans. He unfastens them like breakfast isn’t at risk, like there’s no responsibility on his part if you are to ruin the most important meal of the day.
It’s not even when he stuffs his whole hand into your underwear that you gasp, but rather when he cups your cunt in his palm like it belongs to him, and you can feel the warmth of his wedding ring rest against you. Heat swirls and pools below your belly button, and as much as you really don’t have the time to do this, your body betrays you by going tingly.
“Jesus, you. I have work in less than an hour. Get your hands out of my pants. We’re not fucking,” you scold with no real fight to it. He steps forward until you feel the outline of his cock at the small of your back. The stove brushes the front of your thighs, and it makes you mewl, pressing them together. You swallow thickly because you steadily smear his palm in wetness, all the while clenching around nothing and trying to avoid the heat of the stovetop.
“Don’t wanna fuck right now. I can fuck you later. Right now, I just wanna make you happy,” he draws his calloused hand back a little to first run two fingers through your folds before spreading you open. You can tell that he is reaching up with his unoccupied hand to wet his fingers with his mouth, and God, you want those fingers joining the others right this instant or you’ll make an embarrassing noise. He chuckles as if he’s reading your mind, “I know you love my hands, so you just scramble those eggs. I can work from here, and lucky you don’t have to do a thing.”
“I do love your hands,” you try to joke, so that he can’t tell how much you are at his mercy when the second hand slips into the front of your jeans and panties. Might as well already schedule the time it’ll take to go change underwear after this, “Even if they didn’t go into surgery.”
“Oh, I know you just didn’t say that,” he huffs and gets competitive despite no one in this house ever being able to one-up him. In mere seconds, he finds your clit expertly, and it’s like he tries to make a point of his talent for precision. You can’t control the moan that tumbles out of your mouth mid-stir, the spatula nearly dropping down below the grid of the stovetop.
“Fuck,” you tilt your hips greedily into his touch to get more. He starts touching you just how you like it, with two fingers on either side of your clit, going back and forth until you get the feeling that tugs deep in your gut.
“Fall back, c’mon,” he orders, and you surrender without shame, letting the spatula clatter into the pan so you can collapse back into his chest. He withdraws the hand that’s been holding you exposed for the other to do its work unbothered, wipes the sticky fingers on his scrub pants, and then removes the pan from the active burner.
“Hurry,” you whine feebly while electric currents replace your veins, yet he still avoids directly touching where you need it to make the fireworks happen. It’s cruel, and it’s exactly how you love it the most, the fact that you let him in on knowing that, for you, good things come to those who wait. Or maybe even… Those who wait come good? Really fucking good.
“Don’t worry about your breakfast. We’re just working up your appetite, Mrs. Abbot,” he growls quietly into your ear, clearly enjoying this in a way that makes you feel like he has thought about it through at least half his shift. It makes your body go nuts, hands desperately scrambling for purchase on the oven door handle.
His fingers descend into your cunt in the next moment, curling just right until he can tap rapidly against your G-spot. It’s so good that you start to sweat, your top clinging to your warm skin along your neckline and tits. He is building up to something that will inevitably be torn down again, and it will be in a way that’ll make you a better person throughout your workday.
As you are getting warmer from pleasure stacking steadily, your perfume must be getting stronger too. The scent of it must go straight to his brain, and he is crazy about it, you think to yourself, because his breath changes, his cock resting rock hard and aching for attention against you. He is wet at the tip, the slightest hint of a drag of it against your ass.
“Jack,” you moan loudly for the first time because no other words will be sufficient right now. Your orgasm feels within reach, unable to be ignored when it feels like a ball of fire in your lower half, getting bigger.
“Fuck my hand,” he groans into your ear, his breathing having gone ragged and strained. He pushes his hips against you less subtly now, only to moan a little more high-pitched himself, “Don’t worry. I won’t let you fall.”
You don’t have to be told twice. Fuck the time, fuck the job, the colleagues that could probably use this as an appetizer for breakfast more than you. You start rocking down on his digits, seeking out the heel of his hand to shamelessly grind against it with your sensitive, needy clit.
However, the first flutter of your orgasm makes your knees buckle without warning. You wince as they knock against the glass window of the oven, your toes curling in your socks, “Ow, for fuck’s sake, Jack.”
“Power through, soldier. Ten ccs of natural painkillers coming right up,” the words curl in a way that tells you he’s smirking. He sounds so smug that you want to hit him, but you forgive him as he makes it easier for you to get there by holding his hand in place.
You meet it with tiny little pushes of your hips, fast movements that make your thighs ache. By now, your head is so fuzzy that all you can do is chase the feeling right to the finish line, all the while concentrating on not putting your hands on the burners by accident.
“Yeah— oh. Fuck, Jack, I’m gonna come. Don’t move a fucking inch,” you announce with just a tinge of meanness to it that Jack knows far too well simply means that it’s right there, that there’s no worry it could be fake because of how you hiss at him in the moment of desperation.
You squeeze your eyes shut tightly as you fuck his palm, concentrating on tipping the scales of pleasure. A whine forces its way up your throat, you react by holding your breath, and then you come so hard that you fly forwards without warning as everything releases into relief that sings. Luckily, Jack wasn’t lying about not letting you fall. He has quick reflexes, catching you by pressing his palm against your chest.
A gibberish version of his name, along with a string of bad words fall from your panting mouth as it peaks, your cunt choking his fingers while he presses down on your G-spot as if he wishes to have a wife made out of Jell-O.
Your climax is a full-body-shake one that crashes over you in waves. Wetness seeps past his fingers, soaking the fabric of your underwear to the point where you fear your jeans are a lost cause, too.
In the end, you find yourself in the confusing juxtaposition between raw overwhelm, tears, and smiling softly. Were it not for Jack, you would probably have collapsed into a pile of afterglow on the floor right now. Your thighs tremble slightly through the softer squeezes of aftershocks. Your breath tries to even out to no avail because he eases his fingers out of you slowly, unavoidably making your knees tap against the oven again.
“Christ, you really let me have it, didn’t you, Mrs. Abbot?” Jack murmurs from behind you, his voice having dropped into that tender and patient register that melts you. He almost sounds in disbelief of being able to achieve anything like this in the last hour before post-shift collapse.
You laugh breathlessly, but it doesn’t even feel like yourself. Jack takes it as the cue to calm your body down again after it’s been pushed so far, stroking his hand carefully across your mound to soothe you. When you whimper, he switches to just holding you in his hand again.
“This was so fucking rude of you,” you breathe when it has ebbed enough to make you coherent once again. You’re still in your half-bend position against the kitchen table, still trying to make sense of how you gave in so quickly.
“Sure, I’m a terrible monster,” he huffs, but still sounds unbelievably smug and pleased with himself. He uses the hand that’s still splayed across your sternum to straighten you to your full height again. You let yourself be manhandled, a leftover shred of desire lighting up as said hand glides up to rest against your throat. He draws you back into his chest.
“You good?” He asks a little softer, his thumb against your carotid and his other hand withdrawing from your pants. Your heartbeat is still going faster than a jackrabbit but still, you find the strength to turn around in his arms.
His hand stays on your neck, but it turns lazy, so it’s not a grip anymore. He stares at you as he waits for a response, chin lifted slightly, and his mouth curling up in a dirty, tired smile. It’s the first time you see his face today, you realize, and the sight of his brown, scanning eyes makes you grin in that lazy, affectionate way.
“Mhm. Absolutely,” you reassure quickly. There’s an embarrassingly goofy smile on your face, one that you know won’t go away on its own until Jack’s gone from your line of sight, “Almost would’ve needed a toe-tag there— instead of new underwear.”
“Yeah, I can see that. Dead upon arrival,” he deadpans and makes you giggle louder than the joke calls for. You feel hot all over from your orgasm, floating in a dazed state where the claustrophobia of your jeans and feeling like you’re wrapped in a blanket made of cotton and dopamine exist at the same time.
You respond further by leaning in to get yourself a kiss. His mouth is soft, his five o’clock shadow scratches lightly without being uncomfortable. He wipes the fingers that were inside you on his other scrub leg so he can reach behind you to turn off the heat on the stove. He melts into the kiss by stepping forward and pressing your ass into the edge of the stove.
The act results in your lips parting in a gasp when you feel his cock against your thigh, even moreso when he holds you close by the waist. Admittedly, you were too selfish a moment ago to be as aware of it as you are now. He’s hard enough for it to be uncomfortable, the kind where you know it won’t go away on its own.
“Jack,” you pull back to get his attention, looking down between your bodies instead of stating what’s clearly obvious from how his pants are tenting, “You’re…”
He shakes his head when you try reaching for the hem of his scrub bottoms. He taps out by patting the top curve of your ass and then takes a single step back to stress his decision, “Don’t even think about it, boss. You’re gonna be late if I let you touch me.”
“Maybe the boss wants to be late,” you flirt back, now the one who smirks for once. Still, you’re half-serious, bordering on turning around to offer the most effective relief to his predicament.
“Yeah, I know, gorgeous,” he says with the most lovable and annoying gentleness to his rejection. He tugs the waistband on your jeans up around your hips, “But you’ll hate yourself for it by lunch, and then I’ll have to hear about it when you come home.”
You click your tongue at him, “Spoilsport.”
“Someone has to be,” he mumbles. He starts to fasten your jeans for you, and when the button slips through its hole, he lets his eyes flick down your button before meeting your gaze again.
You nearly whimper. His mouth is so close, his cock is right there in his scrubs and not inside of you. Your knees wobble again, and he steadies you without thinking.
“Besides,” he adds too casually, “You look like you’ll have to call in sick if I make you come again. So go upstairs. Take a breather, change, and I’ll make sure there’s breakfast to go when you come back.”
“You’re sending me away?” You complain like a toddler who is fighting having a tantrum when they don’t want to leave the playground.
“Uh-huh, like a fair maiden to a monastery,” he mocks and already starts guiding you towards the door that leads to the stairs by grabbing your shoulders.
“But what about you?” You try one last time. Maybe.
“I’ll soldier on,” he tells you over your shoulder because out of the two of you, he actually has the ability to do that, “And once you’re out that door? I’m going upstairs to take care of this like a gentleman; by which I mean a NyQuil-level treatment for the little situation you’ve put me in. I’ll be out cold until you come back to me.”
You stop in your tracks, “Little isn’t how I would describe it.”
He sighs as if he hasn’t just made the state of your underwear worse at that mental image.
“Go,” he orders like he isn’t right on the edge of getting a crack in his composure. It has happened before, you want to retort, but he beats you to it, “Go before I pull you back here and bend you over the counter.”
And you do, but not before stealing one last kiss like a defiant child. Just to see what he’ll do.
summary: jack abbot and the pretty young nurse he can't seem to get away from. it's only a matter of time before he can't help himself.
tags: slowish burn, flirting, thirsting over old men, kissing, medical professional inaccuracies, i intended for this to be shorter so idk what happened
it starts with the brush of hands when passing charts, and you don’t shy away when he smiles. then, it’s an unexpected save on a patient. not the first time you’ve assisted but it is the first time he’s really seen what you’re capable of. you were quick, smart, confident. he was impressed.
“you’re pretty good at this, kid” jack compliments, which he means, despite the nickname that he couldn’t help tack on. he towers over you a bit and into your space. he’s doing it intentionally, to see how you respond and not that he’d admit it but he’s trying to flirt.
"it's not like i went to school for it or anything, but thank you dr.abbot." you tilt your head up and tease him. you hold the eye contact, you don't close the space any further, but you don't widen it either. oh you're trouble, he thinks. alongside everything he's you’re beautiful and there’s no denying it now.
the subtleties start to fade away. you don’t usually work nights but it’s not so uncommon that you would switch or pick up an extra shift. it creates an opportunity for him to bring you a coffee, everytime you happen to share shifts. the hand brushing doesn’t stop, but it’s now your hand lingering on his arm or bicep to thank him. it’s sharing the coffee in the ambulance bay alone if the ER is slow enough, where elbows will knock together and arms will press into each other too without pointing it out.
“any particular reason you keep picking up night shifts? you lose a bet with princess again?” he jokes but he’s curious. maybe he wants you to admit that you want to see him, maybe he doesn’t want to admit that he wishes you’d work more nights so he could see you.
“i thought you liked working with me, dr.abbot” you tease back, but answer anyway. “it might sound dumb, but my ipad broke. i used it for everything in school and even now to keep track of my personal shift notes and tasks so i'm trying to save up for a new one."
at first he thinks it's dumb. he doesn't initially say anything about it as you change the subject and he nods along with it. the pair of you sip on your coffee, that you pretend is the shitty hospital kind and not from the expensive place down the street that he knows you like.
awhile later is when he remembers that he's seen you use your personal ipad many times. he's briefly teased you about what a relic it was since it was one of the first models to come out, you argued that the fact he remembers when it came out speaks to his age as well. he starts to feel this want to be around you more. to take care of you despite you insisting every time that you don't need him to buy your coffee or wonder about how many shifts you pick up.
but a few days later you know what just happens to appear in your locker at the start of your shift? a brand new ipad. the latest version too. there's no note but you know exactly who it's from.
"jack, you know i can't accept this." you address him by his first name as you catch him heading to the parking lot after his shift. he insisted that you do. he tells himself that it doesn't mean anything other than that there's not reason to be so formal all the time, but it makes his blood rush in more ways than one.
"i don't know what you're talking about, kid." he turns back towards you, just for a moment with a smug smile on his face. you haven't changed into scrubs yet so you're dressed for the summer heat and it almost has him losing his bravado. the weather is a perfectly good reason to be wearing shorts as short as the ones you're wearing but the way you're looking at him all fake annoyed and fake humble about the gift makes him want to tear them off.
"you don't have to take care of me." you get close enough to see every micro expression on his face. specifically the way his eyes turn downwards towards you at the same time that he gets that annoyingly attractive divot between his eyebrows and that one corner of his lip starts to turn into a smile. just a few of the things that keep you up at night thinking about him. jack leans down past your head by your ear, lowering his voice to ensure you can hear him.
"but you like that i do." he makes brief eye contact raising just one eyebrow at you before walking away. and it is so annoying how right you know he is.
it all comes to a head on july fourth.
you're on day shift for the holiday. you've been all over the place, especially since you've been helping dr.mohan with her diabetes patient.
abbot arrives earlier than expected alongside his emergent SWAT team member. you choose to focus on the patient and not how good he looks in uniform. you know all the reasons you're not going for it. he's older, he's a chief attending. you don't want your personal life to be the talk of the ER, and you really don't want to deal with gloria.
then you open the curtain in the room you thought the diabetes patient was in, and you’re faced with dr.abbot, a very shirtless version of him.
“dr.abbot, i’m sorry i was looking for a patient i didn’t know you were in here.” your apology is genuine, but you’re suddenly trying really hard not to look (you’re failing) at his exposed chest muscles and arms. those arms…
he notices what’s catching your attention and seems to relish in catching you off guard for once. he’s always noticing these days. it’s more than those shorts you’ve been wearing lately. it’s the way you throw your hair over your shoulder or up to get it out of your way, and he’s suddenly wondering what the perfume he’s seen you spray on your neck smells like up close. it’s the lipgloss you wear that he has no business wanting to taste.
you’re always composed, even when you’re annoyed or frustrated you’re focused. he thinks you need to relax. he wants to unravel you like you’ve been doing to him since you walked into this ER for the first time.
“it’s no big deal. bullet grazed me, just patching myself up.” jack explains, still smug at how off your guard you are. you’re still staring a bit, and he must admit that it is doing wonders for his ego that the pretty nurse he’s been pining after for months likes what she sees.
you finally snap yourself out of it, and respond by closing the curtain and grabbing some fresh gloves and what you need to finish taking care of his wound.
“well aside from this, are you okay?” you ask as you work on him. you are trying not to be nervous or say anything stupid, but this is a whole other level of being close to him that has you begging your heart to not beat so fast.
“nothing i can’t handle, kid. " he reassures, and you hum at that as you finish up. when you do, you stand in front of him and hand him his shirt.
"you don't have to take care of me. " he says looking at you, now about eye level with you from where he sits. he narrows his eyes, testing you with the same words you'd said to him the other day.
you understand right away. you bite back a smile the best you can.
"but you like that i do, don't you jack?" it's your turn to throw his words back at him. you smile proud of yourself and wait a beat for his next move.
you think that maybe he's speechless and are just about to turn to open the curtain and leave when he pulls you in for a kiss that you return not even a full second later.
abbot's kiss is searing and desperate. his large hands find your waist as yours grip the bare skin of his shoulders. he groans as you let his tongue delve deeper into your mouth. you're afraid that if you let go of his shoulders you'll actually fall from how dizzingly good this is. he steadies you easily from where he's holding you as his hands slyly find the inside of your scrub top and press against your stomach. your skin is soft in comparison to the roughness of his hands that are worn from war, surgery, and a whole life before you that you're dying to know.
unfortunately, needing to breathe is a thing. you reluctantly pull away and tip your head to the side to catch your breath. he noses at your jaw, causing your heart to thud like the bass of a drum at a loud concert. he then presses it into your pulse revealing just how much its racing, but good thing his is doing the same.
abbot then takes a hold of your chin between his thumb and pointer finger to face you back towards him, his breath fanning over your lips. "so, my place or yours later?"
summary: you take care of lena, clean up around the house, and always leave dinner for him when he gets home late. and among constant and never-ending change, you are andrew's northern star.
pairing: andrew cody x babysitter!reader
word count: 13.3k
warnings: read carefully! age-gap dynamics, reader is said to have recently graduated college, i basically ignore anything from the show that wouldn't make sense in my perfect little world. smut—arm humping, oral sex, penetration, the tiniest bit of breeding if you squint real hard.
author's note: and here she is. also known as shea wants to write about doing things to pope's arms.
you used to complain if someone called you their nanny. you’re just a babysitter. this would not—could not—be your full time job. it’s just so demanding. you love the kids you take care of but the idea of saying that you’re a nanny makes it a little more real. like you wouldn’t be able to get out of this, despite how hard you’re trying.
you just don’t want to be a babysitter forever.
but the first time mister cody introduces you as lena’s nanny, you don’t think you mind it all that much.
babysitters are temporary—girls in high school looking for money to pay for coffee and nail appointments, covering date-nights and overtime at the office.
nannies are permanent—it’s a career. you’re responsible for the kid pretty much twenty-four hours a day. kids with nannies are rich, mom and dad too busy at work to be at home. from the little you deduced, nannies buy groceries and make three meals. they go to doctor’s appointments and organize play-dates with other nannies.
you do some of those things for lena. her uncle tries to take her and pick her up from school when he can, and when he calls to tell you that he won’t be able to make it every now and then, he sounds so sorry about it, you don’t know what you can do to reassure him that it’s okay. lena’s young, she doesn’t care about stuff like that so deeply. and she likes you, which helps matters a lot.
you had finished the last few classes you needed to graduate a couple months ago. before that, you’d have to tell mister cody no, i’m sorry occasionally, something that you really didn’t like doing. he seemed like he had enough going on without the babysitter cancelling.
and besides, after you had told him that your classes were done, you were supposed to tell him that you would be looking for a real job, something with your degree, that he should start looking for a real nanny for lena. you were supposed to politely, yet firmly allude to how you’d been scrambling with classes, finishing assignments in the car in between picking up his niece and after she’d fallen asleep at night. how you missed an important lecture because the pediatrician’s office was running behind an hour and lena’s grandmother wasn’t available to take her.
instead, the second you had met his eyes (which were terribly green and incredibly sad), you had folded, and told him you’d be available whenever he needed. and you thought maybe that would garner you a smile—and you’d been wrong. he had looked your way for about five seconds, muttered thank you, and walked away.
and maybe if you could resist those terribly green and incredibly sad eyes, you wouldn’t have wound up as a full-time nanny. life could always be worse—that’s the motto you’ve grown up with. there are so many worse things in oceanside than spending every day in a pretty house by the beach and taking care of a quiet little girl.
if not anything else, you could start making payments on your student loans, if you wanted. mister cody paid you in cash, and he paid you way too much, probably his way of apologizing for how much you had stepped up in the last couple months. but again, you didn’t really mind anymore. maybe if it was another family, you would care more about finding a real job.
but you like lena. you like her uncle, too, you think, as much as you can like a man who is virtually silent and stares at you like he’s boring into your soul when you’re making dinner. you like him because he’s good with her, you can always tell he’s trying his absolute best, his hardest with her. (it doesn’t help that he’s cute—cute in the way that strays are, like you wish you could fix everything wrong with him and reassure him that he’s doing enough, and tell him to stop staring and just come tell you what he’s thinking instead.)
the first couple months were the hardest. lena wasn’t eating, wasn’t sleeping. she hated school, hated all the things she had still cared for when her dad was alive. you’d tried bribing her with trips to the beach, the playground, ice cream with extra fudge and sprinkles. all the things that kids liked. but she wasn’t just a normal kid—and it seemed that you and her uncle were the only ones who understood this.
you didn’t realize you had such a maternal instinct inside of you. maybe it’s because the other kids you’d babysat in your life had been brats, sticky handed toddlers going through the terrible twos and making your life hell while you were trying to pass your classes. lena is the opposite.
she’s the saddest child you’ve ever met, and you know nothing that you or her uncle do is going to fix it overnight.
but progress comes in stages. the first step had been getting her to want to eat again. you’d sat on the couch next to her, watching a nature documentary that her uncle had probably left playing on the tv.
(he is a whole other can of worms—he doesn’t sleep or eat that much either, and one time you had come in really early to get some work done before getting her to school. he’d been awake, watching something just like this, at five-thirty in the morning. and when you’d asked him when he’d gotten up, he had shrugged, and murmured something that sounded suspiciously close to i don’t sleep. that’s your next mission, because you can only focus on one at a time.)
“you hungry, sweetie?” you didn’t want to be pushy. she wouldn’t like that, would only retreat further into herself. you wanted her to come to you when she was ready to eat. lena shook her head and focused back on the television. “okay. well, if you get hungry later, i’ll eat with you.”
lena says okay in her quiet voice, holding onto a stuffed animal and staring ahead. you wait a couple of hours—there’s always something to do in the house. you clean up, wiping counters and sweeping while she stays on the couch. you check in every now and then to make sure she didn’t fall asleep.
and then, thirty minutes before her new bedtime, she comes and sits on the chair by the dining table while you’re wiping it down.
“can we get pizza?” she asks, and you nod right away.
“of course we can. what kind do you want?”
another thirty minutes later, the pizza’s there, and you’re both eating slices of pepperoni and spinach. you’ve formulated your plan for the rest of the night—her uncle’s still not home, which means you can crash on the couch or stay awake. you decide to stay awake, since there’s no follow up text from him. if he wasn’t going to come home tonight, you’d expect the standard, concise message; won’t be back tonight. is lena okay?
and you’re stupid, because you think it’s sweet that he always asks if she’s okay. like you wouldn’t call him the second something went wrong, like he doesn’t believe that you’d trust him with that information before anyone else. but there’s no texts tonight from the contact you’d saved as andrew cody (lena’s uncle).
lena’s finishing her last slice and you’re cleaning up when you hear it—the rumble of his truck pulling up to the house. then a minute later, footsteps and the front door opening.
“what’s all this?” he asks, and you have to remember to find the words.
you don’t know why that happens when he comes around—you’re usually great with dads. maybe it’s because he looks tired, more tired than usual, at least. his copper curls are messed up, like he’s been running a hand through his hair all night. lena’s uncle is always stiff, but it seems worse today, somehow.
(another thought seeps in, an uninvited guest in your mind, about how you’d really like to take care of him. he just needs some sleep, a little peace of mind. that’s it. you’re still trying to figure out the best way to give it to him.)
“we got pizza, uncle pope,” lena fills in, setting down the last piece of crust you knew she wouldn’t finish.
“there should be enough for you,” you add, smiling at him. he doesn’t smile back, but you’re used to that at this point. and you can tell what’s about to come. “lena, can you go brush your teeth and get your pajamas on for me?”
she nods and climbs off the chair, running into her room.
“it’s past her bedtime,” he starts, taking a few steps closer to you. “and pizza for dinner-”
you interrupt him, even though you probably shouldn’t. you close up the box, setting it on the island and you go back to wipe the table.
“she’s not eating, mister cody,” you put the paper towel down, getting your bearings in order to face him, make the dreaded, never-ending eye-contact. “when kids don’t eat you have to meet them halfway. i thought this was better than her going to bed without eating at all.”
he keeps looking at you. you think you should be a little nervous, but you don’t get like that anymore. flustered, sure, but not nervous—lena’s uncle is just kind of a starer, and you’ve gotten used to it by now.
“i’m sorry. i’ll run it by you next time, i promise. i just wanted her to eat something.” he’s silent for a while, like he’s processing what you said.
“yeah. okay. thanks.”
you smile again, a small one. the kitchen’s clean now, or at least as clean as you can get it. you’re sure that when you’re back in the morning, it’ll be spotless, which you can only assume is one of mister cody’s nocturnal activities. you have a routine before leaving—you say goodnight to lena, make sure you didn’t leave anything behind, and tell her uncle you’ll see him in the morning.
he doesn’t normally say anything back, maybe a grunt of acknowledgement. so you’re surprised tonight, when you grab your bag and your keys and hear—
“have a good night.”
“you too, mister cody.”
+
it took time, but you’ve gotten her schedule better. she eats dinner with you now, whatever semi-healthy thing you can think of with the stuff in the pantry and the groceries you picked up while she’s at school. her uncle leaves money for that sort of thing—an envelope filled with hundred dollar bills. it’s labeled lena’s babysitter in stiff, neat handwriting and he told you to use it for copays and ice-cream and anything else that lena needs. but it feels wrong to use his money when he already overpays you, so you just use your own.
you thought he might not have noticed that the envelope isn’t getting any thinner, until one morning when you arrive and see him counting the notes in it with his head down. now you’re the one staring—watching his arm flex and the muscles move as he flips through the bills. he wears the same kind of shirts every day, short sleeve button-ups, and every day, you are subject to watch his forearms while he does whatever he does. it’s a cruel and unusual punishment.
the worst had been when you needed a box down from the cabinet, the one with the muffin tins and cookie cutters. he had appeared behind you and taken it down for you in seconds, carrying it to the kitchen for you. you had been staring then too, uncomfortable and slack-jawed and wondering why his arms had your mouth dry. (you know the answer, it’s just better to live in denial, you think.)
“good morning, mister cody.” you set your bag down on the sofa, heading inside to get started on breakfast. you open the fridge, taking out a carton of eggs and orange juice and avoiding looking right at him. you don’t need to be flustered before seven-thirty am.
“you haven’t been using this money,” he states. you wish you could figure out what his tone means—there’s no inflections, no emotion simmering behind the words. it’s just cut and dry, stating a fact.
“well, i-” you turn back and look up from the stove and your words die on your tongue. he’s standing up, looking right at you, a fist full of cash like he’s going to make you use it one way or another. a single vein running through his arms tenses. your gaze flickers from it to his eyes quickly, looking at you like he wants you to start listening to him.
“i, um, i had enough.”
“you should use it.”
“but you already gave me a lot, so i-”
“i want you to use it.” the way he says it, it’s not a request.
“right. i-i will. is lena awake?”
“she’s getting ready.”
“great. thank you.” you turn back to the eggs with a flushed face. and even though you’re not facing him anymore, you can tell he’s still staring at you.
“i might not be back tonight.” you turn around and meet his eyes again. terribly green, incredibly sad. you’re too far now to see the brown, but you know it’s there. “i…i’ve got some work. it’ll be late, if i do.”
“thank you for the heads up. i, uh, i’ll crash on the couch then.” you think he might say something else, but you’re not sure. it’s silent for a moment, while you get the eggs onto a plate and hurry into the hallway to get lena.
she comes out first, carrying her backpack. you follow with her hairbrush for once she’s done eating, getting her already packed lunch out from the fridge to sort into her bag. there’s a whole routine that you had learned when you first started babysitting her, and now it’s just a way of life. filling up her water bottle, checking the calendar on the fridge to make sure there’s nothing you’re missing, pulling her jacket from the closet if it’s cold outside.
you get the bottle out, glancing back at her uncle. he’s leaning in while lena takes a bite of the eggs, probably telling her that he won’t be home, and to have a good day, and all the other things you’re sure he says to her. then they hug, and you feel like you’re intruding.
he picks up his keys, which rest in the small blue bowl by the door where yours sit too. and without thinking, you call out after him.
“have a good day at work.” he doesn’t say anything back, but he looks at you before he leaves. you don’t even know what he does for work.
“ready for school?” lena shakes her head no like always.
+
the days are long, but the weeks are short. you bring lena to school, but they have a half-day, so there’s no point in going home for the day if you need to be back in a couple of hours. so you head back to mister cody’s place, focusing your attention on cleaning the remnants from breakfast. you check the fridge, making note of how much fruit and milk you have left, scribbling onto a piece of paper for later. and for once, you listen to him, taking a single bill out of the envelope and putting it into your wallet. there’s other hundred dollar bills in there too, ones you need to deposit.
it hasn’t been making sense lately. a lot of nannies live with their families because it avoids the wastefulness of paying rent for an apartment you hardly ever visit. you pay internet and electric for a one-bedroom that’s empty the entire day. and now that you’re done with classes, you don’t even need to work on anything late at night or even at lena’s house. you carry around a book with you, and you think you’ve even left a couple on the coffee table, just for the future.
you don’t know why you still have your apartment. well, you know why—mister cody has never mentioned you moving in. and he probably never will, because he doesn’t want you to. but it just doesn’t make sense the more you think about it. you show up between six and seven and sometimes you don’t go home until ten. sometimes you don’t go home at all.
after making your list, you rack your head of things you can do to occupy lena’s time today. the library has a weekly reading, and there’ll be other kids there. you like to pick things so she can get some company from kids her age, so she’s not only stuck with you and her uncle all the time.
closer to when school gets out, you get in the car, bringing in your emergency bag with a change of clothes and your toothbrush since you’ll be staying the night. it’s not an entirely uncommon occurrence, which is why the bag, and a couple others like it, is always ready to go. you go to the bank first, depositing everything except the single hundred-dollar bill you took today. then you drive by the park, see if they’re having any of those pet-therapy sessions today. and then finally school to pick up lena.
the rest of the day goes how you planned. you forget how exhausting it is keeping a little kid entertained for hours on end, unsure of exactly what her uncle pope and his brothers do with her sometimes, when you struggle to fill up a couple of extra hours. the grocery store—where you splurge and buy ingredients to make stove-top smores because lena asks and you’ll take your wins where you can get them—then the library, where you take out a couple of books for lena to read at home and smile when she’s talking with some of the other girls there, then the playground for an hour, before home for dinner.
you make spaghetti while she finishes her homework, and review her homework while she changes into pajamas. and then it’s time for the routine she loves so much, just like her uncle, a nature documentary about penguins while you toast the marshmallows on a fork.
an hour later, lena’s asleep in bed, and you’re scrubbing hardened chocolate off the counter next to the stove. you don’t want more work for her uncle when he’s back, and you’ve learned lena’s a heavy sleeper, so you get to cleaning. it’s not like, as pathetic as the thought is, you have anything better to do.
and then about two hours after that, it’s eleven-thirty. it’s right around the latest that mister cody has ever come home, so you’re pretty sure he won’t be back tonight.
the only thing you have to look forward to in your apartment is the shower you take after a long day. you’ll have to make do with the shower inside the room where mister cody sleeps, since lena’s is close to her room and filled with products for an eight year old, and at the very least, you need adult shampoo and soap.
the room is bare—you would have guessed it’s a guest room if you didn’t know better. you’re not nosy, but you look around, trying to see if there’s anything there that makes the room her uncle’s. you know there’s still another bedroom, the one her parents used to share, since lena sometimes goes in there when she can’t sleep. so this was a guest room, and now it’s mister cody’s, and now you’re lurking in it.
besides for a closet full of clean-pressed button up shirts and organized shoes, you can’t discern anything that makes this room his. there’s not a single thing out of place, from the garden-variety decor that someone else had picked to the artwork to the sheets. the bathroom is more of the same, the entire place having that lemon-cleaner smell to it.
you turn the water on and strip, trying to avoid thinking about how you’ll be sleeping on the couch after this. and even inside the shower, you stare at the two-in-one shampoo bottle and the old spice body wash—old spice. who would have thought?—like you can’t believe what you’re looking at. you inhale the scent for longer than you need to. wrap yourself in a clean towel that doesn’t belong to you. brush your teeth with his spearmint toothpaste. and then you open your overnight bag, and find nothing but sundresses and bathing suits.
it’s past midnight, and you’ve grabbed the wrong bag. you need to get up in about six and a half hours to get lena ready for school, and you’re not positive you have the correct bag in the back of your car.
hesitantly, you open one of the dresser drawers. there’s black and white t-shirts folded precisely, tucked in evenly. one drawer up there’s folded socks and boxers.
you chew on your cheek. he did say that he won’t be home tonight. there’s no way he would know you took anything if you ran a load of laundry as soon as you woke up and folded it after morning drop-off. he might not even be home until the afternoon or evening, for all you know.
your tiredness makes the decision for you. the couch isn’t that comfortable, and you refuse to sleep in the shirt and jean skirt you spent all day in. you take a white shirt and black boxers, and then sneak back in for a pair of black socks because the living room is cold at night. and then you set your alarm, turn on another documentary—this one about hummingbirds, wrap yourself in the throw blanket on the couch, and close your eyes.
andrew comes home at quarter to three. it would have been a lot sooner—he doesn’t like leaving you alone here at night with lena if he can avoid it—but he doesn’t always have control over it. a bullet had grazed deran and he’d spent two hours cleaning up that mess, and then they had to organize their splits before leaving. he had to make sure to stay for that—he needs the cash to pay you, rent for baz’s place, money to put into lena’s savings account.
but he hates leaving you alone in the apartment with lena. not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he knows now it’s not safe, not without him there. he likes to get you home early but it’s rarely the case, and then he feels like he should pay you extra since he’s making you drive home alone in the dark.
telling you to stay is a better option. you can sleep in his room—it’s not like he’s going to sleep in there anyways. but he doesn’t say that, doesn’t need the nanny thinking there’s something wrong with him too. so he settles for telling you to stay the night, and letting you decide where you’ll sleep.
you always pick the couch. and sometimes, he’s not back early enough, sometimes you’re already up making breakfast or gone out for the day with lena by the time he’s back.
but tonight, you’re asleep on the couch. he sets down the bag with the cash on the couch, hovering over you. the television is still on, stuck on a are you still watching? screen, covering up a photo of some birds. a breath leaves him when he realizes you’re watching what he always watches. you’re knocked out—he can tell since the front door opening didn’t wake you like it sometimes does. you’ve kicked away the blanket you usually use, and he thinks for a second he should just cover you up and let you sleep.
but he doesn’t. he stands over you, staring at your sleeping form. he doesn’t like it—how pretty you are when you sleep. it’s a distraction that he can’t escape, knows that the next time he closes his eyes, he’ll think of you. that the next time he sits on this couch, he’ll be able to smell your skin. you snore softly, chest rising and falling evenly.
and then he notices it—the plain shirt, black socks with a familiar logo. are those his boxers? and now he definitely can’t look away. he puts the pieces together—your hair is wet, meaning you must have showered and then put on his clothes before coming back out here. if you were going to do all of that, why didn’t you just sleep in his room?
yes, pope decides, he needs you to sleep in his bed. he needs the couch anyways, since he won’t be sleeping, so he might as well bring you inside.
he lifts you carefully, not wanting to stir you accidentally. his shirt is a little big on you, hanging off your shoulder. you stay sound asleep the entire short walk to his bedroom, not stirring even when he sets you down. you must have been really tired, but that makes sense, given the fact that you’ve been out all day with lena.
he thought about sticking a tracker on your car, but the first time he was taking care of lena, after baz, you had shared your phone’s location with him so he could keep track. you had offered it, voluntarily, saying something about how that’s common with babysitters now, and that you never go anywhere without your phone so he won’t have to worry about you leaving it at home.
you thought reassuring him that he would always have lena’s location in his phone would make him feel better. and maybe it had, but he’d never mentioned it again after that day, never brought up if he actually checked it or not.
(it’s not like you would know if he was using it, it doesn’t work like that. deran had explained it to him.) he did check it, pretty frequently, actually. he checked it after you’d leave when he got home, after lena was asleep. he’d watch your little circle drive home and pull into the parking lot of your apartment complex. it wasn’t as bad of an area as it could be, but it wasn’t that safe either. he liked to check it every now and then too, middle of the night, saturday evenings when he was home with lena and you got to leave early or had the day off.
he assumed, somehow, that you’d be in bars or parties at your college, maybe. but when he looks at your location late at night, you’re always at home. he checks other times too—but he’s just trying to keep you safe. (that’s what he tells himself—that finding another babysitter than lena liked and that he trusted would be a hassle. he needs to keep you safe.)
but it doesn’t seem like you like any of that stuff. he’s never seen you drink the beer in the fridge, though you offer one to him every now and then. you’ve met smurf and deran and craig before, like when you’d go to drop off lena before one of your classes, back before you had finished school.
you were smart—he knew that much. that was the kind of good example he needed around lena, someone who had gone through school and finished. he didn’t know what your degree was in, but it must’ve been something smart, something important. you were always typing on your computer and reading books. whatever it is that you studied, he wants someone in lena’s life that can help her with that stuff, stuff he doesn’t know much about, when it’s time.
you were smart enough to turn down every joint or bump that craig offered. you never accepted a drink from smurf that didn’t come from a can that you opened yourself. and baz used to tell him that you were just a local college kid, that you didn’t have any family nearby or anyone to occupy your time, really.
it didn’t make sense—pretty girl like you. he would have thought you had a boyfriend, but if you do, you’ve never brought him around. and if he didn’t live with you or live at that coffee shop you liked that was down the street from your apartment, then he didn’t know if you even had one. maybe he shouldn’t spend any time thinking about your hypothetical boyfriend, but that’s just what comes up sometimes when he thinks about you for too long. like right now.
you look peaceful lying in his bed. your eyes flutter quickly like you’re having a dream, and he sits on the bed next to you, watching you sleep. your hair falls across your face, and his finger twitches. he almost moves his hand to brush the hair away, but he decides not to, settling for just watching you for another minute or two.
the bed creaks slightly when he gets up. no one uses it much, so it’s a little weary. he doesn’t think the noise is anything, but your eyes blink open. the door’s open, light from the living room illuminating a sliver of the space.
he thinks he should get out before you can ask any questions, but he doesn’t, hovering over the bed while you look around.
“andrew?” and god if it doesn’t sound different coming from your lips. you’re too tired to remember that you usually stick with mister cody, which is so formal it hurts. it sounds real, sincere, not filled with fear or anger or anything else. you haven’t even said anything and he thinks he’s losing his mind.
it’s just the way you say it. there’s no question attached, no demand, no sacrifice. just you, making sure it’s him.
“that couch is bad for your back,” he says.
he knows it is, the couple times he tried to lay down and stare at the ceiling. he’s always sore, muscles screaming and joints aching but he knows how to ignore it. he doesn’t think you should start feeling like that. feels angry at the very idea that you would be sore after spending a night on the couch, taking care of his niece, looking after baz’s house. doing all the things that he’s too busy to do.
you take care of things. you do a good job too—figuring out how to get lena to eat and sleep again. making sure her routine doesn’t go awry just because he’s gone on a job all day. you remember things that he doesn’t even know about—activities with kids after school and how the school has soccer practice starting soon. you think a couple steps ahead when it comes to lena, and sometimes, he doesn’t think you see it as a job.
like when you make enough breakfast for the three of you. leave dinner on a plate inside the microwave with a note on the counter. when you clean like it’s your house, make sure things stay in the place they’re supposed to, which is so much harder when there’s a kid around. he’s not stupid—it’s why he gives you so much money each week, shoves an envelope into your hand despite your protests. why the first thing he does after he gets his cut is make sure you get yours.
and as hard as the thought is to swallow, he doesn’t think he could do all of this without you.
“mmh-” you agree, making a soft noise. he wishes he could engrain it into his brain and replay it whenever he wants. “i thought you don’t sleep?” you ask, and he sees your lips turn up into a smile. he wishes the lights were on.
“i try,” he replies, realizing that he’s still hovering over you. he wonders why you weren’t scared the moment you woke up. “sometimes. i try.”
“do you wanna try now?” you ask, whispering. and he goes silent—because what is he supposed to say that?
you reach out in the dark for his hand, and he flinches, taking it back. but you don’t retreat, reaching out again until you’re grasping his fingers.
“try for a couple hours. i set an alarm,” you say, and the way you say it, it doesn’t sound like a bad idea. you have a way of convincing him, or maybe it’s just late and you’re tired, and your sleepy voice isn’t helping matters. nor does the fact that you don’t seem even remotely concerned that you’re inviting him to come sleep on the bed next to you.
you sit up a little, and he regrets even staying as long as he did. you need your sleep, unlike him. you’re still holding onto his hand, and your skin is warm on his. it couldn’t really be, but it feels like it’s burning his, where your palm rests against his, where your fingers twist with his.
“hey,” you start, slow and soft. “don’t think about it. just sleep for a little.”
“yeah,” he says. “okay. a little.”
you move over, and when he lays down—back straight against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling—it’s warm where your body was resting. you’re still holding onto his hand, not letting go. your grip is loose enough that he could free his hand easily, and even if it wasn’t, he could overpower you if he wanted.
but he doesn’t want to. and somewhere between your slow breaths and how you rub his knuckles, running your soft skin against dozens of old scars—because that’s his punching hand—andrew falls asleep.
you can hear it, his breaths getting steady, evening out. your hands stay together in the middle of the bed, between you, and you wonder for a split second how you’re going to deal with this in the morning, how you’ll make sense of this in daylight. the semblance of a professional relationship you had maintained this entire time might turn into dust in a couple hours. and then you breathe in andrew’s comforting scent, clean linen and saltwater, and fall back asleep.
the best thing about this house is the light and the waves. golden rays pour in through the half-way open blinds and you can hear the ocean crashing against the rocks in the distance. it’s the perfect way to wake up, even if it is six-thirty and your alarm is going off in the living room, where your phone must be.
you need to get up. you don’t want lena to wake up from the noise, even though you know she won’t—that girl can sleep through anything. it’s a problem for when she’s older, when she goes to college and there’s no one besides a roommate to make sure she doesn’t miss class. even half-asleep, you smile thinking about it.
and somehow, when you look on the other side of the bed, it hits you that it wasn’t a dream. andrew is asleep next to you, still in whatever clothes he was wearing throughout the day. a short sleeved button up and pants. you’re surprised that he didn’t fall asleep with his shoes on.
he looks very calm when he sleeps. the lines of tension on his forehead and around his eyes are soft when he’s like this, his hair a mess and cheek smushed against the pillow, against your hand.
he’s still holding your hand. it makes a certain kind of warmth rain all over you, flooding you from inside out. he’s on top of the covers and you’re under the throw blanket, and you don’t remember doing that, which means that he did.
an exhausted, half-asleep andrew cody covered you up before he fell asleep on top of the covers. he fell asleep holding your hand and your chest hurts because he won’t wake up holding it still, since you need to go turn that stupid alarm off.
he never sleeps, you know this. he’s never been asleep when you show up early, never heading to bed when you leave for the day. this bed is pretty much always made, sheets never rustled and not a pillow out of place because no one sleeps here. you hope you can start changing that.
you don’t want to pull your hand away from him. it’s so simple, so sweet that you can’t bring yourself to do it. that this whole time, andrew just needed someone to sleep beside him. you rest your head back on the pillow, continue staring, creepy as it is. you’ve never been able to study him like this before, have never been close enough.
the hand holding onto yours is softer than you’d imagined. the veins running through his forearm are thick and tense, even when he’s like this. you think it might be from how tightly he’s holding onto your hand, like even in his sleep he’s worried he might lose you somehow.
andrew cody has freckles—all across his arms and on his hands too. there’s a splatter of them across his nose and cheeks, places where he must have gotten burnt as a kid, maybe when he was lena’s age. the tips of his ears flush pink while he sleeps, and he snores. all things that make you smile, things that are so personal you feel your face getting warm, like you shouldn’t have access to that information.
you need to turn that god-damn alarm off, before it wakes him up. you think you’d rather die than disrupt the few hours of peaceful sleep he’s getting right now. so you wriggle your hand, trying to find the best way to get it out of his grip and make sure you don’t wake him in the process. nothing’s working, even in his sleep he’s thrice as strong as you. the generic alarm tone keeps going in the background.
you lean in, pressing a chaste kiss to andrew’s cheek, whispering that you promise to be right back. and for a split second he moves around, and you regain control of your tingling hand.
the bed creaks a little when you get up, but you do it slowly so it’s not too loud. walk to the couch as fast as your bare feet will take you, looking down and realizing you’re still in andrew’s socks.
(his shirt and boxers too, but you’re choosing to ignore that for now. if someone walked in through the front door in this moment, it would look like you and him were something other than a guardian and babysitter. you think you’d actually enjoy trying to see him explain to his brothers why you’re in his clothes head to toe. you might like this more than you think you did.)
you can hear the ocean again once the alarm is turned off. it’s a beautiful thing to wake up too, you think, pulling open the curtains and looking outside on the street. people are on runs, doing yoga on the beach, watching the sunrise with their dogs.
and inside, andrew cody is sound asleep.
the first part of your day is waking up lena. she grumbles and takes five, sometimes ten, minutes to get up after you go in there. in that time, you set out clothes for her and then head back to the kitchen. you have a habit of making sure her backpack has everything—the colorful pens she’s always telling you about and yesterday’s homework. if she forgot something at home, the school would call andrew, and then andrew would call you, and you hate adding more work to his life. so, you make sure it’s all there before she leaves.
then breakfast—eggs and toast if you’re running late, pancakes if you got there early. it’s seeming like a pancake sort of day.
you make the batter and then pull out the bag of chocolate chips and head back to lena’s room. you use the semi-sweet morsels as an incentive to get her up, which works like a charm. while she’s changing and brushing her teeth, you make three pancakes. two for lena, and the first one you peeled that’s never quite as good is for you.
lena comes to the table to eat her pancakes, and you tell her to stay just a little quieter than usual because her uncle pope is still sleeping.
“really?” she asks, and you feel something inside of you twist in discomfort. as if you had imagined before you met him, maybe he was sleeping, that maybe this was something recent. you smile at lena.
“yeah, sweetie, really.”
you bring lena to school, come back home, and check on andrew—who is still sleeping. you cover him up with the blanket you’d slept under and then make three more pancakes and some scrambled eggs. there’s no bacon in the house or you would have made that too.
you scribble it on the grocery list and then head back inside the bedroom, carefully perching yourself on the edge of the bed and maybe a little too comfortable, too quick, run your fingers through his messy hair. he sighs against the pillow and it makes you smile immediately. you keep going, fingers not stopping until you see his eyes fluttering open. you don’t want to make him uncomfortable, though you don’t want to stop either.
“i made breakfast,” you say quietly. andrew looks up at you, and then to your slept-in side of the bed. he moves, sitting up in the bed and you take back your hand tentatively. his hair is soft like you’d imagined.
he wipes his face with his hands, rubbing at his eyes. and when he looks at you, you feel any prudence that once was inside you melt away. well-rested, sleepy andrew cody, waking up in the bed you shared last night, while you tell him about the pancakes you made for him. you couldn’t have imagined this, for some reason, which makes it feel all the more real.
“what time is it?” he asks, in a gruff, sleepy voice.
“almost nine, i think.” he looks up at you quickly.
“lena?”
“i brought her to school already. you-you were sleeping. i didn’t want to wake you.”
“when did you get up?”
“six-thirty. my alarm. remember?” you do remember telling him about it before you fell asleep, one of the last things you had said in a conversation that feels like it was light-years ago.
“yeah.” you know better than to expect anything right now. he’s always been quiet, sentences curt and expressions relatively blank. you’ve had a few hours to simmer in it—think about what’ll happen tomorrow and next week and what it means to sleep in the bed next to the man whose niece you babysit. he just woke up a few minutes ago.
“well, there’s pancakes. and eggs. there’s no bacon but i’ll go get some later-”
“did you eat?” you catch his eye. perched on the bed next to him, you can see more than just green. brown too, around his pupils. not nearly as sad as they had seemed yesterday.
“yeah. i had one.”
“just one?” you don’t have an answer for that, but unusually confident, you stand up.
“i’ll have a bite of yours if you come eat with me.”
and though you couldn’t have imagined it last night, you end up leaning against the counter with andrew, splitting bites of chocolate-chip pancakes (yours drenched in syrup, his comparably dry as a bone), and luke-warm scrambled eggs.
he washes the dishes, and you put them away. it’s incredibly domestic.
“i’m sorry about your clothes,” you say, sliding a plate back into the cupboard. “um, i’ll wash everything today.” you had to bring it up at some point.
and then andrew turns to look at you. head to toe, he stares, gaze flicking up and down for what seems like eons. you don’t have a guess for why, maybe he’s trying to decide if he’ll accept your apology.
(he’s trying to memorize it, capture it like a picture in his brain, seal it up and hold onto it forever. how you look right now—his white shirt, with nothing underneath, which must be why he can see the outline of your breasts when you turn to put another dish away. his boxers, that you bunched up around your waist, his socks, one rolled up around your ankle and the other halfway up your calf. did you go to the school drop-off in his clothes, too?)
“and i can wash your jacket too, i’m sorry. it was kind of cold and i don’t know where my hoodie is. i-i’m sorry.”
he turns to look at you again. you seem worried, chewing on your cheek, waiting for his answer.
“don’t wash the jacket,” he says, and turns back to the sink. he doesn’t want it to stop smelling like you, but you don’t need to know that.
“yeah. sure. i won’t. sorry again, andrew.”
his heart thuds in this chest at the realization that you might never go back to calling him mister cody.
the two of you finish the dishes. he wipes up the counter while you put away lena’s things, and then he grabs his keys and puts on his shoes. you stand there watching, feeling awfully close to something like a wife watching her husband about to leave her for the day. and when you open your mouth, you can’t stop it from coming out.
“do you know when you’ll be back?”
“i’ll be here for dinner. can you pick up lena?” he doesn’t want to leave you, but there’s about ten texts and three missed calls on his phone that he needs to deal with. when he shrugs his jacket on, it does, in fact, smell like you. it might be enough to keep him calm the rest of the day.
“yeah, of course. well.. i’ll go start the laundry.” a vision of you peeling off your—his—clothes plagues his mind momentarily. “i’ll see you later?” you say, smiling hesitantly.
and without thinking too much about it, andrew comes up close to you, leans in a little awkwardly, and kisses your forehead.
“i’ll see you later.” he leaves you there in his shirt and socks, blinking stupidly at the door.
+
andrew does come back for dinner. you make an attempt at chicken parm at lena’s request, which really just turns out to be a sort of chicken parm-casserole situation, but lena likes it and the garlic bread tastes good, so you will call it a win for now.
while you’re simmering sauce and frying the cutlets, your mind flicks through everything you know about lena’s uncle. he’d never once been anything but nice to you—nice is one way to put it. polite is another. courteous, appropriate, reserved.
one night you had been waiting for him so you could leave, and he’d come home with lena’s other uncles. you had introduced yourself and smiled nicely, and when you left and gotten into your car, it hadn’t turned on. you remember debating if you should go back inside or just call triple a and wait, but somehow, andrew had known something was wrong. he had come out a few minutes later, told you that he would drive you home while his brother stayed at home and that he’d be back in a minute.
he’d dropped you off at home and told you he’d come get you in the morning. and you had slept anxiously that night, wondering what was wrong with your car and how much of a disturbance it would be to andrew to come get you.
but after the two of you had dropped lena off at school—again, disturbingly domestic—he brought you back to the house. and without any words at all, he worked on your car while you sat and watched. you held a flashlight when he needed it, and he said it shouldn’t happen again when he was done.
and you guess that’s the kind of man andrew cody is.
true to his word, andrew comes home in time to eat dinner with you and lena. after dinner, since it’s friday, you let her have a brownie and a half, the ones you’d made earlier that day. you have one too and you offer one to andrew, but he shakes his head, and you’re only mildly disappointed.
you haven’t been home, so you’re wearing one of the dresses from the wrong overnight bag you’d brought here. (your disappointment goes away when you notice that he hasn’t stopped staring at your exposed thighs since the minute he walked through the door.)
lena watches a cartoon before bed and you try to clean up the rest of the kitchen, but it’s hard, since andrew’s done most of the leg-work already. he tucks lena in and you gather your belongings—and true to your word, you did laundry and put his clothes back in the exact place you found them.
(you did steal another pair of socks, but you hardly think he minds now. he kissed you goodbye this morning like he was actually your husband, or something, and every minute you spend in this house washing dishes and scrubbing counters next to him is not helping. he stares at the straps of your dress like he could slip them off your shoulder with his mind, like it’s the only thing he’s thinking about. you don’t mind.)
“she’s out,” he says, coming back into the living room. you’re sitting on the couch, knees tucked to your chest while you change the channel to one of those documentaries you’ve been so fond of recently. you turn to smile at andrew and he comes and takes a seat next to you.
“that’s good. i can go soon.” but you make no effort to move, staring at the screen in front of you. this one is about sea-life, shades of blue flooding ahead of you both.
“you can stay,” andrew says, quiet like always. “if you want.” his voice is deep and gravelly, and the words he says scratch an itch somewhere deep inside of you, and the relief is visible on your body. you sink a little further into the sofa, knees falling next to andrew’s, thighs touching.
“if that’s okay with you.” you whisper it, as if saying it too loudly might make the entire idea crack open and fall apart.
you two stay like that for a while. you don’t know when, but andrew swings an arm around your shoulder, and you rest your head against his chest, collapsing into his comfortable grip. you can hear his heart beating, can feel every breath he takes. his hand brushes the top of your shoulder every time you breath, and his other hand is clasped with yours. you watch schools of fish and pods of dolphins, and you think that any other night, you could fall asleep like this.
“andrew?” you ask, still staring straight ahead. you brush your fingers over his knuckles like you had done last night, and you can feel his hand tense under your touch, until it finally relaxes. “do you want to go to bed?”
“yeah, kid,” he says. “let’s go to bed.”
and you’ll be damned if the domesticity doesn’t kick you in the stomach, sucker punch you in the chest and knock all the wind out of you. andrew turns the tv off, puts the remote back in the right place. and then he picks you up, and you make a quiet noise of surprise, underestimating him momentarily. you should know better.
one hand wraps around your legs and the other around your back, bridal-style (fitting, you think), and he sets you down on the creaky bed. you worry, how loud it’ll be and how you’ll have to be quiet but then andrew hovers over you, nothing but a tiny lamp brightening up the room, and you lose your train of thought.
“you sure you wanna do this?” he asks, that rough voice again. like you’ve thought about anything else for the last twenty-four hours. you nod quickly, bringing your hands to his chest, and then his arms, fingers tracing the sinewy veins and thrumming muscles up and down on both sides. his eyes shut while you do it, breaths getting heavy and deep. but you keep going—it’s only fair. you’ve only thought about it a million times.
“does that feel good?” you whisper, and he lets out a quiet, almost painful groan.
“y-yes,” and you smile, fingers moving on their own while you lean in for the kiss you’ve been waiting for.
andrew’s mouth is hot, and his kisses are like fire. as soon as your lips touch, he pins you all the way down, his body weight on top of yours. he kisses you the same way he had held your hand last night, the same way he held you on the couch, like you’ll slip away if he stops for even a second. your lips start to ache, but you moan quietly into his mouth, letting him swallow them while you still stroke his arms. one day, you’ll crawl into his lap and play with his hands until he’s sick of you, but today, you need to feel him.
you can’t do much from your position, but you can wrap your legs around his waist, one hand going towards his chest to pull at his shirt. he takes it off in one motion, yanking the fabric at the back until it comes off, messing up his hair while he pulls it. your free hand goes there, running through his hair again. you use it to steady yourself, gaining leverage while he keeps kissing you like there’s nothing else for him to do. like his life depends on it. he thinks it just might.
“an-andrew,” you get out in gasps, moving your mouth away for a second. “i need to breathe,” you pant, but he doesn’t stop, kisses your cheek and your jaw and buries his face in your neck. you feel the skin there between his lips, then his teeth, and you grip hard on his arm while he keeps going. you want him to keep going, you want to see the marks he leaves tomorrow and every other day. you want everyone to look at you and know that he’s the one who left them. and you think your wish is about to come true.
your fingers let go of his arms and he groans against your skin—there’s no words but you know he didn’t want you to stop. instead you guide them to both sides of his face, staring up at him and then bringing him back in for another kiss. you think you’d be perfectly content to do this forever, that you could spend hours, days, weeks in bed kissing andrew cody. that you’d be stupid to ever leave this bed, leave this house, when there’s a man here who kisses you like each touch of your lips is a prayer, like he’s here to worship.
he’s not hesitant anymore, not wondering if you’re going to pull away and walk out and ask to pretend this never happened. you keep your hands on his face, and then work down to his jaw and neck, clasping your arms around to keep him in place.
and his mind is empty. he thinks he should know what to do with you, with your labile body flush against his, all the things he’s been thinking about for the last months, if not at least what he was thinking since this morning. you’re still in your little dress, one of the thin straps fallen over your shoulder and dangling on the skin of your upper arm. he pulls away and you whine, another noise he wishes he could capture somehow. it’s a melody, one he wants to keep hearing.
you wish he hadn’t stopped the kiss, and you expect him to lean right back in after you both catch your breath, but he doesn’t. andrew’s hovering over you, eyes fixated on your shoulder, staring intently at the strap of your dress.
“andrew?” you whisper, the hand on his neck rubbing the tense skin there, wondering if you could get your kiss back. “is something wrong?”
his lovely eyes flicker up to you, staring while you swallow and wait patiently. maybe you’d been too eager, maybe he was having regrets—after all, you’re the nanny and he’s the dad and maybe you’d been too presumptuous in assuming that he wanted you as badly as you wanted him—
“no. nothing’s wrong.” you sigh a tiny breath of relief, it comes out before you even notice. but andrew is nothing if not perceptive, and he wraps his hand around your back and lays you back on his bed.
“why did you stop?” you question, flustered and embarrassed as the words come out, sounding like a spoiled child. but you suppose you had been spoiled these last few hours, getting everything you wanted—his hot touch, breathless kisses, the ability to finally see what the veins on his arms feel like under your palm.
he doesn’t answer your question, just flicks his eyes back to your shoulder. and then he leans in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the end of your collarbone, tracing more kisses down through the length of your shoulder, stopping when he reaches the skimpy cotton of your dress. you take deep breaths, watching it happen in front of you. he repeats the same with the other side, pulls the strap down like he’s unfolding a gift, kisses your skin like you’re his present. and you think you are.
there’s nothing between you two except your thin dress, and you pull on it eagerly, trying to get it off, when his hands come and stop on top of yours.
“you’ll rip it,” andrew says, fingers going towards the zipper in the back, undoing it slowly.
“i don’t care,” breathless, eager, unable to wait even another minute to get what you want. he pulls the zipper all the down, your dress falling off as your shrug out of it.
and you want another kiss, you want his touch, you want something, anything—but all you get is andrew staring at your naked body. and you think somehow this is worse than anything else, anticipation burning in your belly painfully. your thighs feel sticky and sore and your underwear is soaked through. and all he’s done is kiss you.
“you’re perfect,” he says quietly, and you feel your entire face burn hot. you don’t think you’ve ever felt like this before—and you know how andrew is. he doesn’t lie, he doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean.
you tilt your head up, pressing your lips to his for a moment, a soft kiss in contrast to the ones from earlier.
“so are you,” and you kiss him again, smiling against his mouth. he feels it, though he doesn’t smile back. and when he pulls away, he looks down at you, naked and willing in his bed, smiling up at him and telling him he’s perfect, when you don’t even know half the monster he is. “you are,” you repeat, watching andrew’s eyes as he thinks a million thoughts in his head, carries a million burdens on his shoulders. “even if you don’t believe me. i think you’re perfect.”
you feel cheesy saying it, though you know there isn’t another man in the world who needs to hear it more. you can hear him make a noise of protest, like he doesn’t think you mean it, and incredibly desperate for him to believe you, you sit up.
your hands go to sturdy shoulders while you try to get him to move, until he’s sitting back against the headboard and you can crawl onto his lap. he’s silent, watching you as you do it, exposed body flush against his skin, and yet, you don’t feel scared. you don’t feel embarrassed, or worried. you just want to make him feel good.
you start with a kiss to his jaw. andrew’s body tenses under yours, the slightest bit of contact making him groan and buck up, his hands tight on the soft skin of your waist to keep you both steady. you work your way down to his neck, pressing kisses everywhere in your path.
“do you want to know what i’ve thought about you?” you ask, though you don’t wait for an answer. you kiss down his chest, stopping at the strong muscles of his chest and the old bruises and scars that cover some of them. “i thought that you’re so good at taking care of your family.” you move down to his abs, more kisses, hearing more noises from andrew that you never would have thought he would make for you. he takes shuddering breaths, not replying to you but grunting from pleasure while you keep going. “i thought that you’re so good to me. that i don’t have to worry since i know i can always come to you.” you think of your car and the money he gives you and how you woke up in bed despite falling asleep on the couch.
finally you make your way to the waistband of his jeans, undoing the belt with surprisingly steady hands. he reaches down, his hands covering yours for a moment, but you stare up at him with your glassy eyes, not even pulling the entire belt off, just enough to get you what you need—what you want. and then you undo his zipper, tug down his boxers, and take his girthy length into your hand, stroking up and down while still staring up at him.
“can i take care of you, andrew?” and you don’t realize how it must sound to him, his head thudding back onto the pillow. you press a gentle kiss to his leaking tip, both hands wrapped around his dick and stroking while you wait for your answer.
“y-yes, yes-” and you don’t wait any longer, taking as much of andrew into your mouth as you can fit. you drive your mouth up and down, your hands twisting around the base, everything wet and warm and sticky from your spit. and you think you would do this forever, that you would do this everyday if you could hear the noises he makes and how his body takes the pleasure you give him. you gag around him, feeling his hand snake into your hair, pulling you off gently. you smile up at him, though you’re sure you look like a mess, hot tears running down your cheeks and lips shiny and wet.
but you don’t stop—licking up and down until you bring him back into your mouth. you can feel how embarrassingly wet you are right now, can feel yourself leaking onto your thighs and the sheets, wanting friction as badly as you wanted to make andrew feel good right now. and then you hear it—andrew’s moan, louder than any of the other noises and full and from the chest. he bucks up into your mouth and you take it, ready to hear what he sounds like when he finishes, when he pulls you off of him.
“andrew—” you whine, as though you were the one about to come. he pulls you up, naked bodies pushed against each other, and kisses you until you feel light-headed.
“not until you do,” he murmurs, and you feel dizzy all over again.
“but i’m not done,” still eager to kiss the rest of his body and tell him how good he is, until he starts to believe you. you wrangle out of his loose grip, knowing full well if he wanted to stop, he could have. he could pin you down and do whatever he wanted to you and you wouldn’t be able to fight him, a thought that makes you feel like you’re going to faint. but you resume quickly, starting at his shoulders—stopping to admire all the sunspots spattered there—and starting your journey again, working down his bicep and to his freckled forearm, the ones you stared at whenever the opportunity presented itself, the one you thought about all the time.
andrew doesn’t know about that, and you’re not sure you can bear to tell him. it feels too revealing, despite how you’re naked on top of him, your breasts pressed against him and wet pussy on top of his hard, leaking dick. but sure—that’s what you get nervous about.
you stop and trace all the veins with your fingers, feeling him pulse underneath you, repeating on both sides. he’s got his head tilted back, soft groans filling the empty space between you as you keep going. if they’re this sensitive for him, you can only imagine what it would feel like for you, especially the one leading down to the middle of his wrist—and then the words slip out before you can realize you had said them out loud.
your face goes hot again. he looks up at you a little confused, and you have to stop yourself from collapsing and burying your face into the pillow next to you.
“andrew?” you ask, shy and embarrassed and yet not stopping yourself at all.
“you… you like my arms?” he says, and you feel your face heat up.
but so many things have happened already that you couldn’t have even dreamt about twenty-four hours ago, so you think it’s worth a shot. (that’s a lie. you have dreamt about this, so many times that you’ve woken up in your bed covered in a cold sweat, that you’ve burned through a vibrator and ruined pillows imagining what it would be like to rub yourself against his veiny arms. you guess you’re about to find out).
your fingers trace the length of them again.
“i like everything about you,” you say quietly, understanding just how silly you sound. “but we don’t have to do anything.” you try to cover your tracts, worried you’ve just messed up the incredible time you’ve been having so far littering his body with kisses and feeling butterflies in your cunt from the fact that andrew will be inside of you soon.
“how would you-” andrew starts, and you watch him carefully as he gets out the next few words. “do it? how?” and it’s just cut and dry way he speaks, though it’s really going to your head (and other places) right now.
“well, i-”
“show me.” oh.
you feel yourself pulse and throb in response to his words. even below you, you can still feel how hard andrew is. you try to start positioning yourself, but you must be moving too slowly for him, and you feel his hand on your ass, grabbing you and pushing you up to his chest, face to face. he lays his arm next to you, watching your naked body as you try to balance yourself between it, his free arm on your hip, keeping you steady.
when you lower yourself, just an inch or two, just until you feel the ridge of his forearm and you can decide what to do after realizing that you are, in fact, doing this, andrew curses under his breath.
“fuck, you’re so wet.” he can feel it. feel you, on his arm, leaking, for him. you take a deep breath, pressing your hands against his chest to keep your balance, moving your hips up and down slowly. and your eyes flutter shut because fuck, if it isn’t better than every fantasy you’ve ever had.
you hadn’t known that your pathetic attempts to recreate this at home would have never lived up to the real thing, and now you realize you’ll never be able to go back to anything else but andrew, that no one else could make you feel this way. months of pent-up desire leave your body as you rock yourself against him, finally getting the stimulation you’ve been craving.
when you open your eyes, just for a second, you see andrew, his eyes glued to where your pussy meets his arm, his breaths heavy and deep, like he wouldn’t look away from the sight before him for anything.
and then you feel the veins rub against your clit, and your eyes roll back into your head. you keep going, trying to muffle your moans and sighs, but you can’t get the image out of your head—andrew staring at you, like he wanted this as much as you’ve wanted it, like he needs to see you cum like this. you start going faster, the friction and the slide from your juices making it easier and the veins rubbing at you just the right way—
he leans in, putting one of your peaked nipples into his mouth, flicking his tongue against it, before letting go and repeating the same with the other one. but it’s really when andrew starts talking that you’re pulled over the edge, his hand hot on your back.
“please,” he says, and you feel yourself falling into it, hanging onto every raspy word, so much better than you could have ever dreamed, “-i-i need you to cum for me. i need to feel you, i need to see it, please-”
and you do. you always listen to andrew, all the white-hot tension wound up in your belly releasing, flooding your entire body with the relief you’ve been wanting all night. your body tightens up, stopping, but he moves you with the huge hand on your hip, makes you rub on him all through it, pulling your body like you’re a toy for him.
your mind is empty while your toes curl and uncurl, thighs aching and sore in this position. andrew ushers you towards him, and you collapse on his chest, heaving and sweaty and tired—and the realization hits you that he hasn’t even been inside of you yet.
he kisses you while he has you trapped in his arms, your eyes shut as you breathe him in, moan into his mouth and let him swallow it.
“y-your arm,” you get out, realizing you’re not speaking in coherent sentences. “i’m sorry-”
“why?” he asks, and you shut up instantly. “didn’t know you liked them that much.”
he laughs quietly, a sound you have only heard a few times. you laugh against his chest for a moment, before pulling him in for another kiss. this time, it deepens, and he gets you on your back in front of him before he pulls away. you stare up at him, mind empty and chest heaving, seeing how his eyes stay on your tits, and you reach up, putting your hands on his chest while he hovers over you.
“it might hurt,” he says, and you feel your entire body tighten, your walls clench at his words. there’s nothing but truth behind his statement—it’s not meant to be arrogant or boastful, he’s warning you. it’s going to hurt, you know it is—you could barely fit half of him in your mouth and it took you both hands to be able to comfortably stroke him.
but the way he says it elicits a fire in you, and suddenly you need him now, no matter how much it hurts.
“i don’t care, andrew, please,” you beg, staring up at him. he still hovers, licking his lips and staring at your how tits bounce while you beg him to fuck you—a thought that he cannot process, even with you splayed out in front of him. he brings his arms out, fingers teasing your sensitive nipples until you’re covering your own mouth to avoid being too loud and you think you’re going to black out. (even in the dim light you can see the shine on his forearm from you, and the memory of it takes over your mind like a twister.)
“i have to stretch you out first.” the words possess your body like a demon. andrew takes your knees and spreads them apart, and no matter how hard you try to close them, you can’t compete against him. when he slides in one huge finger, your eyes roll back. he slips in so easily, the noise is obscene. the second finger goes in just as quickly, but there’s more resistance. two of his fingers are at least three of yours (if not more, you think, and then you want to faint again). the stretch is delicious, your pulsing walls realizing that this has been what you’ve been craving all along. that no toys or pillows or fingers of your own could ever compare.
when he slips a third finger in, he doesn’t change the pace. just keeps pushing them in and out of you like you’re a toy he’s testing the limits with, seeing how much you can take before you break. there’s no instructions for you besides to sit back and take it—and your toes curl and your head spins at how good he feels. the stretch hurts, but you want it so badly, you hear yourself crying out and saying incoherent things. you think you see andrew smile from where he is, watching your cunt suck his fingers in, his entire hand coated in your juices.
and when he hovers over you, bringing his tip to your entrance and prodding against you for a moment, you think you’re in heaven. he’s so flushed, tips of ears and his cheeks pink, sweat coating his body, just like yours. you can only imagine how hard he is, how you’ll get to feel how hard he is soon enough. his eyes stay at your pussy, pushing in, just barely, but you need more. you bring your hands to his arms, holding onto him while he slides in, and when you feel him push all the way in—so much bigger than you could have imagined, three of his fingers is nothing compared to this, nothing, nothing, nothing—he’s on top of you and kissing you.
whatever noises you make are tuned out—your ears are ringing and you can’t hear anything besides andrew’s grunts and moans as they come into your mouth. you keep kissing him, pulling on his lower lip and feeling his tongue on yours, but your entire body goes slack when he starts on a brutal pace, pulling all the way out and slamming into you. the bed is creaky, and the only noise besides it is the obscene one—the squelch of your soaking wet cunt taking andrew all the way, the repetitive slap of his skin meeting yours. you feel everything—the pressure of his hands while he holds you incredibly tightly, the fullness in your cunt that makes it feel like you can’t breathe.
and then andrew kisses your lips and makes a noise that makes you leak even more, and you know you’ll be just fine.
“i-i want-” he starts, and you feel him slow down the pace slightly.
“please, andrew,” you beg, and he resumes, fucking into you with an intensity that reminds you how badly he wants you, how long he’s wanted this. it reminds you of every time you caught him staring, every time you smiled at him wondering what he was thinking. and now you think you know—maybe he was thinking about something like this.
“i want another one,” he says into the skin of your neck, feeling him lick the sweat there and kiss the skin. “i want to feel it while i’m inside-” and god if you can’t comply. you want to do every single thing he tells you for the rest of your life, you don’t want to make another decision without andrew cody.
he changes the position, pulling out of you for a second and making you whine again. (spoiled, you think, he’s spoiled me for anyone else forever.) he holds both of your knees up and spreads them wide and wraps your arms around them, keeping them in place. and then he slides back inside of you in one swift movement, making your eyelids flutter shut. he doesn’t get right on top of you, leaving space between you that makes it impossible to lean in for a kiss, and you keep whining, impossibly and irrationally angry that you can’t kiss him, wondering why he wants you like this, when you feel his fingers circle your clit slowly—then quickly.
your head falls back onto the pillow. andrew can feel you pulsing around him, walls clenching every time he rubs your sensitive clit, and that’s what he wants, that’s what he needs, wants to feel you cum around his dick and squeeze him even tighter than you are right now. wants to see how you look completely fucked out, wants to see if you can give him a third. (he’ll get it, he decides, later. he’ll give you a chance to breathe, get you water after this. all the things he would do to take care of you, just like how you deserve, how a husband would take care of his wife.)
because at the end of the day, isn’t that what you two basically already are? you couldn’t be a girlfriend, because you have to get comfortable around a girlfriend.
no, he thinks, watching your fucked-out, flushed body take him like you were made for it. you already know him, know what he likes and doesn’t like, know how to make him feel good like you had been inside of his head already. you have been inside. you’re all he thinks about. that’s a wife, that is something that is forever, what the two of you have.
he doesn’t realize how hard he’s going, how fast, or how you’ve been squealing with your entire body tensing while he was stuck in his thoughts about you. this time when you finish, it explodes through you, the electric current staring from your core and spreading to every finger and toe. you jolt, legs shaking and head heavy, the after effect rolling through you while andrew keeps fucking you, keeps going even though he should probably stop. you’re incoherent, writhing and crying and feeling completely numb and like your entire body is burning all at once.
and when you blink open your watery eyes at andrew, smile sweetly and reach out for a kiss, one that he happily gives you, you say it quietly.
“i love you, andrew.” and you feel his thrusts stutter, his body weight almost collapsing on you. you feel andrew cum, feel it filling you up while you listen to his quiet moans and run your hands over his tense muscles, saying sweet things that he can barely understand in this state.
he rolls over minutes later, not pulling out until you were done kissing him. the room is filled with nothing but your heavy breaths. you need a shower, and you need to sleep.
you curl up on andrew’s chest like you had been on the couch what felt like a lifetime ago. you play with his fingers and he runs his other hand up and down the expanse of your arm. you can hear birds outside—and you know you need to get up soon, but you can’t find any words.
“you think that was enough?” andrew asks, and you look up at him with a confused expression. he looks at you with so much sincerity you feel like crying. your andrew.
“what do you mean?” you ask quietly, still not sure what he’s even talking about. your head is spinning and your eyes are tired—every part of you is tired.
“we can go again after you get some sleep. it might take more than once.”
“andrew?”
“you don’t have to worry about it. i’ll figure it out. i won’t stop until i put a baby in you.”
summary: you stop providing camgirl services to your clients when you start your residency. except you can't let go of your favorite client, who, as you quickly find out, is your new attending physician for the next four years. he recognizes you immediately and is ready to stake his claim.
warnings: 18+! camgirl reader obvi, sex work, fear of sex work revealed to hospital coworkers, pushy patient (tries to set up reader w her son), mentions of clientele as a camgirl, possessive jack, jealous jack, inappropriate workplace relationship SUE ME!!!
notes: erg this has been in my drafts for so long and the "i'll pay for it" scene last week was the inspo i needed to finally finish! i don't get much into camgirl smut but trust its on the way. also jack's screen name "SgtMD" is pronounced "Sergeant, M.D."
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find smutty pt 2 here!
Two jobs would keep anyone busy. Juggling another job during your first year of residency?
Forget about it.
All throughout medical school, you balanced clinicals and classes with your camgirl gig. Study sessions were interrupted by scheduled video calls. You’d set up your laptop on your dresser, aim it toward your bed, and shrug your hoodie off before dialing whichever gentleman requested your services that night.
There were nearly two dozen clients who you met with regularly over the past three years.
Some showed their faces. Some just showed their lap. Some only spoke, urging you on verbally with no other input. Some wanted a show from you and nothing more. Some of them gave you too much information-- full names, jobs, routing numbers, and home addresses.
None of which you ever used. You were strictly providing online services: Video chats only. Other forms of communication, like your business email, were very explicitly limited to scheduling inquiries only. Any client who refused those boundaries was nixed and replaced with someone from your waiting list.
Since graduating with your doctorate in May, you’ve phased clients out. There wouldn’t be enough time to balance all of them with the demands of your intern year.
So, you let your clients know that you’re no longer in service due to a career change. You offer one more call for each of them as a last hoorah (final paycheck) and go your separate ways.
But there was one client that you can’t bring yourself to let go.
SgtMD
He was your third client ever. You’d seen him at least three times a week for the last three years, and looked forward to each meeting with a pounding heart and heated cheeks.
Each time SgtMD booked a call, he showed his torso. Always clad in a plain, black shirt with large biceps and broad shoulders, never anything else. There was a hint of silver stubble that trickled down his neck sometimes, usually on your first call of each week. A tuft of dark armpit hair you saw once when he stretched his arms above his head.
And SgtMD likes to talk.
He likes to tell you how beautiful you are. Likes to ask you to twirl around in the new lingerie he sent to you and then laugh darkly each time you obey. He likes telling you to “Take it slow, sweetheart. Just like that, yeah. Don’t worry about the extra time, I’ll pay for it.”
And you like him.
Most clients don’t make you finish. They want you to shake your ass or flash your tits or tell them they’re “such a good boy”. Nobody wants to see you come apart like SgtMD.
So, when you move to Pittsburgh to start your residency, you dropped them all... Except SgtMD. To him, you sent:
You: Hi, Sarge. I’m about to start a new job and my hours will be a little different. I want to see you as often as I can. I will email as soon as I have a fixed schedule so that we can plan to call. Remember you can always ask. Please don’t be shy. Your next few sessions are free since I’m changing things up on you. I hope I can see you soon.
His returning email came within two minutes.
SgtMD: Hey, Sweetheart. I’ll pay. Are you free at 5? I know it’s last minute, but it’s my birthday. I want to see you.
You: Happy birthday, Sarge. 5 o’clock is perfect. Am I invited to the birthday party?
SgtMD: It’s a date, then. No party, I’m working tonight.
So, the afternoon before your first shift as a resident, you find yourself baking a cake for him. It’s silly. It’s inappropriate. It’s crossing every boundary that you’ve ever established as a sex worker. And, really, there’s no point in making it, because you’ll end up eating it alone when you get off your shift at 8 a.m., anyway.
Yet still, here you are, logged onto the call at 5 p.m. on the dot with a lit candle. Your black scrubs are folded outside of the frame, ready for you to throw on once you’re off camera.
Now, you’re wearing a pretty white lace set that SgtMD bought you for your birthday last year. You’re not sure he remembers, but something tells you he just might. He’s thoughtful, in the unconventional ways that a man can be thoughtful with a sex worker.
He remembers your birthday every year. He sends you flowers each time he orders a new lingerie set for you. Every holiday there’s a bouquet waiting for you at the post office with a sweet, hand-written note.
You keep them all posted to a corkboard in your bedroom next to other keepsakes like photos with your friends and concert tickets.
The screen dings, and you see his image pop up. His broad, thick shoulders taking up the whole frame. Black shirt tugging between his large pecs, and the typical trail of grey stubble down his Adam’s apple.
“Happy birthday.” You grin into the camera.
“Thank you, sweetheart. Always so thoughtful, so good for me.” His voice is as rough and deep as always. It winds a knot in your stomach. “Blow that out for me.”
You purse your lips and blow a gentle puff of air onto the cake, the warm illumination leaving your face.
“What does the candle say?” He asks. You catch a glimpse of the ends of his hair as he tilts his head. Auburn and grey. Fucking hot.
“It’s just a 1.” The temperature is warmer under your embarrassment than it was with the open flame of the candle. “I thought it’d be a nice gift if I told you that you’re the only client I see now. The only one.”
He leans back slightly as if your words have physically stunned him. Running a big hand over his neck, he exhales slowly.
“Wait, sweetheart. Are you just saying that? Or is it really just me?” You wish you could see his face. Usually, his lack of personal identifiers isn’t something that bothers you. It’s easy to understand why someone wouldn’t want to stare at themselves while they were on a call of this nature.
But here, now, you wanted to see if there was a blush on his cheeks. You wanted to know if he looked excited or concerned.
“It’s just you, Sarge.”
𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔
Two hours and three orgasms later, you're walking through the doors of the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center for your first shift. It’s the most he’s ever gotten out of you, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t ready to fall asleep after so much stimulation.
But it’s only 7 p.m.. Night shifts have always been your preference. Even before getting a job in medicine, you preferred the overnight stocking gigs or the late night video chats.
You like the dark. The night is gentle and unpredictable.
“Hi,” you greet the charge nurse at the hub with a small smile, tucking your bag into one of the cubbies under the desk. “It’s my first day. Do you have any idea where I can find Dr. Gloria Underwood?”
The blonde woman nods once, and you look over your shoulder to find her already walking toward you. You’d met Gloria once previously over the summer when you had a virtual interview for the resident position. It was a panel of her, one of the day-shift attendings, and a few of the hospital board members.
“Welcome!” She greets cheerfully, but there’s a franticness in her wide eyes. “My gosh, it’s a bit hectic around here today. Usually I’d be the one showing you the ropes, but I’ve got a meeting with corporate and-”
“No worries,” you excuse, waving your palm. “Things get busy, I understand.”
“I like you already.” Her gaze trails to the other side of the nurses’ station. There’s two men, both in black, both looking at the screen of a tablet. “These are your attending physicians, Dr. Jack Abbot and Dr. John Shen. I’ll introduce you and they’ll walk you through everything you need to know.”
One of them is older, a stubble across his jaw and neck that glints under these harsh lights. He’s handsome, with light grey curls and dark eyes. Freckles smatter over his entire body as far as you can see. Face, neck, arms, hands, all covered in evidence of long summer days.
Next to him is the younger doctor, with a head of full, dark hair that matches his deep brown eyes. He’s also sporting stubble, though his is darker and shorter, closer to a shadow than anything else.
Before you can respond to Gloria, she’s already sweeping you over to the two men. As you get closer, you realize that Dr. Abbot isn’t wearing a black scrub top like Dr. Shen. Instead, he dons a plain black tee that reminds you all too much of SgtMD and the meeting you had before this.
It’s bad that you miss him. You know it’s wrong. It’s inappropriate. It’s probably unhealthy on some level.
But nobody has ever made you feel the way he does. Nobody has taken care of you so well. Nobody has ever shown you so much affection in their words and actions. And you’ve never wanted to return that care and affection before.
You shake your head as if it will manually remove the thought from your brain.
“Jack, John, this is your new resident,” Gloria introduces you.
“Only one this year?” Dr. Shen raises his thick eyebrows. “Are we broke?”
You snort, but quickly cover it up with a cough when Gloria’s sharp eyes dart to where you’re still standing at her side.
“Nobody wants to work nights,” she huffs. “Would the two of you please show her the ropes? I’m late for a budget meeting.”
Again, she’s halfway down the hallway before she gets a response.
“Hi, it’s nice to meet you both,” you say with a soft smile. Your eyes catch on Dr. Abbot’s slack-jawed face.
Your heart drops, realizing you’ve already made a bad first impression on one of the only people that matters here.
“I’m sorry about the inconvenience. I’m sure you’ve both already got enough to do without babysitting me through your shift.” A wince threatens to pinch your face in apology, but you try to remain confident.
“No need! Happy to help our residents.” Shen hands you the tablet they were both reading. “I’m going to do hand-off with Robby. Read over this chart and tell Abbot what your next steps would be.”
“Is everything ok?” You ask Abbot quietly once Shen is out of hearing range. “I’m sure the having-me-shadow-you thing is annoying. I promise you won’t even know I’m there.”
His head snaps to you, heated eyes meeting yours. His short curls have dashes of auburn throughout them that you can see now up close. His eyes are dark, pupils blown as he stares at your face.
“I’ll know you’re there.” There’s an edge to his voice that sends a shiver up your spine.
“What?” Your brows meet in the middle of your forehead at that. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Abbot, I don’t understa-”
You’re cut off by another doctor slinging an arm around Abbot’s shoulders and pulling him in for a hug.
“Happy birthday, brother.” He smacks his back hard.
Your heart sinks to your stomach as you piece it together. The black tee shirt, the auburn hair, the broad shoulders, your reaction to his voice. The birthday.
Holy fucking shit.
Dr. Jack Abbot is SgtMD.
Your new attending physician is the faceless man you’ve pined after for the last three years. He’s the man who sent you the earrings you’re currently wearing. Small, modest studs with a little emerald stone that he said was his favorite color.
Fuck, shit, fuck, fuck, fuck.
Quickly, you snatch the tablet close to your chest, as if the secret truth is announcing itself on the screen, and move a few feet away. You try to tune out the waves of anxiety wracking through your body at the realization that he’s here and he’s hot and he’s staring at you while having an entire conversation with the attending you recognize from your interview.
The chart.
The thing you just spent the last 8 years of your life working for is here in front of you. You cannot let your personal life get in the way of accomplishing this.
The air you inhale is sterile. You breathe it out and let your eyes scan the chart.
13 y/o female ℅ SOB at rest. Sats 90. No hx of asthma. Sudden onset after tackle injury in lacrosse game Friday. PCP prescribed inhaler, no improvement.
The possible diagnoses flit through your head, overriding the anxiety of your personal life catching fire between these walls.
This is what you’re here for. To practice medicine. To be a doctor.
“You look at the chart?” Shen comes next to you. He makes a slurping sound as he pulls coffee through his already-empty cup. The clock just struck 7:01 p.m.. One minute into the shift. How is his drink gone already?
“I did. My first thought was a fractured rib that punctured the lung, but I don’t see any symptoms other than shortness of breath. Surely she’d complain of pain if there were a rib injury. My next thought is a respiratory illness unrelated to the injury-- still, sats are really low for a young, active girl. Hard to find a bullseye here,” you relay your thought process to him. He takes the chart, nodding as he reads through it again.
“I agree. So what should we order?” His dark eyes are much softer and sweeter than Abbot’s. You blink the thought of him away quickly, refocusing on the question.
“CBC, BMP, ABG, ECG, and BNP.” Your answer comes quickly. “ And maybe a D-dimer depending on what medications she’s taking. I didn’t any listed in the chart.”
He smiles widely and nods, revealing the stereotypical adrenaline-junkie smile that all emergency doctors seem to possess.
“Right on. Let’s go get her from intake.” He claps your shoulder and leads the way.
𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔
Shen takes you under his wing for the first half of the shift. He walks you through how to read and work the board, introduces you to every staff member that walks by, and shares plenty of stories-- comedy and horror-- of his time spent at PTMC.
When 1 a.m. rolls around and you’ve shadowed him through most types of cases, he cuts you loose.
“I need a coffee, and you need a patient,” he sighs, looking up at the board. “What do you see?”
“I can do the debridement in Central 9,” you suggest, turning to face him.
“Perfect. Go get ‘em, tiger.” Another clap on the shoulder and he’s leaving you.
You review the patient chart on the tablet before you enter the room. No matter how many patients you treated as a student doctor, it’s still nervewracking to go into a room alone. After rereading the chart, taking a deep breath, and letting the yawn you’ve been holding in for six hours go, you’re finally ready.
“Hi, Mrs. Sanchez,” you greet your patient as you enter the room. You introduce yourself and wince at the sight of the wound on her leg. “Gosh, this looks like it hurts. What happened?”
“I was taking the stupid dog out to the bathroom. He needs to go out on a leash because we live on a big property.” Her face crumples into a cute frown. “He took off and pulled me through the gravel backyard. He hates me, I swear!”
You sigh, shaking your head.
“Doesn’t sound like he has your best interest at heart,” you agree, earning a small grin. You pull the stool to her bedside and snap on a pair of gloves. “What breed is your dog?”
“My dog!?” She scoffs, wiping the smile off her face instantly. “No! My son’s. Little rat bastard that I never wanted in the first place.”
“The son or the dog?” You tease, opening the instruments on the sterile tray next to you. She chokes out a stream of laughter that lasts the entire time you’re unwrapping, earning a few giggles from you as she tries and fails to regain her composure.
“Things are going well in here, I see.” A familiar voice says from the doorway. Abbot steps into the room, rubbing sanitizer into his hands before looking at the patient chart. “I’m Dr. Jack Abbot, I’m the attending physician here.”
“This is Mrs. Hilaria Sanchez,” you introduce your patient because she’s still laughing too hard to get a word out. You’re wearing a wide smile of your own as you glance back at her. “She was taking her son’s dog out when he took off and dragged her.”
“Yeah?” He says it almost unconsciously, and still, heat pools between your legs. He isn’t even looking at you, and you’re quick to turn back to your patient before he does. The last thing you need is for him to realize the effect he has on you. “Should I be concerned about a hospital-induced laughing spell, Mrs. Sanchez?”
She snorts, wiping tears from under her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt.
“She’s just a very funny doctor!” She giggles again, and you can’t help the amused chuckle that tumbles from your own lips as you grab her a tissue from the counter.
“I said one thing!” You retort through your own laughter. “Ok, ok. We have to stop laughing so I can get these pebbles out of your leg. Talk about something else, please, Dr. Abbot.”
You’re careful not to look at him when you address him out of fear that he won’t react to you the way you do to him.
That’s one thing that used to bother you about Jack SgtMD. Since he never showed his face online, you could never tell if he was enjoying what you were doing, really. He’d groan and tell you how good you looked. You’d catch his strong arms moving sometimes, stroking himself off camera at a slow, steady pace.
Once, last year, he’d finished and came so hard that cum shot up into frame, dirtying his pressed black shirt. It was dirty and impulsive and he was so out of breath, you remember. You came immediately after him that day.
“How old is your son?” He prompts as he hands you the tweezers and sets the discard tray on the bedside next to her wounded calf. Again, you’re jolted back into the moment.
“He’s 25. That’s about your age, no?” She looks at you as she blots under her eyes with the tissue.
“Just about,” you reply, dropping the first rock into the tray. “What does he do?”
“He’s a lawyer,” she responds proudly. “And he’s very handsome. And single.”
You and Abbot both snort at the same time.
“Are you trying to set me up on a date with the same son you just called a ‘rat bastard’?” You raise your brows playfully at her before turning your attention back to the leg.
“Oh, please! You know I meant the dog!” She chuckles, swatting at your arm and missing by a mile. “I’m telling you. You two would be good together. Two attractive, successful young people.”
“Unfortunately, she’s taken,” the man behind you answers before you can even open your mouth.
You turn your head to face him, eyes wide as saucers as you process his words.
Did he actually just stake his claim like that?
Heat floods your face, neck, and ears as you reorient toward your patient’s leg. The sight of him there, in that same tight black shirt he was wearing earlier today when he had you beg him to stop making you cum, is too much.
“That’s too bad. I’m sure my son is cuter!” She winks.
You give your best chuckle despite the rising temperature, continuing the tedious task of plucking each piece of dirt and gravel from her six-by-three wound.
For longer than he should, Abbot hovers over your shoulder, humming each time you do something well.
It’s almost odd seeing his face. You’d never considered what SgtMD might look like. Based on the build of his torso and the grit of his voice, you knew he would be hot, and that was really enough to satisfy the knots he managed to unwind.
You were used to knowing clients only by their screen names and what they chose to show. It wasn’t a big deal, it was the nature of the business.
But this morning, it did bother you, just for a fleeting moment.
First, it bothered you not knowing what name to write on his cake. You weren’t going to write Happy Birthday, SgtMD on top of your pretty white buttercream frosting. Something about that name had been… defiled.
SgtMD was the man who coaxes orgasms with only his instruction, never a finger laid on your body but still managing to light you up with desire.
Happy Birthday, Jack would have been much more fitting.
Jack is the man who pays you for every session, even the ones where you’re ten minutes late because you had to finish a timed quiz or hit every red light on your way home from the library. He’s the one who insists on buying you pretty lingerie. Sexy, of course, but beautiful. Handsewn pieces custom made to fit the measurements he asked you for.
A little ache splits your heart as you face the new reality of your situation.
He recognized you. He knew you. Not your name, maybe, but your face. From where he’s standing over you, he’s observing the hands that he’s seen knuckle-deep in your pussy. It’s not new for him, just for you.
And as much as it embarrasses you to admit it, it upsets you a little bit. Makes you feel guilty for not being able to know his name from your residency offer letter and reject it.
And seeing his reaction this morning, him having to process your presence alone while you apologized for something entirely unrelated-- it releases a strange guilt that climbs up your throat.
“Dr. Abbot,” you say without thinking first, because you desperately need reassurance that you haven’t managed to go and fuck up your professional and personal life by being here.
You want him to tell you that everything is alright, that he’s not disgusted by you, that this doesn’t ruin his fantasy of you, that he won’t march to HR as soon as the shift ends and tell them that he can’t work with you because you have an inappropriate relationship.
You swallow hard, not knowing what to say now.
“Do you think this area needs a stitch?” Is all that comes to mind.
His dark eyes feel all-consuming, and suddenly you’re grateful that he never showed them during your calls, because the pressure of having to make yourself finish while he gave you this stare would be far too intimidating.
It isn’t unkind, it’s just-- intense. Everything he’s done today, actually, has been rather intense.
He bends down, and the smell of mint swarms your senses. His chest presses against your shoulder as he squints, searching for the made-up bleeder.
“Where?” Fuck that voice is even better in person. The breath of it brushes your ear just barely, and you suck in a sharp breath.
Instead of answering verbally, you point to a random spot on the wound with your tweezers. He looks from you, to the not-bleeding area of skin, back to you.
“Stitches?” Mrs. Sanchez asks, looking up from where she’s been scrolling on her phone.
“No, ma’am,” He reassures her quickly with a shake of his head. She nods, and he turns his gaze back to you. “I see why you thought to ask. Come find me after you’re done here and I can explain why it doesn’t need a stitch. I’ll be charting if you need me. Feel better soon, Mrs. Sanchez.”
He stands quickly, sheds his gloves into the waste bin, and leaves the room.
“Do you think it’s ok to add non-famous people to a hall pass list?” Your patient asks as soon as the door shuts behind him. Slowly, you lift your gaze from her leg to her face, arching a brow in question. “That Dr. Abbot is… phew!”
She fans herself with her fingers, eliciting a hearty laugh from you as you continue working and thinking about your attending because… phew is right.
𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔
Mrs. Sanchez is discharged shortly after you finish the grueling task of removing each piece of gravel from her open wound and wrap it under Donnie’s supervision. There’s a sharp ache across the entire length of your shoulders.
“Shoulders?” Shen asks as you sit down to chart, noting your pained wince.
“I was hunched over that leg for two hours.” You blink hard. “I’m seeing little pieces of gravel everytime I close my eyes.”
He laughs, wiping condensation from his drink with a sterile towel.
“Is she ready to be discharged?” He looks at the board. “We could use her room.”
“Actually, she’s been discharged. Just waiting for her son to get here and pick her up,” you say through a bite of the granola bar you keep in your scrub top. “He’s a lawyer.”
“Is she trying to set you up with her son?” He snorts, shaking his head as he looks toward the patient room where she’s rifling through her purse. “You’ll get used to it. Happens at least once a day. Everyone wants their kids to date a doctor for some reason.”
He leaves, taking his coffee with him into a patient room.
Just as you’ve found a comfortable position and typed out the first sentence of your patient care summary, Lena raps her knuckles from the other side of the counter. When you look up, you make eye contact with the man next to her.
He’s about your age, with dark, curly brown hair and a tanned complexion. Both features that match Mrs. Sanchez, who you turn to find excitedly waving at you both through the glass door of her exam room.
Laughing, you stand up and extend your hand in greeting as you introduce yourself.
“You’re Mrs. Sanchez’s son, I assume?” You ask as you round the counter. He nods, scratching the back of his neck.
“I guess it’s safe to assume that all the matchmaking texts I was getting were being relayed to you, then?” He breathes out a nervous laugh.
You chuckle in response, pulling your lips between your teeth before releasing them with another quick laugh. Before you can respond, you hear your name called from down the hallway. Abbot is walking over, and you note the slight unevenness of his footsteps.
So many quirks, and you want to know them all. You want to know him. All of him.
“You discharging Mrs. Sanchez?” He asks, leaning in to glance at the tablet in your hand, not once looking at the man beside you. You nod, maintaining his heavy eye contact. “Great. Mind if I observe?”
You shake your head, then gesture between the two men.
“This is Mrs. Sanchez’s son. He’s here to take her home. This is my attending physician, Dr. Jack Abbot,” you introduce the two of them to each other, taking note of the way Jack nods without a smile. On the way to her room, you stop to grab a wheelchair from the side wall of the hallway, but Jack takes it quickly, pushing it on his own. “Thank you, Dr. Abbot.”
He pulls the door to the room open, waiting for you to walk through. Shyly, you cast a smile in his direction and step inside.
For such a gentleman, you’re surprised he isn’t being welcoming to Mr. Sanchez. Surely, he isn’t jealous. Right?
“Hey, mom.” Her son enters right after you, moving to her bedside to place a kiss to her hair. “I’m so sorry this happened.”
They spend a moment arguing over the son’s dog while you sort her discharge paperwork and Jack prepares the wheelchair.
When you turn to face the bed again, Mrs. Sanchez points to you.
“Mijo, this is the girl I was telling you about. See? Very pretty, very sweet, very very smart. She’s a doctor, you know?” She nudges his side.
“This is your discharge paperwork, Mrs. Sanchez,” you say in an attempt to change the subject. “There’s instructions for how to rebandage the wound on this page. You’ll want to do it twice a day, when you wake up and when you go to sleep, ok?”
She nods, taking the packet of paperwork.
“Your leg may be a little bit tender. A little pain is normal as the skin heals, but if it gets too uncomfortable to bear weight, or if you start noticing any foul smells or pus coming from the wound, it could be a sign of infection. Come back in as soon as possible if that happens, alright?”
She nods and hands the paperwork to her son as Jack helps to transfer her into the wheelchair. He does it easily, lifting her body off of the bed and into the cushioned seat.
As he does, every muscle ripples down his arm. Somehow, every inch of him is huge. Fingertip to his bicep, where the tee blocks the rest of his arm from view, you watch his skin dimple as it flexes with his movements.
“Does she need to be on any antibiotics or anything?” Her son asks, bringing your attention away from Jack’s arms and back to him.
“Um, no. She’s all set to go.” You smile politely.
“I’ll walk them out,” Jack says, nodding to you. “Can you notify Lena that this room is ready to be cleaned, please?”
You nod, holding the door as he pushes Mrs. Sanchez through the threshold. She hooks a finger into your scrub pocket as she’s pushed out, winking coyly. Although you don’t understand, you smile and wave, wishing her a good rest of her night.
“Central 9 is ready to be cleaned,” you tell Lena as you approach the nurse’s station again. She gives a thumbs up and picks up the phone, nodding to the board. Pediatric bone break in South 12, and she’s writing your name into the box next to it.
You head there, smiling softly when you enter the room and introduce yourself.
𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔
You pick up cases for the rest of your shift, bouncing from room to room and having no time between check-ins to chart.
“God, it’s nice having another resident,” Ellis tells you as she plops down across from you to chart.
You grin, fingers clacking away as you hurry to document everything as quickly as you can. It’s already 6:45 a.m., the day shift is trickling in, and you have eight charts to start and complete before you can leave.
“Do you have a minute?” You swivel on your stool to see Jack standing at your desk. “I wanted to discuss the bleeder you asked about earlier with Mrs. Sanchez.”
Swallowing hard, you nod, standing to follow him. His limp is more pronounced now after a shift on his feet, and you wonder what he’s dealing with.
The continued reminders that you don’t really know him at all are both aggravating and unnerving.
“How was your first shift?” He asks you, leading you to a window that overlooks the bridge. It’s far from the swing of things, nestled between a staircase and elevator.
Only the two of you are here for the moment, but anyone could walk down the stairs or exit the elevators.
He’s staring out, watching the occasional car drive by.
“Um, it was good, thank you,” you reply nervously. “How was your birthday?”
He faces you then, a smirk tugging one corner of his lip up.
“Best one so far,” he says simply. His eyes are so full of something, not emotion, but-- passion, maybe? You aren’t sure what to call it, but it’s incredibly difficult to maintain eye contact and even more difficult to look away. “I realize I made you uncomfortable this morning, and I’m sorry. I was just-- surprised to see you.”
“What?” You frown, stepping back in surprise. “Dr. Abbot, you didn-- no! Oh my gosh, no, not at all! I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable. I promise I had no idea that you work here. Really, I didn’t mean to ambush you or surprise you or ruin what we have.”
You snap your mouth shut so hard that you have to run your tongue along your teeth to make sure none of them chipped from the force.
The corner of his mouth raises higher, but he says nothing.
“Is this ok? Me working here, I mean.”
You hate how desperate you sound. The feeling sits low in your stomach, bubbling with anxiety as his silence continues.
“What kind of cake was it?” He stares back out the window.
“What?” You ask stupidly for the second time before realization dons on you. “Oh. It’s vanilla. With a whipped buttercream. I had some leftover batter, so there’s cupcakes, too. Actually, there’s two in my lunchbox if you want one.”
“You made me a cake from scratch?” He chuckles darkly. “You brought it to work?”
A bead of sweat runs from your hairline down the nape of your neck, and you wipe it anxiously. Shrugging, you wince a little at how pathetic he’s making you sound.
It’s not like you knew SgtMD would be here.
“You’re a sweet girl,” he comments, and you feel heat pool between your thighs.
Instinctively, you cross your legs and look down at your feet.
“I should probably get back to charting.” You wipe your sweaty palms off on the knees of your scrubs and push yourself to stand.
He follows, towering over you. Then, silently, he dips his hand into the front pocket of your scrub pants.
It’s only for a moment, but the heat from his palm makes your breath catch in your throat.
His hand emerges with a piece of paper between his pointer and middle fingers.
“You don’t need this. You’re seeing someone, remember?” His head tilts to the side, as if testing you. Your eyes flit to the paper he’s holding, something you don’t recognize.
“I-I-- what is that?” You pout your lips and return your gaze to his face, finding his eyes fixed on your mouth. Your pout gets more dramatic as he further confuses you. “Dr. Abbot?”
“Don’t call me that.” It’s stern. “Jack. I’m Jack.”
“Jack,” you repeat softly. It’s your first time saying it out loud. “It’s nice to meet you.”
He drags a hand down his face, laughing like you wear him out. The sight makes your heart skip a beat.
This look on his face. This is what you craved from him online, and here it is.
It was worth the three-year wait, no doubt.
Jack tucks the paper into his pocket and his eyes dart to something over your shoulder. You turn, following his gaze to find a man entering the double doors. Jack places a hand just above the curve of your ass, urging you back into the main ED.
“Robby!” He calls, dropping his hand, but motioning for you to follow with a tilt of his head. The man entering the ED turns, and you recognize him as the one who wished Jack a happy birthday this morning. The same man from your interview. “This is our new resident. I don’t think you two met this morning.”
He shakes his head, gaze moving between the two of you briefly before settling on your face.
“We did not. I’m Michael Robinavitch, everyone calls me Robby.” He extends his hand for you to shake, and you do, hoping you don’t look as fucked-out as you feel. When you tell him your name, he surprises you by saying, “I remember. I sat in on one of your interviews. Hard to forget someone with such an impressive resume.”
You laugh, waving your hand in front of you to dismiss his praise.
“Oh gosh, thanks Dr. Robby.” Nervously you glance at Jack, who is giving you an appraising look. “I’m really behind on charting, so I should probably get to that. It was great to meet you, I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
“Maybe we could grab dinner sometime,” he suggests, and Jack clears his throat.
You were almost sure that he was merely suggesting a space to talk more about your resume. Almost.
“I’d love for the three of us to get together!” You play stupid on purpose. “I just moved to Pittsburgh so I could definitely use the restaurant recommendations. I’ll be looking forward to it.”
You catch Jack’s sneaky grin from the corner of your eye as you turn on your heels to go back to your computer station.
𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔𓊔
An hour later, the sweet smell of buttercream enters your nostrils. You hear a crinckling and turn quickly to see Jack looming over you.
“Holy shit,” you gasp, clutching your chest. “How long have you been here?”
He’s just standing there, holding your lunchbox and unwrapping your cupcake.
You have no idea how he knew it was yours, but alas, here you are.
He sets the lunchbox onto the counter next to you and pulls a stool from another charting station. Sidling next to you, he leans too far into your space, disregarding all professional boundaries.
“This is really good,” he praises. “You spelt ‘oophorectomy’ wrong.”
“Where?” You move closer to the screen, scanning your patient history portion of your last chart. His finger points at the correctly spelled term. “That’s how you spell it.”
He hums, chewing another bite.
“So you’re good at everything, then? Baking and spelling and-”
“Don’t finish that sentence, Dr. Abbot,” you whisper harshly, eyes darting for any listening day-shift ears.
“Told you not to call me that.” He clears his throat, tugging at the fabric that’s now pulling a little tighter around his groin.
Ok, maybe this is the thing you desired most from SgtMD. This was a view you were not getting over video chat.
You busy yourself grabbing another cupcake out of your lunchbox.
“Our shift ended an hour ago. Shouldn’t you be going home?” You press.
He was usually home by now. You knew, because he’d schedule calls with you four times a week at exactly 8:00 a.m..
“Nothing exciting to rush home for anymore.” He says it so offhandedly that you almost don’t realize he means your appointments. Then, leaving no room to the imagination, he adds, “Ive got you right here. We’re both getting paid now, huh?”
You choke on a laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. Your tongue darts out to lick the peak of buttercream from the top of the cupcake. He blows out a long exhale, and his breath smells sweet as if fans over you.
“You almost done? We could grab breakfast,” he suggests, eyes tracking your tongue as you swipe it across the top of the cupcake again.
“Mm, I kind of spent my ‘fun money’ on ingredients for the cake stuff,” you say, setting the cupcake back down and saving the chart. “I think I get my first check next week. Can we raincheck?”
“I’ll pay.” He sounds offended. “How much longer do you need?”
“I’m done, actually.” You rub your eyes and face him again. “And breakfast would be very nice, thank you, Jack.”
“It’s a date.” His words ring familiar from his message prior to yesterday’s call. “Go grab your stuff.”
As you obey, you can’t help but think about how much better it is taking orders from Dr. Jack Abbot than SgtMD.
